Nathaniel’s week of careful planning began to unspool under his father’s scrutiny. “True. Yes. I was not here, but now I am.”
“And the rest of the party, and the horses?”
“At an inn called the Eight Bells, belonging to Ros—ah, Miss Agate’s family. It’s not far.” Sir William looked skeptical, and Nathaniel added, “It’s a respectable neighborhood. And I have had the horses under watch day and night since leaving Newmarket.”
“I do not know the Eight Bells. I haven’t approved it as a place to lodge.”
This was the sort of situation in which Rosalind would turn the subject to one she preferred. So he did the same. “If you planned to travel to London, or even to Epsom, why did you send me?”
“I didn’t send you. You forced my hand. And I didn’t plan to come, but you forced my hand there too.”
“How is that?” Trailing toward the stairs, he plumped down on the third one and faced his father at eye level.
“I received a copy of the Kelting Monitor with an enlightening article about my groom’s participation in a village fete. Two days out of Newmarket, you stopped on the road for a fete.” Sir William’s voice held all the weary calm of one who had learned a harsh truth he’d been expecting for some time. “I saw how you were treating my trust and that of our respected neighbor, Sir Jubal. You used your time for carousing.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. “Not carousing—no, it wasn’t like that. It was a day of rest, since our progress on the first day of travel was excellent. As I mentioned, the horses have always been under guard. Their safety was my first concern.”
“A day of rest. I see.” Sir William’s steely brows lifted. “So you work a day, then rest a day. Is that how it goes?”
Nathaniel set his jaw.
“And I arrive in London to aid you, after traveling day and night, only to find the house smelling of neglect.”
“It always smells like that. The roof leaks, as I mentioned in a letter a month or so ago.”
Not that Sir William was listening. Though his eyes were gray-shadowed with fatigue, he seemed buoyed by the conviction that he was always, above all, right.
Certainly he looked like himself, crisply attired and clean and groomed. Not like a man who had been through the hell of overnight travel on bumpy moonlit roads.
“Who has seen to you?” Nathaniel asked. “Where are the servants? The house should not be empty like this.”
“I sent them out to comb the city for you. For all I knew, you had been set upon by thieves. You were entrusted with valuable horses.”
“Who are safe and healthy.” Despite not following the baronet’s stringent guidelines as to feed—not that he was going to mention that at the moment. “How are the other horses that fell ill? The ones that stayed behind?”
The topic of horses softened the edge of Sir William’s voice. “Sheltie is recovering slowly, but I’ve hopes she’ll be all right in time. Jake, that old rogue, made a fine recovery. When I left, he was collecting ear scratches and radishes from every groom and stable boy.”
“Such coddling,” Nathaniel said drily. “And here I thought you expected your horses to be all business.”
Sir William hands traced his chair rims. “It’s good business to have healthy horses,” he said by way of excuse, looking away as though embarrassed by this hint of softness. “It’s clear the horses were fed something noxious, though I’ve been unable to find out what or by whom without a secretary to aid me.”
“And because you’ve been away from Chandler Hall for several days yourself.” Nathaniel braced his elbows atop his knees, settling his face in his hands. So the horses were well, but no one knew why they’d sickened. Everyone was in the wrong building this morning. Sir William was in the wrong city.
Damn.
Nathaniel looked up, chin on steepled hands. “How did you come by that article in the Kelting Monitor? Did you decide to travel based on that?”
“Yes. An old acquaintance sent me the article,” Sir William said. “One Anne Jones.”
Nathaniel sat up straight. “She mentioned she knew you. I was to greet you for her.”
“You’ve met her?” Sir William’s brow creased.
“Just before coming here. She is an old friend of the Agate family.” Anne Jones. Well, well. The sainted Aunt Annie had sent Sir William the article. If Nathaniel had the chance to meet her again, his Pleased to meet you would become What the devil?
“What is Mrs. Jones to you, Father?”
Sir William shrugged the question off, impatient. “Nothing, nothing. I had not seen nor heard from her in years.”
“So you didn’t think it odd she sent you an article?”
“No more than I thought it was odd my son should have stopped for a day at a fete. When he was supposed to be on his way to Epsom.”
So they were back to that.
“What now, Father? Do you intend to come to Epsom, or to stay here now that you know the horses haven’t been slaughtered along the road?”
“I’m joining the party to Epsom, of course.”
“Of course. I should have guessed.” Nathaniel stood, then looked up the stairs. “I just need to fetch one thing, and then I’ll… What is it?”
Sir William had rolled forward to catch his coat sleeve. “First I…” The baronet trailed off. “I need some assistance.”
“All right,” Nathaniel said again, this time cautiously. Remembering Rosalind’s advice—it seemed like ages ago when they spoke as tentative allies in the stable—he asked before reaching for the baronet’s wheeled chair. “What do you require?”
The words were almost ground out. “A chamber pot.”
“Oh—oh. Yes. One moment.”
Nathaniel pounded up the stairs to grab a chamber pot from the first bedroom he passed. He moved toward his own room, thinking of the money he needed to fetch from the safe, then decided against it. Sir William spoke as though he were uncomfortable, and he was without aid to mount the stairs. Away from the wonder of his modern piped-water bathing room, too.
Thundering back down the stairs, he set the pot down before Sir William. “Do you want a privacy screen?”
The baronet’s lowered chin and glare were speaking.
Nathaniel managed not to roll his eyes. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
There was a large japanned screen against one wall of the back parlor. To reach it, he had to weave through a clutter of chairs and around a sofa. Then he collapsed the great paneled piece. Good Lord, it was taller than he was, and as long as a man laid out flat. Lugging it bump-bump-bump back over the carpet and around furniture, he wondered how Sir William had managed to squeeze his wheelchair into the room. He must have been halted right inside the doorway.
With a screech and scrape of old lacquered wood over marble, Nathaniel tilted the heavy screen on one corner and dragged it near his father.
“One more moment.” Nathaniel was beginning to feel a bit winded as he wrestled with the tall panels.
“Please. Take your time.” Sir William folded his arms.
Again, Nathaniel did not roll his eyes. Or sigh. There was nothing good about this: a grown man unable to piss in private in his own house.
He arranged the six folding panels in a crooked semicircle about Sir William. “Is there anything else you require?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll leave you in private.”
“Why?” came the voice from behind the screen. “Afraid you might catch sight of my legs? Need a drink or two?”
Now he did sigh. “I don’t do that anymore.” Over the front of the screen, intricate gilded beasts chased one another. Frozen, poor beasts. Never getting anywhere or catching what they wanted.
Leaving the entryway, he descended to the kitchen, where he found a pitcher and a bucket of clean water. By the time he returned to the japanned screen, Sir William had emerged from behind it. “Water to wash your hands, if you wish.” Nathaniel explained.
Sir Willi
am raised a brow. “So that’s it?”
“What?”
He took the bucket, dunking and splashing one hand after another. “You don’t drink spirits anymore. Not ever.”
“Rarely.” He fixed his eyes on his father’s. Those told the truth of the man, not the powerful arms or the unresponsive legs.
Surely it was worth something that as many times as Nathaniel had been tested and tempted, he had never fallen back into his old way. Until Rosalind Agate gave him her ale and the chance to put his lips where hers had been.
Oh, who was he trying to persuade? It wasn’t worth anything. Refusing a glass of wine—or a bottle of brandy—wasn’t the sort of thing a man received a medal for, any more than arriving on time for dinner. He chose not to drink for his own sake. He knew he didn’t like the results if he did. Knew it was too difficult to stop after a bit, and so it was better never to start.
But he did like the feeling of going away for a while. Especially when someone looked at him like this—with disbelief and a hint of disappointment.
“Good, if you mean it. You’ve already drunk enough for a lifetime.” Sir William set the bucket on the floor. “I’ll return with you now to the Eight Bells.”
Nathaniel arranged the unneeded pitcher beside the bucket. “I arrived on horseback.”
“Then we’ll take my carriage.”
“We could. But your horses looked tired. They could do with a feed bag and a bit of rest.” Privately, Nathaniel thought his father could use a feed bag and a rest too, but Sir William was far more likely to be concerned with his horses’ health than his own.
Indeed, the baronet’s heavy brows drew together, considering.
“I can return for you within an hour, Father,” Nathaniel suggested. “Or perhaps two. With the rest of the traveling party.”
Sir William looked around, and now Nathaniel could guess what he saw: the otherwise empty entryway, dominated by a formal screen hiding a chamber pot. A parlor he couldn’t navigate, stairs up which he could scoot only with great effort. And no servants to help.
“This really is a horrible house, isn’t it?” Sir William’s voice sounded resigned. “Come back for me, then, and we’ll all go on to Epsom together.”
Nathaniel’s jaw went slack. When was the last time Sir William had asked anything of him besides a chamber pot and screen? When had he suggested they do something together?
This was a road he had not expected to travel to Epsom. Or at all.
“I’ll return soon,” he said, already moving toward the back stairs that would lead him outside. “I think you’ll be pleased with the party’s progress.”
“I’d rather be pleased on Derby Day.”
“It’s just possible,” Nathaniel called back, looking over his shoulder, “that you can be both.”
Sir William’s reply was an unintelligible mutter, then a wave of his hand. “Shoo, now.”
Which, considering the source, was almost like a benediction.
Nineteen
When the traveling company came to a halt in Queen Anne Street, Rosalind followed Nathaniel up the steps of the town house with both curiosity and apprehension.
Curiosity because this part of London was unfamiliar to her. As a governess to an earl, she had remained in the country with his ignored children, seeing fashion only secondhand. Marylebone was a world of cravats and lace, of bespoke gowns that buttoned up the back. Of lady’s maids and valets, and servants who fetched tea and left the daughters of the house to sit in idleness.
She felt apprehension too, because this was the home of Sir William, who had given Aunt Annie a daughter of whom he knew nothing. This was the largest secret with which Rosalind had ever been entrusted. Would it sneak through to show on her face? Nathaniel had suspected nothing, but then he was distracted by his father’s unexpected arrival and would probably not have noticed anything less than a missing member of the party.
The Chandler town house ought to have been elegant. It was tall and slim, with white-framed bay windows set into red brick. But heavy draperies hung within like closed eyelids, and when Nathaniel rapped at the wood of the door, she realized the brass knocker had been removed. No one was supposed to be in residence.
A servant opened the door, his expression changing from suspicion to relief as soon as he saw Nathaniel. As he and Rosalind stepped over the threshold, a brief conversation ensued with the man about the whereabouts of the household’s few other servants—they had returned from searching for something, apparently—and Sir William.
“I cleared a path through the back parlor, Mr. Nathaniel, and he’s made himself comfortable,” explained the servant. “And I’ve seen the screen replaced and had what was behind it taken away.”
“Thank you, Sutton.” Nathaniel looked at Rosalind. “Miss Agate, let us retrieve Sir William so we can continue on to Epsom. Or do you care for tea now that we’re here?”
“This isn’t a social call, Mr. Nathaniel. I am quite all right. I breakfasted while you were gone.”
“Breakfast,” he murmured. “I think I remember hearing of such a thing.”
Before they had taken more than a few steps through the narrow entry hall, Sir William emerged through a doorway. Stern and solid, hands on the wheels of his chair, he seemed only to need to wish himself from one of his houses to appear in a blink in the other.
“Miss Agate. I need some private speech with you.”
He sounded clipped, but then he so often did. She looked up at Nathaniel, who shrugged. “Father, the traveling carriage and horses are waiting in front of the house. Will this take long? Should I have them brought ’round to the mews?”
“No need. We’ll speak for only a minute or two.” Sir William backed into the parlor.
Rosalind followed him in, then looked about uncertainly for a place to sit. The room contained enough furniture for a space twice its size, but every chair and table and desk had been shoved together, leaving the other half completely bare except for a deep-piled carpet dotted all over with the dents made by furniture resting on it.
“Close the door behind you.”
Rosalind obeyed, then stood, folding her hands neatly behind her back. She wished she had changed into one of her own familiar gowns instead of wearing this flowered nonsense from Carys that tugged and bagged and added to her discomfort.
When Sir William spoke, it was with a slight tilt of his head, as if he wished to study her from the corner of his eye. “Nathaniel mentioned that you have known Anne Jones for a long while.”
Rosalind’s mouth opened, but it took an extra moment for the word “yes” to issue forth. And then she closed her lips. Hard. Best to say no more than she had to.
“What is she to you?” asked the baronet.
“A friend of the family.”
“More than that, surely. She called on you personally this morning.”
“A natural curiosity to meet with one whom she had not seen for years.”
“Hmm.” Sir William gave his wooden rims a gentle push, the familiar back and forth of his moments of consideration. The sleek chair wheels hardly moved on the carpet. “Why do you think she contacted me, then? What sort of curiosity was that?”
“She contacted you—” Rosalind’s fingers knotted together behind her back. “I was not aware you were a present correspondent of Mrs. Jones.”
“I had not been for some years. But it seems she wanted me to rejoin this party of travelers. Why would that be, do you think?”
“I don’t know, Sir William.” This much was quite true.
“Could it be because she was concerned that my son would debauch one she sees as a daughter?”
A startled laugh popped from Rosalind. “I doubt that was her concern.”
Sir William’s brows lifted.
Rosalind hunted for words. Leave out parts of the truth. “If she is interested in my doings, it must be because she paid for the treatment to save my life. After I was burned.”
“You owe her a
great debt, then.”
“Yes. I intend to pay it.”
This was the wrong thing to say. Why had she not stopped at Yes? Her employer’s deep-set hazel eyes, so unlike his son’s, kindled with interest. “Can such a debt ever be paid?”
She considered her reply carefully. “What is your own opinion? Surely there were physicians who saved your life.”
“I saved my own life. Now, how are you to pay this debt? Did you place a wager?”
“No.”
“You’re getting the money from my son, aren’t you? Is that why Anne Jones contacted me?”
“I doubt that is why she contacted you, Sir William.”
He sighed. “That is only part of an answer, Miss Agate. Which in this case is answer enough. How much is my son paying you?”
Damn. She swallowed, unsure how to parry this question. “He intends no money for me, Sir William.”
“So I should trust everything you’ve told me? The first few letters I received from the road—those were perfectly accurate?”
“Everything good I told you about your son was perfectly accurate.”
He shook his head. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled forth a sealed paper. “I had time to prepare this while Nathaniel was fetching you. Just in case this conversation went as I suspected it might.”
Rosalind took it with cold fingers. “Ought I to read it right now?”
“There is no need. It is not for your eyes, but for those of a prospective employer. It is a qualified letter of reference.”
Her fingers clenched, crackling the paper.
“If I cannot trust you to represent my interests, Miss Agate, I have no further need of your services as my secretary.”
“Because I accepted help when it was offered?” In for a penny, in for one hundred fifty pounds. “I wish to understand for what it is you fault me, sir. Is it that Anne Jones paid my medical expenses when I was a child, or that your son offered to stake me in a wager in the hopes my winnings would cover my debt? Or is it that neither transaction involved you?”
“As my secretary, you should have no transactions save those that involve me.”
A Gentleman’s Game Page 19
