“To tell you. And gloat.”
“Try again.”
“For the pleasure of your company?”
She swallowed. “Try again.”
“Because I wanted to hunt through my father’s papers for anything that would tell me more about you.”
A why almost escaped her lips; then she brazened it out. “Try again again.”
Nathaniel sighed and slid from the table. “I can see that I am never going to get it right. Why don’t you tell me the answer instead? I’ll be over here flipping through the Stud Book, ready to consult the pedigree of any horse you mention.”
She turned in her chair to follow his progress across the room. “When does Sir William want us to leave? He did no more than poke his head in and tell me I was to join the traveling party.”
“That’s odd even for the name of a racehorse. Hold for a moment while I look that up.” Balancing the book on his knee, he turned pages.
Rosalind hid a smile. When Nathaniel looked up, she managed to narrow her eyes.
He slammed the book shut. “All right, all right. You are so serious.”
“Yes, well. Hypotenuse. Iron gall ink. Naiad. I am at work, you know.”
All buoyant energy, he paced from bookshelf to bookshelf and back. “We’re to leave the day after tomorrow. Whit Monday. Sir William’s plan of keeping to pairs and groups seems to be working, for no other horses have developed colic. But that means—”
“It was no accident.” Her fingers felt cold.
“Exactly.” He drummed his fingers on a shelf, then kept pacing. “I was so certain it wasn’t an intentional act. However, I guess it doesn’t much matter since the tampering hasn’t happened again.”
“It still matters.” How faint her voice sounded.
“Sir William agrees with me—can you imagine?—that we ought to get away from the stables as soon as possible. Whit Monday is earlier than I would usually wish to depart, but Epigram and Pale Marauder aren’t at their full strength and will benefit from a slow pace.”
“Slow paces don’t win races.”
“I was wrong: You are a better poet than I am. And you are also quite correct. I’ve no idea how they’ll do on the journey, but I do know they’ve no chance to win the Derby unless they are in Epsom. Once we arrive, I will send an express updating Sir Jubal and my father on their horses’ conditions.”
“You said you’re wrong,” she repeated, “and I’m right.” He said it with such confidence, as though another rightness would come along any moment.
“This time, yes.” He stopped his pacing. “So. What sort of work has you in such a mental flurry? Maybe I can help, so you can run off to Epsom with a clear conscience.”
Conscience was exactly the right word to hit upon, though she couldn’t let him know that. “Maybe you can help at that.” She fumbled to frame a reason. “I need to find a…a sale record. For a horse Sir William bought in 1805. Where would papers from 1805 be kept?”
“For 1805?” He tilted his head, gaze searching the ceiling as though clues were hidden in the plaster. “He was hardly in England that year. Any horses he bought were probably on behalf of the military, so the papers would be held by the government. Why would he need that now?”
The best way to deal with a question one did not want to answer, Rosalind had found, was to ignore it. “Where would Sir William’s other correspondence be stored?” If her understanding of the family chronology was correct, Chandler Hall had not yet been built in 1805. Yet surely they would not have destroyed papers when moving households.
“Other correspondence?” Now Nathaniel’s searching gaze was turned to Rosalind. “I’ve no idea if there is any. His secretarial difficulties have been of long standing—with the exception of present company and my sister Hannah. And he was never the sort to send long, newsy letters home.”
“Could anything be stored in the attics here?” She might almost be pushing too hard. But she trusted the son not to tell the father, Your secretary was acting odd earlier. What sort of information could she need from 1805?
Nathaniel paced back to the table, then pulled the stopper from the brandy decanter. “I doubt it. There’s nothing in the attics that Sir William might need again. He was reluctant even to have attic space constructed. He doesn’t like the idea of a part of the house he cannot reach.” He held the crystal stopper to his nose and breathed deeply, shutting his eyes.
“Half an inch, no more,” Rosalind murmured.
“No more,” he echoed, replacing the stopper. “If it helps, 1805 is the year he was granted his baronetcy. Though it’s not the exciting sort that came with new lands and estates and tenants. It’s merely a title.”
Merely, he said, as though a hereditary title were of little importance. “How did he gain it? Some sort of military service?”
He nodded. “Horses. Supplying cavalry horses for the Light Dragoons. He used his connections across Wales and Scotland and Ireland to find horses that were sturdy and healthy and quick.”
Wales. Rosalind’s thoughts went fuzzy all of a sudden. When she jolted back to the present, Nathaniel was still explaining, “—worth quite a bit to know one’s horses were going to travel calmly across the Channel and recover their land legs quickly. Sir William—not that he was quite Sir William yet—traveled with many of them. Then he went to Spain.”
“Spain.” Rosalind blinked.
“You are surprised?”
“No, no. Only curious. For me, Spain is a place in books, not a place I might ever go.” Surely it was a place with days and nights like any other. But in her imagination, it was drenched in sun, a sun so warm and lasting that one need never light a lamp or drop it or go up in flame.
“Why was your father in Spain?” she wondered. “He cannot have been a soldier himself.”
“Lord, I don’t know. He was always traveling somewhere or other, even before our mother died. He was in Cádiz for months, blockaded when sea battles were going on. That’s where he contracted the palsy that paralyzed his legs, but I don’t know much else about it.” His hand strayed to the decanter again, fingers trailing down its crystalline side. “It wasn’t the best year for this family. I was a scruffy, resentful youth, left behind with a tutor I never obeyed and no parents.”
“And your brother and sisters?”
“And them. But somehow we never had much to say to one another. Not then.”
Another possible path to the information blocked. She sat back in her chair, brows knit tight with strain. “How can I get what I need?”
He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression all roguery. “Well, Rosalind Agate, that depends on what you need.”
Her lips parted, but no ready retort fell from them. Though he doubtless meant the statement lightly, it was much more than that to Rosalind.
What did one need? Food, drink, shelter, safety. She had the first three; she wanted the latter.
No, she wanted more than that. She wanted the right to beam back when a man like Nathaniel Chandler grinned at her. To take his compliments, to allow something deeper than flippant flirtation.
To allow herself a touch of excitement at traveling to Epsom, a road that would lead her through London and might permit a visit to her family.
And for now, she wanted him to keep smiling at her, just like that, and for the smile to stay as he learned more of her. To stay and never to fall, until the expression became as familiar to her as the shape of her own scars.
But she couldn’t admit that to him. She could hardly bear to admit it to herself.
“I need to carry out my work,” she replied at last. “That is all.”
Nathaniel picked up a sheet of blank foolscap from the stack before Rosalind. “Very commendable, of course.”
Right. If only she felt commendable as she watched the swift movements of his hands, folding the rectangle of paper at odd angles. Those hands had fixed a water pump; they had soothed skittish and ill animals. He was quick with his hands, a sor
t of quickness that intrigued Rosalind. Could those hands soothe her own worries? Would he touch her if she asked?
She wanted to ask, so desperately that she could taste the shape of the impossible words on her tongue.
He made another fold. The result was a sort of flattened paper pyramid.
What had Rosalind’s hands done that was good? For every horse she had helped, she had sent a prying letter.
She balled her hands into fists and stuffed them beneath the tabletop. The question she allowed herself was hardly urgent, though she’d wondered about it for some time. “Nathaniel. Why has Sir Jubal entrusted Epigram’s care to your father?”
“And to us now?” His grin was a quick flash before he returned his attention to the…whatever he was making. “Everyone knows of Sir Jubal’s dream to follow a victory in the Two Thousand Guineas with a triumph in the Derby. He has only a small stable, and he’s too frail to travel himself. So he trusted his… Well, I’m not sure Sir William is his friend. Doesn’t that seem like too warm a word? Like puppy or chocolate. I can’t imagine my father with either of those.”
With a pointed toss, he sent the flat pyramid-like thing gliding across the room.
“What is that?” Rosalind asked.
“I don’t know. Just something I made, wondering if it would work.” He stood still, poised like his gliding pyramid just before it was thrown. He was ready to leave, maybe. He would leave for now. Unless she gave him a reason to stay.
“Fly it again,” she said. “I want to see it fly.”
This time, when he gifted her with a smile, she returned it—yet she felt she had kept it too.
And after all, there was more than one way to pay a debt. The information for Tranc was in exchange for Rosalind’s medical expenses, which had piled and grown with interest over the past decade. Aunt Annie had paid them to save Rosalind’s life, then turned the debt over to Tranc.
But what if Rosalind paid the expenses with coin instead of stolen papers?
“I have a suggestion.” Her throat caught on the words.
A paper pyramid winged across the room and smacked into the wall. “What is that?”
“I will go with you to Epsom, and I will be as helpful as possible. And as long as the horses reach Epsom safely, I will write glowing letters of your progress and conduct to Sir William all along the way.”
He slid across the glass-smooth floor and scooped up his fallen paper. “I’m hardly going to argue with a suggestion like that. It sounds ideal. But you sound nervous, so there must be more to come that will not be ideal. What do you have in mind?”
She took a deep breath. “I want one hundred fifty pounds.”
He tripped, catching himself heavily against a shelf. “Say that once more.”
It was even more difficult to say the second time, but she kept her voice steady. “I need one hundred fifty pounds.”
“That is what you need? And I thought you needed only to carry out your work.”
He drew closer, and for the first time, Rosalind was heartsore at the way he looked at her. With suspicion.
She lifted her chin, thinking of her sister Carys. If Rosalind did not pay off her debt, Tranc would take Carys into his employment, making another Agate his puppet. And Carys was far too pretty, too whole, to lose her future through someone else’s failure.
“One hundred fifty pounds.” This third time, as she thought of her sister—only six years old the last time they had met, but now a young woman of sixteen—the words came more easily. One hundred fifty pounds. This time it sounded like a real sum rather than an impossibility.
Nathaniel was frowning deeply. “You think I can be bought for such a sum? There are many in the ton who would consider that nothing.”
“I don’t think it’s nothing. I can be bought for that amount.” She tried a smile. “As I said, though, the horses have to be safe. I won’t lie.”
He turned away, gazing toward the brightness outside the French doors. His coat-clad shoulders rose, then fell in a great sigh. “And if I cannot or will not pay you? Will you tell my father I am not to be trusted?”
“Of course not!”
“So if we make a safe journey—”
“I will say so.” A sinking feeling made her feet grow cold, her head pound. She really had no influence at all, no means of persuading him.
He turned back to face her. “I have a different idea.” The usual warmth had returned to his eyes, his voice. “I shall stake you for a wager once we get to Epsom. If you lose, no harm done. If you win, you can pay me back. How much you choose to wager, and on which horse—I’ll leave that up to you.”
“You will leave it up to me,” she repeated. “Why?”
“Encouragement, maybe? You’ll see the horses in good health to Epsom if you’ve a financial interest in their safe arrival.”
“I would do that all the same.”
“I suspect you would.” His blue eyes were warm. “But I can’t just give you the money, you know. That would be bribery. At least, it might seem so to people less ethical and honest than we are.”
“That makes sense.” She paused. “Then why did you agree at all?” Hers was a ridiculous request. A life-changing request.
He held out a hand, and she grasped it with her chilled fingers, uncomprehending. “Because there was no reason on earth that I had to. Which tells me, my soon-to-be-traveling companion, that your need is genuine.” Gently, he drew her to her feet. “And that you are a terrible negotiator.”
“Not so terrible.” Had she ever stood this close to him? He seemed so tall with her eyes at the level of his heart, and he smelled of salt and sweet hay. “Since you agreed to give me what I asked.”
He laughed, releasing her hand. “You could not have persuaded me with an argument that was any less terrible.” As she looked up at him, he turned serious. “It is not for anything illegal, is it? For any reason that could hurt someone?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“And you will let me know if there is anything I can do to help?”
There was nothing he could do to help, so this was an easy promise. “Of course I will.”
Again he extended his hand. She stared at it. “What?”
“We have an agreement. So we shake hands.”
“Oh. Right.” How scattered she was today. But relief bloomed in her and buoyed her. At last, she had the promise of freedom. She, who had never earned more than fifteen pounds in a year, would buy back her debt, and she need never betray anyone’s trust again.
Trust Nathaniel, she remembered him saying when he arrived from London. A heartfelt plea cloaked in flippancy.
Trust Rosalind. She had never had right or reason to ask such a thing before now.
His hand was warm and calloused. The hand of a rider, a driver, a man who knew how to make and fix things.
Too soon, she drew her hand away and took a brisk step back, bumping her calves against her chair. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“I don’t make promises I am not sure I can keep. But I shall do my best to make sure you get—and give—your money’s worth.” The silence that followed was long enough for one beat of her heart, one fidget of her feet, and then he smiled. “Don’t look so worried, Miss Rosalind Agate. You might find that keeping company with me is rather pleasant.”
In every line of his handsome face, in every angle of his body, there was the promise of adventure. Escape. Exploration.
Pleasant? She had never heard such an understatement. The incoherent reply she made could best be transcribed as “Humnah.”
“My thoughts exactly. A journey always transforms me into a Houyhnhnm. Pack something pretty for Derby day, will you? It’s a day of celebration.” And with a bow, he unlatched the French doors and strode out, whistling.
Her fingers tingled, still feeling the warmth of Nathaniel’s clasp.
Which made her wonder: did she owe a debt to herself too? And if so, how—and by whom—ought it to be satisfied?
For Nathaniel, Whitsun passed in a flurry of preparations for the journey to Epsom. Early the following morning, when the sky was still sunrise-pink and the humid air of this May morning was honey-sweet in his lungs, he and the band of travelers set off on the road south.
It was a road he knew well from his frequent trips to and from London. Back and forth, back and forth. That in-between time, that unfettered time on the road, was his favorite. Just then, he was exactly where he needed to be, and the next stop was all perfect potential.
Nathaniel was mounted on a stolid bay cob, a calm stepper named Bumblebee that he sometimes drove in harness. Lombard and Peters walked, leading Pale Marauder and Epigram in halters. Armed outriders—a quartet of Sir William’s burliest servants—kept pace ahead and behind. Another armed servant and coachman followed separately in a carriage filled with racing tack and travel trunks.
Riding at his side, Rosalind wore a gown the green shade of a riding habit—and, he thought, her eyes. For her, Nathaniel had borrowed a gentle mare from Hannah. His sister had lent Farfalla with many sighs of envy at the idea of riding for an entire week. “If you have a wonderful time, do not tell me. I cannot bear it.”
This would not be a problem. Far from having a wonderful time, Rosalind appeared to be concentrating almost too hard to breathe: clutching her reins tightly in gloved hands, tense in the saddle. “Miss Agate, if you cannot relax a bit, you’ll ache from head to toe before we stop for luncheon.”
“I am not able to relax right now. Perhaps later.” Her voice sounded like a pianoforte someone had tuned too tightly.
“You’re perfectly safe.” With gentle pressure on the bit, he slowed Bumblebee to match the shorter strides of Rosalind’s mare. “We’re surrounded by men with guns.”
“That sounds like the beginning of a horrid tale.”
“Er—well, perhaps, but they’re our men, not highwaymen, which makes a difference. And I’m armed too.”
Her exclamation was faint and, he thought, profane.
A Gentleman’s Game Page 7
