A Gentleman’s Game (8 page)

Thoughtfully, the grooms had gone behind trees to piss. The horses were less courteous.

Once they had been unharnessed or their tack removed, all were watered and fed—and wasn’t
that
a delight, keeping a hungry Epigram from eating everything from grass to the tender tree leaves growing within reach. Bumblebee rolled about on a patch of open ground, scrubbing his hide with sun-warmed grass. The stouter carriage horses, a pair of chestnuts named Jerome and Hattie, found shade and folded their hard-worked legs for a rest. Pale Marauder—on a longe line attached to a tree, because Nathaniel was no idiot—danced over to the brook, stepped into it, snorted his flat-eared displeasure, and stepped into it again.

The four horses ridden by the outriders were akin to Bumblebee: sturdy horses and pleasant walkers with a great deal of stamina. Nathaniel didn’t recognize them, but he befriended them all—two bays, a black with a white stocking, and a dark brown—with a few of the winter apples packed in the hamper.

Thanks to the kitchens at Chandler Hall, the human travelers were supplied with plenty of sandwiches and cold chicken, along with apples and even a beautiful pie that the grooms shoveled from the tin with eager hands. Nathaniel would have the hamper packed anew at the inn where they stopped tonight. By carrying their own midday meal, they could keep to their own pace during the day.

It was pleasant to lean against the trunk of a tree as he crunched into a crisp apple. Here there were no half inches of brandy, no clocks save the watch in his waistcoat pocket. No schedules to keep unless he so chose.

For a time, he idly listened to the good-natured argument between the grooms and outriders. His apple was sweet, the horses were happy, and few other travelers passed on the road. Above him, leaves rustled and whispered in a heavy breeze, one that felt as though it carried the promise of rain.

Nathaniel decided it would be best to move along at once. Given the choice to keep to a schedule—not the obligation—he found that he was quite willing to forge ahead.

To his eye, Lombard and Peters still looked tired as they began to re-saddle the horses. Ever since Epigram had shown the first signs of colic, the grooms had been run off their feet with treatments and keeping watch, and they were not used to so much time on the road.

He approached Lombard with the offer to let the elder man ride for a while. “Or if you like, extend the offer to your nephew instead. As I have only one horse, you’ll have to decide between the two of you which shall ride.”

“There is no need for them to choose,” spoke up Rosalind. “Lombard is of a size to ride Farfalla.” She patted the neck of the mare, looking almost hopeful about the prospect of not riding farther.

Lombard of course spat, then spoke around the straw in the corner of his mouth. “Kind of you, Miss Agate, but I can’t be ridin’ on a sidesaddle like a little ladybird.”

“There is spare tack in the carriage,” she said.

“Do you wish to ride in the carriage, then?” Nathaniel asked.

As she had that morning, she declined. “I’d feel as though I were closed up, having to see the outdoors only through a carriage window. I’m willing to walk and lead one of the horses.”

“Careful, Miss Agate,” Nathaniel murmured. “You are perilously close to being saddled with my company again.”

“Oh, I don’t think the carriage holds the right sort of tack for that,” she said sweetly.

But once all items were stowed and the grooms mounted up, she stood at a distance from the Thoroughbreds. “I am only too aware that I’m entrusted with a hundred thousand pounds worth of betting-book promises.”

Nathaniel folded Epigram’s lead line into his fist. “You are. But you’re also leading a colt who once followed you all the way across a stable for the promise of a mouthful of hay.”

“And fingers.” As though understanding her words, Pale Marauder dipped his head.

“Ah. I’ll show you where to hold him so he can’t take a piece of you with teeth or hoof.” Nathaniel handed Epigram’s lead to Lombard, who held it in one hand and his reins in the other.

Quickly then, he sidled around the light-colored colt to show Rosalind the best place to stand. “In line with his ear and at least a foot out from his shoulder. Then, as you walk, you can see him without being in his path.”

“Understood.” She wrapped the long lead around her hand.

“No—hold it. If he took it into his head to run, and you had that wrapped around your hand, some piece of you would get pulled along with him. Better to lose a bit of slack than a limb.”

“You do know how to persuade a lass.” She flexed her hands, then rubbed at her elbow.

Nathaniel retrieved his own lead, the outriders trotted ahead a small distance, and off they all headed for the second time that day.

Rosalind still held her arm at an odd angle, and after a few minutes of walking, Nathaniel asked, “Is your arm injured?”

She hastened to bend her elbow. “Not recently.”

“Ah, she dodges the question.” He clucked to Epigram, who was trying to crop a tuft of grass at the side of the road. “So in fact you were injured a long time ago?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?” When she hesitated, he explained, “I’m not asking for gossip, but I don’t want you to aggravate a strain. If this sort of walking will hurt you, we can re-saddle Farfalla for you in an instant.”

“No, I like walking. This is good.”

“If you say so,” was all he said, though he quivered with curiosity. He must be patient, as patient as he would be with a skittish foal. If he chased, she’d never allow him closer.

And after a minute or two, Rosalind spoke. “When I was thirteen years old, I dropped a lamp.” She kicked a small rock aside. “Burning oil splashed onto my clothing, and I was burned too.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “But you were all right?”

“Eventually, yes. A…lady my parents knew paid for me to have the best treatment. I have scars, but the physician’s care saved my life. My parents could never have afforded such luxury with eight other children to support.”

Another large story captured in small sentences. He wanted to know more:
How long did it take you to recover? Did the wounds hurt much? Were you able to stay at home, to see your family while you healed? Do you miss them now?

He asked only one. “Is that…lady”—Rosalind had paused on the word, but he knew no other to use—“the one to whom you owe the money you asked of me?”

“She is,” Rosalind said. “I owe her my life. Money is nothing compared to that.”

“No, I suppose not.”

She came to a sudden halt. Pale Marauder twisted his head back and snorted. Nathaniel drew up too. “What is the matter?”

“You looked so maudlin. Please don’t. We all owe our lives to someone.”

“Do we?” He tried his best to look the complete opposite of maudlin, but probably succeeded only in looking confused.

She smiled. “Well, yes. Every person in the world is indebted to his parents for his existence. I simply have a few extra people to add to that usual number. As do many soldiers. Many who travel abroad. Maybe even your own father.”

With a pat on the colt’s shoulder, she untangled Pale Marauder’s stride and set off walking again, and so did Nathaniel and Epigram.

Peering around Epigram’s neck, he tried to catch her eye. Wanting to say something; to tell her he was glad she had finally told him something of import, and that he understood and didn’t think less of her, but only wished her well, and…and…

As the sun hung at the height of the sky, the horses’ hooves began to stir up dust. No doubt this was why his throat closed, despite the number of words he wanted to say.

“I hope,” he managed at last, “that you do not feel yourself in debt to me. Or if you do, I must be in debt to you too. We made a bargain.”

“Indeed? And what do you owe me if you are in debt to me?”

Interesting
. “That depends on what you owe me.” He cleared his throat. “Which is for you to decide.”

“A man recently informed me that we had either seven days on the road or a week. Or a number of hours that I do not at present recall.”

“He sounds like an uncommonly good fellow. Diplomatic, I mean. Flexible. Good at arithmetic.”

“He does give that impression. So perhaps by the end of that seven days, I shall decide whether our accounts are even. And if there is a claim on either side…”

“You must let me know how to discharge it.”

They had a brief competition to see who could catch the other’s eye, smile, and then look away the quickest. Rosalind won.

But Nathaniel didn’t feel he had lost.

As they walked on, someone began whistling. After a minute, Nathaniel realized it was him.

Rosalind awoke the following morning to a pounding at her chamber door. Sleep fogged her wits for a moment as she squinted into an unfamiliar low-ceilinged room.

An inn! They had stopped at an inn. This was her bedchamber.

The pounding at the door grew more insistent. Startled, she threw back the covers. Every muscle ached and groaned from her time in the saddle, but as quickly as she could, she crossed the room and pulled open the door. “Nathaniel! Is something wrong?”

Nathaniel Chandler peered down at her, fist still upraised to knock again. “Must something be wrong when a man knocks at his traveling companion’s door at”—he dropped his fist, then consulted his watch—“half nine?”

“Half…nine?” Her thoughts tangled. “I am so sorry. I cannot imagine why I slept so long.”

“Can you not?” He grinned. “I’m not a man of great imagination, but I think it was because you are no more used to traveling for a long day than a colicky horse is.”

“Not the most flattering comparison.” She pulled a face. “Give me but five minutes, and I shall be ready to leave.” Thank the Lord she had slept in a clean change of clothing last night. Not that she owned anything else in which to sleep, save the layers beneath.

“That’s fine. I’ll wait.” He slouched against the frame of the door.

Now that she looked at him with less bleary eyes, she could see that he was dressed rather nicely. His boots shone glossy black, and he had exchanged his usual loose dark coat for the snug deep-blue garment favored by gentlemen of fashion.

“You’re going to make me shy if you keep looking at me.”

Rosalind stuffed a handful of hairpins into the pocket of her gown, hoping to hide her flushed cheeks. “I only noticed that you are not dressed for travel. The polish on your fine boots will be spoiled by the dust of the road.” She eyed the privacy screen three hops away in the corner of the room, then simply plumped down onto the clean-swept wooden floor and jammed her feet into her boots. “Has your plan changed? Are we not continuing with the journey?”

When he didn’t reply, she looked up. He had taken a step into the room and was grinning down at her. “What’s so amusing?” she asked.

“Nothing. It is not at all funny to watch you rush around after being awakened late.” The mirth in his expression gave the lie to these words. “Although you’ve got that boot lace in a terrible snarl. I should have brought you a maid after all. I would cheerfully pillage my father’s staff if it would remove that pucker from between your brows.”

“Oh…” Her cheeks went still warmer. “Not necessary. I’ve been shifting for myself for ten years. Although if one groom or footman is fit to chaperone a fine lady, then the size of our traveling company must make me the finest there ever was.”

“I am sure everyone will think so at the fete. Which, by the way, is why I’m dressed so unsuitably this morning.”

The knot in her boot lace finally gave way. “Wait. What? We’re going to a fete?” Rosalind rolled to her feet, pushing back her unruly mass of hair.

“I thought we could. It’s Whit week still. Everyone is celebrating because…well, really, just because they can. And we’re a day ahead of where we’re meant to be on the road, which is something to celebrate too.”

She must have looked uncertain, for he added, “We can afford the day. It won’t benefit us to arrive in Epsom before we are expected.”

She bit her lip. “No, but it won’t benefit us to be late either.”

“Spoken like Sir William Chandler’s secretary,” he said with a lofty sigh. “There is something between earliness and tardiness, you know. Today, that marvelous
something
happens to be a Whit Tuesday fete in Kelting.”

“Where is Kelting?”

“So many questions.” He held out his hand. “Here, hand me some pins and I’ll help you put up your hair. Kelting is a village about a half mile farther down the road. I don’t know it well, nor have I used its inn and stables, so we’ll leave the horses here and walk.”

Still a bit fuddled by the remnants of sleep, she handed him a few pins and turned to the side. “Don’t jab me in the head, please. Will—will it be only us two?”

“Of course not. You know how proper I am all the time. I have insisted that Lombard and Peters come along. Double chaperonage for a doubly fine day.” Quick fingers made a plait in her long red-brown hair, the tiny tugs at her scalp an unexpected pleasure. “There, you can pin that up into some sort of coronet.”

With a smile and a thanks, she finished the work he had begun. “I only hope the day will be as fine as you say.” After the previous day of good progress, they had finished their ride in the cold drizzle they had outpaced for several hours. The whole party had thrown itself on the Dog and Pony’s hot supper and dry bedding with gratitude. And since Nathaniel had covered the cost of the party’s lodging, Rosalind had indulged in a bath the previous evening. A soak in hot water had done a great deal for her chilly bones and sore muscles.

Even though Nathaniel mentioned that he trusted the staff at the familiar inn, Rosalind had noticed he directed the outriders to sleep in the stable with their precious equine charges.

“If it rains again,” Nathaniel replied, “you may come back and sleep the day away. And if it remains clear, you may sleep the afternoon away once we return. We have the morning, then we’ll return to the Dog and Pony so the grooms and I can spell the guards in the stable.”

She poked a final pin into her hair. “That’s eight bells, then.”

“Hmm? How is that?”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Eight bells. My father was in the navy for a time, where eight bells marks the end of a watch. He always said that when it was time for the servants to go home.” She wasn’t sure why she’d said any of that, except that she liked an excuse to say
my father
as easily as others did. “He—it’s the name of my parents’ inn.”

“At eight bells we’ll return, then. Or whatever that is in landlubbers’ time. And the guards can run off for a bit of wenching and feting, or take a nap or whatever they prefer.”

“So we are stopping a day on the road. Just…stopping. To take a day of leisure.” A morning with Nathaniel Chandler. She wasn’t accustomed to either.

She found that she was more than ready to do a few things to which she wasn’t accustomed.

“Yes, we are.” He eyed her as she stuffed coins into the deep pockets of her skirts. “Come along, then. You promised me you’d be ready in five minutes, and it’s been at least six.” And with a last roguish lift of his brows, he strode into the corridor and thundered down the stairs.

After she grabbed her old bonnet and latched her chamber door, she followed.

Since he had gone ahead and could not see her, she permitted herself a little hop—just one—of glee.

* * *

Kelting was an etching-perfect village through which the road ran like a brown velvet ribbon. Rosalind had never seen anything quite like it: shops with thatched roofs and glinting windows; trees new-leafed and clean from the previous day’s rain; tidy pavements and a neat village green on which fiddle music guided laughing couples in a dance. Even a little elbow of a river or a canal, down which men on small flat-bottomed boats were punting to the cheers of onlookers.

“Ah, we’ve missed the beginning of the race,” Nathaniel said at her side. “Though I notice that hasn’t stopped Lombard and Peters from placing a bet or two.”

Indeed, the two grooms had eased into the crowds as soon as they reached the village, their coins already tugged from their pockets.

“What would you like to do?” he asked. “Look about a bit, or try to get into the next footrace? The innkeeper at the Dog and Pony told me there’s a bonnet worth thirty shillings, and his daughter intends to try for it.”

Rosalind laughed. “I’m too sore to be quick on my feet today.” The walk had eased the knots from her muscles, but she had a feeling a footrace would put new ones right back in.

Still, the thought of a new bonnet worth an exorbitant thirty shillings gave her a pang of longing. Imagine having something so costly and new, or of being able to win what one wanted.

No matter. Soon enough, her debts would be paid and all the money she earned would be hers. She could get an expensive bonnet then if she wanted to. Or she could spend her money on something else entirely.

For today, she wanted to try something new, to be as laughing and full of glee in the spring day and the town celebration as the women she saw here. No matter their age, they all seemed fresh-faced and light on their feet. It was difficult to tell the difference between lady and maid. Each mistress was in new garments, each maid wearing her ladyship’s cast-off best from last season.

Rosalind’s gowns were practical, fastening so she could dress without a maid’s help. Generously cut to cover her scars.

She wondered what it would be like to be looked at with interest, even desire, as the laughing women were regarded by their husbands and lovers.
Secretaries don’t have suitors
, she had told Nathaniel.

But maybe that wasn’t always true. Maybe it didn’t have to be—just for today.

The fiddle was joined by a harmony of trumpet and horn, and Nathaniel tapped a foot in time to the drifting music. He had removed his beaver-felt hat, holding it loosely in one hand, and she found herself staring at him. His hair was brown-gold, like sunlight through brandy.

As though sensing her gaze, he looked down at her and smiled. “Care for a dance?”

With a deep breath and a quick nod, she slipped her arm into his. “Indeed I would.”

He clapped his hat back onto his head, and they ran for the green and slipped into the whirl of couples. Rosalind didn’t know the steps, if there were steps to such a dance, but somehow that didn’t matter. Nathaniel caught her hand and twirled her one way, then stepped and twirled her the other.

In her hurry, she hadn’t picked up gloves this morning, and his bare hand within hers was solid and rough and warm. It sent a twisting curl of heat through her body, making her feel buoyant, lighter on her feet.

Then he took both her hands, spinning with her as the fiddle raced up and down the octave. Women around them kicked their feet and laughed when their partners lifted them in the air.

“Want to try it?” Nathaniel spun her close, tipping his head toward one of the high-lifted dancers. She nodded, almost breathless, and then his hands were about her waist.

The ground fell from beneath her feet while his hands spanned her and held her steady. The world was a swoop of sky, and her skirts flew about like a bell of cloth. Around, around, they turned together, giving her a quick soaring feeling. She shut her eyes and flew, just for a second, then landed lightly on her feet again.

The brass instruments drew out their final notes, followed by applause from the other dancers. Rosalind clapped once, maybe twice, but it was difficult to think of what to do now. Her feet were different for having danced in the air; her hands had been changed by being clasped by a partner.

And maybe she wasn’t the only one who felt as thought something had altered, because Nathaniel Chandler was breathing hard, his blue eyes fixed on her with some deep expression to which she could not put a name. But it was good, whatever it was. It made her feel as though she were still swooping, still held by him.

She pushed her bonnet back with her free hand, catching the sun on her blushing face. Despite how unsure and fluttering she felt, she would have liked to stay there for hours. Days, holding his gaze like an embrace. But a new tune began, and the dancers eddied and changed around them, and it was time to make way.

When they reached the edge of the green, Nathaniel tossed his hat end over end in a neat flip. “All right, Rosalind Agate, order me about. What would you like to see next? The footraces? The amount of money our grooms have lost?”

“I want to buy something pretty. To wear the day of the Derby.” Yet fashion was a closed book. To her, a ha’penny ribbon was as lovely as an ostrich feather that cost a guinea. “What should I choose? Not that I ought to ask you. My brothers would hate that sort of question about women’s fripperies.”

He replaced his hat atop his head. “I am hardly your brother,” he said drily. “And my sisters would never have asked me anything of the sort. Abigail is two years older than me, but it might as well have been twenty. And Hannah is half horse herself. She never wanted anything but riding habits.” He drew Rosalind’s hand within his arm. “Do you actually care about my answer? I mean—will it influence what you buy?”

“Of course it will. I trust that you know what would be right for Derby Day.”

“You trust that I know what would be right.” His brows knit. “That’s…quite nice of you, Rosalind Agate.”

“I didn’t intend to be nice. I mean, I didn’t intend
not
to be nice either. It’s simply an answer that’s true.”

“Then it’s even better.”

When she caught his eye, she felt a little more naked than her shift and stays and green worsted gown ought to permit. A little too naked for public view—yet she found she liked the trespass of such a feeling.

The trumpet called with a clear high note, beckoning the men who had finished the punting match at the footbridge just visible from the green. Their thin shirts were sweat-damp as they clambered from punt to shore. After shrugging into their coats, they accepted cheers from watching men and kisses from women amid good-humored laughter.

“Look at that,” commented Nathaniel. “That fellow won a medal. Do you think it was for the punting match, or was he on time for dinner as well?”

* * *

It was both easy and difficult to buy something pretty. Rosalind liked nearly everything offered for sale, so how was she to choose? She placed a hand in her pocket and let the thin coins slip between her fingers.

“I shall get a ribbon for my bonnet,” she decided. “But which?”

Nathaniel pointed without hesitation to a ribbon the color of a new leaf. “This one. To match your eyes.”

Were they truly that color? He had noticed, had remembered? Rosalind flushed as she took it up. “Thank you. I like that suggestion.”