A Gentleman’s Game (2 page)

Nathaniel unfolded himself, cracking an elbow on the underside of the table and smothering a curse. He always felt a bit out of place in Sir William’s world, wrongly sized and out of step.

It hadn’t always been that way. But it had been that way so long that Nathaniel had almost forgotten that things had once been different.

Maybe Sir William had too.

Holding open the glass-paned door with one boot and an outstretched arm, Nathaniel made way for his father. With the agility of long practice, the baronet steered his cumbersome chair out from the study onto a stone path paved smoothly for wooden wheels.

And Nathaniel followed in the lines his father had so carefully laid out.

* * *

Rosalind kept her face turned demurely toward the floor until the French door had swung shut again. Crawling forward one tiny nudge at a time, she peered around the legs of the large table.

The Chandlers were moving steadily down the path to the stable. Away from the study. Good.

It only took seconds to tidy up the mess of quills she had created by way of excuse. Rubbing at her elbow to reduce the tightness of her old scars, Rosalind then took up a fresh sheet of paper and dipped the quill again. After folding the paper and inking the direction, she smoothed it out and scrawled:

Anweledig,

Several horses have fallen ill. They might not be able to race in the Derby.

Should she say more?

What more could she say? She considered the possibilities, quill poised over the paper.

Alpha and I have no idea what is causing the illness.

Nathaniel Chandler
—no, she called him Gamma in letters to Aunt Annie
. Gamma returned from London with good news, muddy boots, and an unlikely tale of a milkmaid.

Gamma’s blue eyes are full of mischief and plans. I should like to know what is on his mind.

This last thought was as sweet as it was irrelevant. Rosalind’s snipped and abandoned friendships and posts lay about England like a shawl full of dropped stitches. She had been a housemaid time and again, a governess for family after family. There was no sense in regretting any of these departures when each hole, each break in the pattern, was only one among many.

But she did regret them. All of them. She was tidy by nature, and she would rather knit than unravel.

No, she would add no more to her brief letter right now. She wiped the quill and set it aside.

After sanding the paper to dry the ink, she folded the note to Aunt Annie and slid it into the bodice of her gown, along with a gummed wafer. Once she knew more, she would complete the letter. Tonight, in her small bedchamber, with the stub of a pencil.

When she had an opportunity, she would shuffle her letter into Sir William’s others and take it to the post. Just one bit of correspondence among the many she had written for the man who thought he owned her loyalty.

Just one, to the person who truly claimed it instead.

Being in the stable amid the hay rakes and shovels, the scents of oil and leather from tack, and the grassy-sweet scent of feed always smoothed the edge of Nathaniel’s temper when it began to fray. A horse needed help. He could give it, and he would.

He filled a bucket with heated water, hesitated, then splashed a bit on his face.
Not
to tidy up for the sake of Miss Agate. Not that. He really did feel dirty from his travels, and there was no time to scrub off just yet.

Steadying the bucket against his side, he made his way toward the rear of the stable where Epigram was kept. When he passed the first stall, a gray poked forth a curious muzzle.

“Hello, Jake, old boy.” Nathaniel patted the velvet nose, then combed through the animal’s tousled forelock. “Keeping an eye on things? Behaving beautifully?” The gelding blinked his long-lashed eyes, then ducked his head for Nathaniel to rub behind his ears. With a laugh, Nathaniel took the unmistakable hint.

Sir William believed such chats and pats were a waste of time. Horses were workers, just like grooms and stable boys. They must be treated fairly and well, and in return they must give him their best.

Nathaniel was of the mind that everyone—man or beast—could use a little scratch behind the ears sometimes. Or the preferred equivalent.

But a sick horse waited. “Back later, Jake. I have to take care of our illustrious visitor now.” The gelding snorted, and Nathaniel left him with a final pat.

The other stalls in the block were empty because the Thoroughbreds were being exercised on Sir William’s short training track or cooled down with a walk. At the end of the row was a loose box in which ill horses were given room to recover. Here the pleasant scents of horse and feed were damped by the odor of sweat. A compact, dark-brown colt, Epigram stood with his head hung low and his hooves splayed wide as though his balance was upset.

Sir Jubal Thompson was crammed into the stall alongside Sir William, and the elderly knight and steely baronet were arguing.

Had the horse not been in such need of help, the argument would have been amusing. Mindful of the skittish beast between them, baronet and elderly knight tore into each other in the most soothing voices imaginable.

“It has to be the feed,” crooned Sir Jubal, stroking the horse’s neck. “He was perfectly fine when I turned him over into your care.” His white hair was tied back in an old-fashioned queue, and his face was lined deeply, as much with worry as with age.

Again with the feed.
Had
Nathaniel checked the hay well enough? Surely he had. And Smith would have done so too.

Surely.

Sir William shot a veiled glance at Nathaniel, who paused just outside the stall. “It is not the feed. All horses are given the same, and only three of them are ill.”

“What is the cause, then?”

“I have not found it yet.” Sir William might have been singing a lullaby, so gentle was his voice. “But the treatment—”

“—will be carried out according to my preference—”

“—you turned the horse over to my care, and therefore my judgment is to be—”

Their voices continued, blended and faded into a calming harmony as Nathaniel squeezed into the stall, making a fourth body in the small space.

He saw what the two older men had already seen: the colt’s latest ration of hay had gone untouched. A prickle of apprehension touched Nathaniel’s neck.

While so many Thoroughbreds were flighty and fractious, Epigram was like a steam-powered boiler. Once fired up, he ran as steadily as churning pistons, and he consumed massive amounts of feed. No fuss over hay or oats for this one. Whatever was put before him, he ate it, and before he exercised, he tried to crop the grass on the turf too.

Usually. When he was in good health.

Nathaniel kicked aside a bit of straw to set down the bucket of warm water before Epigram’s lowered head. This won him a
whuff
of humid breath over his fingers, and he rubbed at the colt’s soft muzzle.

“They’re worrying about you,” he murmured. “Are you going to get well so they can stop?” One never knew if an appeal to a horse’s finer feelings would work. It certainly couldn’t hurt.

At the approach of swift, light footsteps, Nathaniel stood. Here came Rosalind Agate, cheeks flushed and hair loosening from its pins as though she had run. In her hands she carried a cake of salt.

She caught Nathaniel’s eye and explained, “A stable boy told me you had brought warm water. If it’s for the horse to drink, I thought salt might encourage him.”

“To make him thirsty,” Nathaniel realized. “A good idea. Let’s see if it helps.” Thus far Epigram had politely ignored the warm water—which was the best thing possible for prodding along a halted digestion.

Crouching in the doorway of the stall, skirts trailing in scattered straw, Miss Agate murmured something quiet that made the colt’s ears swivel toward her. She moved with smooth calm, working free some crystals of salt and dabbing them at the mouth of the dispirited animal. Epigram whiffed and sniffed and licked, then stretched his head to drink the warm water.

Success
. Nathaniel grinned—and when he caught the secretary’s eye, she was smiling too. “Again,” he said.

While she administered the salt, he pressed gently along the animal’s side. Epigram’s barrel was distended, but there were no obvious tender spots. The colt continued to behave as placidly as ever, taking a drink when it pleased him. The surface of the warm water rippled as he dribbled into the bucket.

The mild patter between the baronet and Sir Jubal had turned to a discussion of further treatments to try. “Nux vomica,” suggested one, and the other asked for mineral oil as well.

“Miss Agate, fetch a stable boy and have him locate those,” Sir William said in a voice of infinite kindness.

Yes, the tone was for the horse’s benefit. And there was a tiny corner of Nathaniel that found himself envying a sick horse.

“I know where the nux vomica and mineral oil are located,” said the secretary. “I’ll collect them and return in a moment, Sir William.” She sprang upright, wincing as she did, then slipped from the stall doorway to carry out the errand.

The older men were silent for a moment. Then Sir Jubal spoke: “How you turn these mad arrangements to your advantage, Sir William, I’ll never know. I wasn’t the only one who thought you were a fool for engaging a female secretary, but she’s capable enough.”

“That’s all I require. The last three secretaries I hired had a neat hand, but they knew nothing at all about horses. I don’t mind a female as long as she knows her way about a stable. You’ll recall that my daughter Hannah was my secretary until she married.” Sir William’s gaze caught Nathaniel’s, and he added slowly, “All I expect is loyalty and hard work.”

And was that some sort of criticism? Or praise so veiled it could hardly be recognized?

Nathaniel returned his attention to Epigram, though his jaw could not seem to come unclenched.

The secretary returned soon enough with supplies, and Sir William rolled toward her to take the requested bottles. “Thank you, Miss Agate. That will be all for now. Make way, Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel slid around the edge of the stall, out of his father’s path. Sir William executed a neat, tight spin, but could not edge his wheelchair into the right position. “Jubal, pull your horse forward a tick.”

But as the horse edged forward, the right wheel of Sir William’s chair remained locked. Nathaniel spotted the problem: a fallen halter, almost hidden by straw.

“Father, allow me.” He stepped forward to pull the halter free. When it proved trapped, he eased the chair back a few inches and bent to remove the obstruction.

When he stood again, halter in hand, Sir William’s hands were tight on the rims of his wheels. “You may go, Nathaniel.”

“But I can help Epi—”

“Go. Now. You’ve done enough.” The baronet’s gaze was stern—but after a moment in which Nathaniel blinked at him, startled, it dropped to fix on his hands instead.

Though a protest was at the tip of his tongue, Nathaniel understood:
You’ve done enough
meant
I don’t want you around right now
.

There were reasons Nathaniel had traveled so many roads across England. This was one of them.

He sketched a curt bow. “The salt is encouraging Epigram to drink. His barrel seems sound. Please alert me if I can be of further help.”

And then, hanging the halter over the open stall door, he left.

* * *

Rosalind followed Nathaniel Chandler from the stall and back down the main passage. The stables were less than a decade old, like Chandler Hall itself, and were built on the same wide, smooth lines. The cobbles here were as snugly laid as the tiles inside the house. Away from the crowded confines of Epigram’s stall, the stable was quiet. To Rosalind’s ear, the pair of human footfalls echoed from stone floor to high ceiling like those of penitents walking the nave of a church.

When they reached a stall from which a gray horse peeked—a sweet gelding named Jake, who loved nothing so much as radishes—Nathaniel stopped. Petting the horse’s long, straight nose, then scratching behind its ears, he spoke at last. “Miss Agate, you could stay with Sir William. He’ll find some use for you.”

“I don’t want a use
found
for me. I want to
be
of use.” This was quite true, and not only because her letter to Aunt Annie required her to look at the other two horses that had fallen ill.

“Is this the sort of way you think a secretary ought to be of use?”

“By caring for horses? If one works for Sir William Chandler, certainly. We’re in the stables as often as the study.” She stroked Jake’s smooth neck, wishing she had one of his favorite treats in her pockets. “And I wouldn’t keep my post long if I began every conversation with ‘secretaries don’t.’”

Nathaniel darted a sidelong glance at her, an odd smile on his features. “Under many circumstances, that
would
be an appropriate thing to say. But in this case, if you want to help the horses, I’m glad for the aid. Find two more buckets, will you?” He straightened the gray’s forelock, then gave the horse a final pat. “I’ll get more salt from the feed room.”

All business, he was, as he started walking away. A long line of snug buckskin and fine wool, the quality unmistakable beneath spatters of mud and the dust of straw. He had the look of a man who could fit in anywhere, confident and capable.

For a moment she gazed after him, distracted by a quick stab of wistfulness. She had met him the week after beginning her employment with Sir William. It had been a quick introduction and quicker good-bye as he exchanged one set of luggage and horses for another before setting off to London.

Secretaries don’t
was true for her when it came to personal desires. Just as
governesses don’t
and
housemaids don’t
were before that. She was twenty-three years old, and she’d been alone for the last ten years, even in a crowd.

And that was fine. It was the way matters had to be. She was accustomed to it.

But when she had met Nathaniel Chandler, and he’d smiled at her as though she was truly worth meeting…well, maybe she wasn’t as accustomed to it as she’d thought.

She allowed herself one final glance at the tall figure walking away, then got on with her work.

A nearby stable boy directed her to unused buckets. Grabbing two, she hurried toward the front of the stable. She caught up to her employer’s son at the door of the feed room, where he was working on the difficult latch. It had to fit so tightly that no rodent, no matter how small, could slip within.

Without looking up, he said, “You are out of breath.”

“This is Newmarket. Everyone runs.” Rosalind extended the buckets. “I have what you wanted.”

She flushed a little at the words.

He flashed a quick smile at her, then returned his attention to the latch. “Good. We only need the salt then.” He paused. “I am going to check the hay for mold.”

When he shoved the door open, Rosalind set the buckets on the clean-swept floor and stepped into the feed room after him. “But you said you were sure. That you trust the man who supplies the hay.”

His pause was long. “No harm in checking again, is there?” The feigned lightness in his tone did not fool her.

The feed room was dimmer than the wide stretch of the stables, though a high-cut window let in daylight. Grain bins with tight-fitting lids held—curious, she peered into them one by one—oats and barley. The maligned hay was stored in a loft reached by a narrow wooden ladder, though a single bale had been pitched down.

Nathaniel Chandler stared at it as if it were a beast.

“I could check it if you like,” Rosalind suggested. “So you don’t have to. I could be a cruel, shrewish harpy who refused to take your word on trust. Here, I’ve found a hay knife.”

As she crouched before the hay, looking up at him, his gaze seemed to snap into focus. “Nonsense, Miss Agate. You’ll dirty your pretty dress. I’ll check the hay.”

You look pretty
.

This was not what he had said, of course. The tight scars webbing her side were a reminder. When he sank to the floor of the feed room beside her, she turned the hay knife over to him. “Please do not pay me false compliments, Mr. Nathaniel. I am a secretary, not one of your imaginary milkmaids.”

He rose to a crouch, regarding her with eyes that were very blue and just a little wicked. “Why imaginary?”

“The sheer number of them. There cannot be so many cows in all of England.”

He granted this with a shrug. “And why must compliments be false?”

The words were practiced and smooth, like a sauce poured over a dish to mask its true flavor. This was a habit of his, doubtless, and she must remain proof against it. “Compliments are…” She tipped her head, sending a cursed lock of hair falling from its pins. “They are not relevant when we have sick horses to care for.”

“Or hay to check for mold, I suppose? Come now, Miss Agate. One can look for mold and pay compliments at the same time.”