A Gentleman’s Game (18 page)

Nothing. Not even my own self.

There was just space enough to sit down beside him on the stair. Even so, she felt too much distance between them to even take his hand. “Asking isn’t enough to get what one wants.”

“Of course it’s not.” He leaned back on his elbows, letting the stairs hold him up. “If it were, I would have been on the way to Epsom without having to bribe you into chaperoning me. And my father would have remained in Newmarket, trusting me to do well.”

Looking tired, he fixed her with eyes devoid of their usual spark. “And if you chose to come along after all, you would have been proud to introduce me to your family and their friend. You would have said, ‘Yes, be my suitor. Even though you have no real home and your work is tenuous, court me.’”

There was not enough air in this tiny box of stairs and walls. Rosalind shuddered in her thin gown, eyes sandy and throat dry.

Oh, so many reasons he hadn’t even thought of.
Even though you don’t know all my secrets, court me. Even though I’ll never be able to look at your father without wondering where your sister is, court me. Even though I won’t be able to tell you why or what’s bothering me, court me. Even though he doesn’t trust me and eventually you won’t either, court me.

“I wish you could have those things.” She forced herself to stand. “I should go.”

“Why? No one is expecting you.”

“Because if I don’t go right now, I’ll beg you to stuff me into a trunk and take me to Epsom with you.”

“I’ll go get an empty trunk.” He made as if to get up, but she caught his hand.

“No, Nathaniel. I can’t see you again.”

“Is this that ridiculous notion you have that secretaries don’t have suitors? Because it’s not true. And you’re even not a secretary anymore.”

She dropped his hand and walked down a few stairs. Bending awkwardly at the waist—Carys’s gown was tight about her ribs—she gathered and smoothed the banknotes. Even the first one that had fallen. All of them.

Once they were in a neat stack, she folded them and extended the handful to Nathaniel. Politeness should have brought him to his feet when she stood; politeness dictated that he would take what a lady sought to offer him.

He only watched her face, ignoring her outstretched hand. It seemed they would wait in silence forever, the seated statue and the standing one. As she stood on a lower stair, their faces were at the same height.

And he began to smile. “You could be, though. You could be a secretary. You could come to Epsom, and I needn’t even stuff you into a trunk.”

She set the money down beside him, not breaking his gaze as she bent. “I can tell you are having a diabolical idea. What is it?”

“I find myself”—he folded the banknotes and tucked them into his waistcoat pocket—“in need of a secretary.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Shocking, is it? But you see, I am on an important journey and must keep careful account of racehorses and servants alike. How am I to do that without the help of a secretary?”

Her feet shifted and fumbled on the steps, finding the next riser down. “That’s silly. You haven’t needed a secretary thus far.”

He dropped the hearty mien for a moment, his expression softening. “But I have, Rosalind. I didn’t come a step of the way without you.” His smile was sweet and a little sad. “Not that I ever thought of you as anything but a Rosalind. Still, if I have to call you secretary, I will. I’ll say what I must, do what you wish, so that you can finish the journey.”

Extending one hand, he added softly, “If you want to, that is. Only if you want to.”

That hand had touched her, loved her, brought her to pleasure. And then it had become part of an embrace, tucking her to his heart as long as they dared.

What had he said to her?
You push back to see if I’ll stay.
Something like that. And he had kissed her again and said he’d stay.

And he had.

“I’ll stay,” she said.

By those two short words, she meant far more.

Maybe he understood, for the smile that crossed his features made her heart reel, dizzy with delight. For a moment, his fingers closed over hers.

And then he released her, all business—though that smile kept tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then you’re hired, Miss Agate. The wages are terrible and the hours are worse. Your employer is prodigal and presumptuous and—”

“Passionate? Perplexing? Plays the piccolo?” She turned to lead the way down the stairs. “Whatever he is, I am sure I can handle it.”

“Very true, for you’ve worked for Sir William Chandler. Come along, then, Miss Agate. We have a new city to visit and a Derby to win.”

As Sir William navigated the steps of his crested carriage with the help of his arm strength and two servants, Nathaniel descended the town house steps at Rosalind’s side.

As always, he helped her to settle into Farfalla’s saddle. Then, with her nod of approval, he led the mare before the open door of the lacquered carriage.

The wheelchair was jammed between the carriage squabs. His father was seated with feet flat and knees canted out. Between his legs was a walking stick on which his broad hands were clenched. “What’s this?” grunted Sir William, settling back onto the squabs. “Are we taking Miss Agate back to the Eight Bells?”

“Why should we take her there?” Nathaniel feigned surprise. “No, Father, my secretary is traveling to Epsom with us.”

The baronet’s gray head tilted to one side. “Your secretary?”

“Indeed. You gave her a letter of reference. How could I help but hire her?”

Snort
. “Nonsense. You don’t need a secretary.”

“Nonsense. You all but told me I did by sending one along on this journey.” It was pleasant to echo the baronet’s own words, but with a twist into something positive. “And now I’ve found I can’t do without her.”

At his side, Nathaniel felt rather than saw the startled movement of Rosalind’s shoulders. “No need for a waltz in the saddle, Miss Agate. It’s quite true.”

She fidgeted again. “As a dutiful secretary, I should never gainsay my employer’s opinion.”

Sir William craned his neck, his deep-set eyes searching the pair of them. “So that’s the way it is.”

“That,” Nathaniel said with some relish, “is the way it is.”

“And what do you think about this, Miss Agate?”

She hesitated before replying, her pause so long that Nathaniel looked up at her. Chin lifted, she finally said, “I think it’s only right that I should finish what I started.”

“And so he has hired her as his secretary,” muttered the baronet. “Good Christ almighty.”

Nathaniel smiled. “Did you hear that, Miss Agate? He is inspired to pray. I haven’t heard him pray for thirteen years.”

“It
is
a Sunday,” she said mildly. “Maybe it’s the influence of the date rather than our own sterling characters.”

Sir William shook the cane. “Off! Off with the two of you.”

Nathaniel arched a brow. “‘Off with the two of you’ as in ‘off to Epsom’? Or as in ‘off to a faraway location’? Because I’m quite willing to honor the former request, but not the latter.”

Sir William sat back, his face dropping into the shadow of the carriage’s deep velvet interior. “To Epsom, of course. We’ve already dawdled far too long. Let us get back on the road.”

Nathaniel bowed. “Very well. Your wish, my command, et cetera.”

As he closed the carriage door, he thought he saw grudging respect cross his father’s features. The contrary old scoundrel.

* * *

Rosalind had snapped up the opportunity to travel onward with Nathaniel and the servants with whom she’d come to feel so comfortable. Yet as the procession set off, familiar yet a little different this time, she felt awkward about the journey.

Was it Sir William’s presence that changed matters? Another carriage was added to their company. And though the baronet couldn’t see them from its plush interior, his nearness was like a weight. Lombard held Pale Marauder on a shorter line; the outriders hung closer and kept their hands on their weapons. Nathaniel didn’t whistle.

Maybe it wasn’t Sir William’s presence at that. Maybe it was London itself. Used to traveling at a drifting pace alongside Nathaniel and Bumblebee, Rosalind now had to keep her head and her seat as she guided Farfalla through the congestion at London’s heart. Farmers’ carts were replaced by hackneys and drays that squeezed into spaces far too small for safe passage, reins in a tangle and horses in a lather. The bark of a friendly sheepdog had seemed loud a few days ago; now she wouldn’t even hear a dog over the sound of carriages on cobbles, of shouts and whinnies as everyone tried to go every direction at once. Buildings walled in the streets on both sides, and a roil of foot traffic covered the pavement.

Had it always been like this? Were her parents used to such clamor? Was Nathaniel? For the first time since leaving Newmarket, Rosalind kept her balance by thinking of
next
instead of savoring the
now
.

After hours, the traffic gradually began to thin. The stone under Farfalla’s hooves gave way once again to earth. The noise about them softened and fell as the walls of buildings were cleaved by the welcome sunlight of late afternoon.

Rosalind’s hands loosened on Farfalla’s reins. Only now did she realize her hands had been clenched so tight as to ache.

Nathaniel and Bumblebee fell into stride beside them. “Glad to be through the thick of it?” At her nod, he added, “In another week, carriages and carts will fill the road all the way to Epsom.”

“That many people want to see the Derby?”

“Nearly everyone in England wants to see the Derby. Only a fraction have the time and coin to make the journey.”

Her brow creased. “You did tell me once that horse racing was a world of its own. I had no idea it was such a large world.”

“Not such a large world as all that. The people involved in the race are few compared to the people who only want to celebrate. Derby Day is…” He trailed off, studying the Thoroughbreds on their lead lines. “It’s rather like a fete for all of England.”

“I like fetes,” she said simply.

I like your kisses. I like when you tell me, ‘I shall have a man at my feet’—as long as there is a hope that maybe someday he will be you.

He shot a glance at her, smiling. “I like fetes too.”

The familiar calm settled between them. Rosalind was about to comment on it when Nathaniel added, “I’m sorry we couldn’t stop at midday today. There’s no good place to halt a large company within the city, and I wanted to press on. We’ll stop soon for the night. At that point, Sir William will probably want to take charge of everything.”

Indeed, he was right about this. They halted for the day at the Queen’s Noggin, a tidy inn with enormous brick chimneys proclaiming its great age but a fresh white coat of stucco over the exterior. Almost before the crested carriage could halt, Sir William had worked the door open and was calling for the innkeeper.

Nathaniel dismounted, then walked Bumblebee over to his father’s carriage. Rosalind watched as some quiet conversation ensued—first between the two of them, then in a trio with the innkeeper, a bowlegged elderly man with bright, dark eyes and short-cropped white hair.

“The hay is all the horses need,” Sir William said. “We only require stalls; no ostlers and feed.”

“I’ve been allowing them other feed,” said Nathaniel. “They wanted it. And they’ve thrived on it.”

“Those weren’t my instructions.”

“What’s more important? Your instructions or the health of the horses?”

Excellent questions, and Sir William let them pass. With the help of a few servants, he descended the carriage steps, sitting on the bottom one until his wheelchair was worked free through the other set of carriage doors.

Once settled into his accustomed seat, he rolled to the doorway of the inn. And from there, he issued order after order: for the unloading of the carriages, the scheduling of watches over the horses. The parceling out of rooms. The dressing of a family parlor on the ground floor for Sir William’s accommodation.

Rosalind leaned against the white front of the inn, only feet away from the tumult of unpacking. It had been so easy to know what to do before, but now Sir William had supplanted her. When the baronet turned his gaze to her, she straightened up. “How can I help, Sir William?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “You can’t. You needn’t.”

Her shoulders hunched.

The baronet looked up at her, then sighed. “Nathaniel is busy in the stables. He doesn’t really need a secretary. I’ve hired you a nice chamber on the second floor. If you’d like a bath, of course you’re welcome to it. And you must ring for dinner whenever you feel hungry.”

So that was that. She was to be placed properly within the inn, just like the traveling trunks.

Sir William turned his chair, calling for one of the outriders, then issuing some instruction for the following day’s travel.

“Thank you,” she murmured unheard, then stepped inside the inn. Step by step, as she mounted the stairs, she was carried along by the promise of a fete the size of a city.

The evening passed slowly, because every time she left her chamber, there was a servant to trundle her back inside. “Just ask for whatever you want, miss, and we’ll fetch it,” said her benevolent jailers. A meal and a bath only passed part of the time, and then there was nothing for her to do. No letters to write to Sir William or Aunt Annie.

As Nathaniel’s secretary, maybe she could have arranged to visit his room. But it could not be the same sort of visit they had delighted in only a day before. Even if he employed her in name only, she couldn’t let their passion become a transaction. And in her mind, it would be.

Secretaries don’t…

He was worth far too much to her to sully the memory of the night before. It already seemed so much longer since she had been with him.

She could not be sorry for the spell of pleasure under which he’d laid her. But she wondered whether she should have stayed in London and not been greedy for more, only to watch the spell be broken. She didn’t have a reason to be here, other than this false job Nathaniel had given her. And whether it was to spite his father or to keep her close—well, it didn’t matter, did it? She’d lived for ten years going where she was told, with the reasons opaque.

Every reason, every wisdom she’d collected over the past decade, said she should keep her distance. That she should have taken Sir William’s letter of reference and turned on her heel.

Every reason but one: she wanted to be close to Nathaniel far more than she wanted to be wise.

Heart troubled, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

The morning brought her better cheer, and the group’s arrival in Epsom shortly after midday even more so. Rosalind had decided to pretend she was on holiday, happy to help when needed, but otherwise enjoying the air and the sights that were utterly new to her.

Epsom was a town dressed as a city, its main streets wide and buildings of neat brick quoined with stone. Chimneys poked up like curious heads, and trees sighed in the light sultry breeze. There were ten days until the Derby, and the promised throngs had not yet arrived, but everyone seemed to be preparing. To one side of the street, a servant was painting an inn’s door a fresh bright red; to the other, a maid was scrubbing the front steps of a shop.

“I’ve arranged rooms for us here at the King’s Waggon,” said Nathaniel, halting the party before that edifice. “It’s an easy distance to the Downs.”

Rosalind skimmed the pleasant Georgian facade, smiling at the pale green-blue color the shade of a starling’s egg. With a slate roof atop and wide windows on the ground floor, its bright brass sign proclaiming it a Royal Mail stop, it was a cheerful, neat structure. And for now, there was space before and around it. Over the next ten days, as England’s population shook up and settled southward, that would change.

Nathaniel knocked on the door of the crested carriage, then popped it open. “Father, do you intend to stay here too? The ground floor is all taproom.”

“We’ll see about that,” said the baronet. “They were sure at the Queen’s Noggin that the ground floor was all public and family rooms.”

“But you convinced them otherwise. Well done, you. You deserve a medal.” Nathaniel sounded tired all of a sudden. Maybe he hadn’t slept any better than Rosalind had.

She ventured through the doorway of the inn, finding herself in the taproom to which Nathaniel had referred. It was dark brick with dark wood paneling and a smoke-darkened pictures on the walls. A few scattered customers sat at the tables, each with something dark in his glass. The space would be soothing to pounding heads.

Behind a bar, a slim woman was laughing with an older woman in a mobcap. “…wasted all that money on an express! I took it, of course, since postage was paid, and the rider seemed right glad to head home again. But I never heard of this woman. She in’t staying here.”

“What was her name again?” the older woman asked. “Maybe she’s in town. You han’t been here long enough to know everyone, Flora.”

“Rosalind Agate,” said Flora.

Rosalind tripped over a chair, catching herself on the edge of a table with a bone-jarring thump.

“Funny sort of name, in’t?” Flora added, oblivious.

“Never heard of ’er,” added Mobcap. “Keep it a while, I s’pose. Maybe she’ll turn up for the Derby.”

Rosalind untangled her feet, kicking the chair back into place, and almost flung herself across the room. “Excuse me! Mrs.—Miss—I overheard—that is, I’m Rosalind Agate. You’ve an express for me.”

“Oh, aye?” Flora, a pretty blond, set her hands on her hips. “Why should I believe you?”

Rosalind frowned. “Why should you not?”

“Now, Flora,” said Mobcap. She turned to Rosalind, a cunning smile on her plump features. “And glad to see you, we are, Miss Agate. I’m not saying we
dis
believe you and all. But I think Flora means a shilling would go a fair way to convincing her.”

“Aye, and a half crown’d be even better.”

Rosalind’s pockets were empty and had been ever since the Kelting fete. “You said the letter had been paid for, so you weren’t put to any expense. Please, give it to me.”

Flora’s hand wandered to her apron pocket, but then she paused. “I’d take that ribbon off your bonnet instead of a coin,” she decided. “That’s right pretty.”

Rosalind gritted her teeth. Considered. “No,” she decided. “I don’t think so. And if this is how the King’s Waggon treats its customers, I’ll tell Sir William Chandler’s party to find other lodging. Ah, here is Mr. Nathaniel Chandler now.”

With a sour look, Flora produced the letter from her pocket before flouncing off. Mobcap at least had the grace to curtsy and mumble an apology before cleaning a glass that already sparkled.