The group surrounding Mrs. Patton turned out to be discussing bookplates and typefaces, none of which Jemma knew the faintest thing about. Finally the discussion of barth-cast fonts (what ever they were) ended, and Mrs. Patton turned to Jemma. “Your Grace, I have been longing to meet you,” she said with a roguish smile. “I have heard so much of your prowess at chess.”
“And I the same of you,” Jemma said, bowing slightly.
“I doubt I’m at your level. I was roundly beaten by Philidor last year when he visited London. But he told me of you, and fired my wish to have you be my compatriot at Parsloe’s. Rather than cede my place in the London Chess Club to you, I am hopeful that we could be the only two of our sex in the chosen one hundred.”
“Is it awkward being the only woman?”
“I don’t find it uncomfortable. Occasionally a topic is broached that I find tedious, such as the relative merits of a given opera dancer. I find that a quick comment about the difficulties of swollen breasts while nursing children will return gentlemen to awareness of my presence.”
“Since I have nursed no children,” Jemma said, “I shall have to echo you.”
“I am certain that you can come up with your own topics by which to distress their sensibilities,” Mrs. Patton said. “Men are so hideously sensitive, you know. It’s easy to throw them off their stride. I try not to do it while playing chess, of course, though sometimes one cannot help taking the advantage.”
“I would relish seeing you discomfit my husband. In fact, I would love to see you play him.”
“Ah, but the Duke of Beaumont is a politician. That’s another breed altogether.” Mrs. Patton’s smile was wry. “I doubt that he plays chess with mere mortals. If he is half as busy as the papers make him out to be, he has little time for games.”
“I am thinking of gathering a house party at Christmas time,” Jemma said. “I should dearly love to both play you at chess and watch you vanquish my husband. I believe I would bet on you over a politician.”
“I am honored by your invitation,” Mrs. Patton said, looking ready to refuse.
“Oh please,” Jemma broke in. “It is months away; you can hardly do me the discourtesy to cry an earlier invitation. I have just returned from eight years in Paris, you know, and I have discovered few people with whom to play chess.”
“Dear me,” Mrs. Patton said, “and here I was under the impression that you had monopolized the market when it came to chess masters. Your paired matches with your husband and Villiers are being rather widely celebrated.”
“I have never played a woman with ability at chess, and I must confess to an unbearable curiosity.”
“I fancy I shall find myself matched in cunning,” Mrs. Patton said.
“Then?”
“I travel with children. Children and—how could I forget—a husband as well.”
“You would all be welcome. One must have children about to truly enjoy Christmas, so yours will fill a need. We shall have a magnificent Twelfth Night party and put a bean in everyone’s slice.”
“There you show yourself to be no mother,” Mrs. Patton observed cheerfully. “It would be the Slaughter of the Innocents as they fought over who got the largest bean and thus got to be King for the Day.”
“In that case,” Jemma said, “I shall promise to manipulate things so that you, dear Mrs. Patton, are Queen of the Pea, if you will come.”
Mrs. Patton laughed. “The chance to play chess and be queen, if illicitly gained? It’s hard to resist. I expect my husband will be agreeable, but if he is not, I shall send you my regrets on the morrow.”
Jemma adored her utter lack of fawning attention. She swept a deep curtsy, a duchess-to-duchess curtsy. “It will be my pleasure.”
Chapter 30
The Duke of Villiers to Miss Charlotte Tatlock November 20, 10 of the clock
Are you still angry at my rudeness? It has been months and I find myself still tied to this bed. In desperation I write to ask if you would read me Bible verses. Such wit and beauty as you have should apply itself to doing miracles, and I’m sure such an influx of heavenly influence would be miraculous. My footman will wait for your answer.