A Gentleman’s Game (24 page)

Mr. Agate cleared his throat. “Ah, let’s have that little pup and, ah, we’ll walk her about a bit. Toby, maybe you could show us around? Outside?”

They collected the spaniel from Rosalind and left her laughing and alone with Nathaniel. “I’ve named her Sheltie, by the way. I liked the idea of having our own Sheltie about the stable. Do you mind?”

“It’s perfect.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “And now I must show you something too. For the inn.”

At present, he was using the stable to store some items, including a few papers. Once he found the correct stall, he shuffled through a stack until he laid hands on the right one. “I was thinking of a new name. To make the inn truly ours, not the Cock and Bull anymore. How do you like this for a sign?”

He handed over the paper.

She studied it for a moment. “A red deer. I do like the image. Is that what you wish to call the place? The Red Deer?”

“Ah, not quite. It’s the Rosy Hart.”

Her brows knit. When the words clicked—
Rosie Heart—
she turned a most lovely shade of pink. “I can’t think of a better name. It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Nathaniel set the paper down, then took her hands in his. “Because it’s yours. The inn. My heart. This stable. Well—not Old Toby’s brewing equipment, but every other part of the stable. Oh, and this.”

Releasing her hands, he pulled something free from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her.

She held it up to the light. “Is this your medal? From Whit Tuesday?”

“Yes. Because I can’t think of anything you would want to win that you could not.”

With a smile, she hung it around her neck. “I love you. Thank you. And what of you? How may I win you?”

“I am already yours, as I said. I love you dearly, Rosalind. You’ve agreed in writing, so I’m going to hold you to it. But I’d like to hear your answer with my own ears. Will you marry me?”

She reached for him. “‘I’ll have no husband if you be not he.’”

Nathaniel took her in his arms. “So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes from two Rosalinds at once.”

“Ah, your namesake from
As You Like It
. I once thought it a foolish play, but it does end with a wedding. I got the license of the bishop four days ago, so we have only three more to wait before we can be married.”

“Three days.” She pushed back her bonnet. “That’s not long to wait. I suppose.”

“As always, your short sentences are unconvincing.” He lowered his head to the curve of her neck, kissing the line of it. She smelled of soap, the sort he’d used at the Eight Bells when having a bath. Just before he and Rosalind made love for the first time.

He would not have thought a plain soap could be erotic, but the mere scent made him want to strip her bare. “We’ve already waited weeks.”

“Three days isn’t much longer.”

Had she not sounded so breathless, he would have found it easier to agree. When he found her lips, though, there wasn’t a prayer of waiting. Not with her sweet whispers in his ear, the firm curve of her waist in his hands, her breasts soft against his chest. He sank into their kiss, letting it build. Become the foundation of their home.

And then he leaned back just a bit to reach for one of the little horn buttons that marched down the front of her bodice. “May I undo them? Just one?”

“Or all?”

A halloo from the doorway made them snap apart in an instant. George Hutchins, eyes determinedly fastened on the ceiling, held out a letter. “Go’ your mo’ning mail, Chandler.”

After handing it over, he left with a tip of his hat and a knowing smile.

Nathaniel turned over the paper. “This letter can’t be from you. It has a frank on it.”

“Also, any letters I sent would have beaten me here.” Pressing hands to her heated cheeks, Rosalind peered over his forearm to look at the paper. “That’s your father’s handwriting. Did you tell him of our plans to wed?”

“I did.” Nathaniel cracked the seal and skimmed the firmly scripted lines.

A knot loosened within him, one he had not realized still hardened his heart. “He offers his congratulations to us both.”

“That’s kind. I wondered if he’d accept your marriage to his disgraced former secretary.”

“Disgrace? I think there’s more than enough of that to go around in the Chandler family. No, he says everything that is polite. And then—all business as usual. His investigator has found some information in London about Anne Jones and a possible child of hers that he should like to see. He plans to travel south, and if he is able, he would like to stay here. He asks when our coaching inn will be ready to accommodate travelers.”

He handed the paper to Rosalind to read. “I knew he loved traveling. He missed it.”

“Maybe he misses you too.”

“Maybe,” he granted. “I must write him we can’t accommodate him as a traveler this time. But he could visit as family.”

In Nathaniel’s own home. On his own terms. With his own wife, his own life, all about him, strong and true.

“If he likes traveling so much, maybe he will come to the wedding.” Rosalind handed back the letter.

“We must invite him, certainly. If he comes, he will be welcome.”

And if he did not, that would be all right. The wheeled chair was difficult to pack into the carriage, and the stables were difficult to leave when so many horses demanded attention.

Even so. Sir William would like to be invited.

“Do you think he will find out anything about the child?” Nathaniel wondered. “If there is truly a child.”

Rosalind looked surprised. “Aunt—Anne Jones told many lies.” She fiddled with the ribbon of her bonnet. “But I think she had a child, yes. She defended that secret when she stood up for no others.”

“There is no place for a child in the life of a criminal genius, I suppose.”

“I would hardly call her that. She had to give up something she loved very much; that was clear to me. Maybe that something was your father. Or a child. Or both. Maybe nothing but power. But how can it be genius if it leaves one with a sense of loss?”

He accepted this. “And now?”

“And now she wants power again. Power through information. If she wanted love, she’d have it.”

“Is that so? Can such things be had only for the asking?” He folded his arms. “You once looked at me as though I were a madman for buying you sweets when you said you wanted them.”

She smiled. “I should have put that differently. If she wanted love, she would seek it.”

“Ah, I see. Nicely worded. That lets you make perfect sense yet still look at me as though I’m a madman.”

She curtsied. “Secretaries can do that sort of thing.”

“Oh, can they? I like this sort of talk much more than when you told me about what they don’t do and don’t have. Tell me, what else can secretaries do?” He extended a questing finger to untie the bow of her bonnet.

She let it fall to the floor of the stable. “We have years to find out.”

“I look forward to them all,” he said, and took her in his arms.

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It Takes Two to Tangle

July 1815

Tallant House, London

It was no good. The canvas still looked as though a chicken had been killed on it.

Henry Middlebrook grimaced and stepped back, casting his eye over his work. In the cooling light of early evening, his vermilion paint looked ghastly.

He dragged his brush over one corner of the canvas and regarded it again. A slight improvement. Now it looked as if someone had killed a chicken on it, then tried to clean up the evidence.

No matter. He could fix it later somehow. Or hide it in an attic.

As he stepped forward again, ready for another artistic attack, Henry’s foot bumped the fussy baroque table on which he’d set his palette. The palette rattled perilously close to the edge of the table, and Henry swooped for it before it tipped. He lost his grip on his paintbrush and could only watch, dismayed, as the wide brush flipped end over end and landed with a faint thump on the carpet.

Well, damn.

“How lovely!” came a cry behind him, and Henry turned.

His sister-in-law Emily, the Countess of Tallant, was standing in the morning room doorway smiling at him. She wore a gown the watery, fragile pink of rose madder, with some part of it pinstriped and some other part of it beaded, and her auburn hair arranged with a quantity of pink-headed pins.

Henry did not understand all the details of women’s fashion, having spent the past three years learning the significance of shoulder epaulets, forage caps, and stovepipe shakos. Still, the effect of Emily’s ensemble was pleasing to anyone with the slightest eye for color—which Henry had, though no one looking at his canvas would possibly think so.

“Good evening, Emily,” he said, shifting his foot to hide the fallen paintbrush. “I might say the same to you. You look very well.”

“Nonsense, Hal,” she said. “This gown is a full year out of fashion and is suitable for nothing but lolling around the house. I must go change for the ball, as must you. What I meant was that it’s lovely to see you painting again.”

She craned her neck to look behind him. “And it’s even lovelier to see you resting your palette on that dreadful table. Jemmy’s Aunt Matilda gave it to us as a wedding gift. I can only conclude she must have hated me.”

Emily walked over to Henry and held out her hand for the paintbrush, which he sheepishly retrieved from the floor. She scrutinized it, then began to daub the gilded table at Henry’s side with red curlicues.

“I’m not the expert you are, of course, but the texture of this red seems a bit off.”

“Yes, it’s too oily. I’m out of practice.”

“Well, that’s easily enough fixed by time. I’m glad we still had some of your supplies left from… well, before.” Emily signed her name with fat, bold brushstrokes to the ruined tabletop. “There, that’s the best this table has ever looked. If you can stand the sight of the beastly thing, then you must have it for your own use while you paint. Surely we can find a studio for you somewhere in the house. You could even keep painting here in the morning room if you don’t mind rolling back the Axminster, of which I’m rather fond.”

Henry looked at the heavy carpet guiltily. A splotch of warm red paint marred the fine sepia pattern of scrolls and bouquets. “I should have done that first thing. I’m sorry, Em.”

She waved a hand. “I understand artists are remarkably forgetful creatures. Once the creative mood seizes you, you cannot be responsible for your actions.”

“Are you giving me an excuse to be an aggravating guest? This could be entertaining.”

Emily’s mouth curled into the cunning smile that meant she was plotting something. “You’re much more than a guest, as you know. But you’re right. I should demand that you pay me a favor for spilling paint all over my possessions.”

Henry took the brush from her and laid it carefully across the palette, atop the newly adorned table. “Let me guess. You already have a favor in mind, and you are delighted I have ruined your carpet, since now you can be sure I’ll agree to whatever you ask.”

Emily looked prouder than ever. “Excellent! We shall slip you back into polite society more easily than I could ever have hoped. Already you are speaking its secret language again, for you are correct in every particular of your guess.”

“I’m overjoyed to be such a prodigy. What, precisely, have I guessed?”

“Tonight, I am going to introduce you to your future wife. What do you think?” She beamed at him, as though she expected him to jump up and start applauding. Which was, of course, impossible.

Henry gripped the edge of the fussy little table tightly. It was difficult to imagine feeling comfortable amidst the
ton
again—as difficult as it had seemed to leave it three years ago.

But he was just as determined on the former as he’d once been on the latter. Choosing the right wife could be exactly the key he needed to unlock London.

Emily passed a hand in front of his face. “You didn’t answer me, Hal.”

Henry blinked; stalled. “Don’t call me Hal, please.”

She raised her eyes to heaven. “You know perfectly well that I shall never be able to stop calling you Hal in my lifetime, just as you cannot stop calling your brother Jem. We are all far too set in our ways. But that’s not the answer I wanted. What do you think of my idea about finding you a wife? Actually, it was Jemmy’s suggestion, but if you like it, I shall claim it for my own.”

Fortunately, Henry’s elder brother Jeremy, the Earl of Tallant, poked his dark head into the doorway at that moment, saving Henry from a reply. “Em? Aren’t you ready yet? I’ve already had the carriage brought around.”

In his sleek black tailcoat, mathematical-tied linens, and waistcoat of bronze silk, Jem looked every inch the earl. Every inch, that is, except the one between his forehead and nose. His eyes—a bright lapis-blue, the only feature the brothers had in common—held an ignoble amount of doubt just now. “Hal? Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Henry decided on deliberate obtuseness. “For Lady Applewood’s ball? No, I still have to change my clothing.”

“I’ll send my man up to help you,” Jem replied too quickly.

Emily crossed her arms and regarded her husband slowly, up and down. “You look very elegant, Jemmy. But why are you ready? We aren’t leaving for an hour.”

Jem’s expression turned puzzled. “An hour? But I thought—”

“We must make a grand entrance,” Emily said in a hurried hush. “I told you we shan’t leave until nine.”

Jem shrugged, squeezed by his wife, and came to stand next to Henry. “It’s too dim in here,” he decided as he regarded the painting. “I can’t tell what you’ve painted.”

Henry swept his arm to indicate the baroque table. “This table, for a start. And your carpet. And my breeches a bit.” He regarded his garments ruefully.

Jem nodded. “Rather ambitious for your first effort.”

“Yes. It’s served me well to be ambitious, hasn’t it?”

Jem managed a smile as his eyes found Henry’s. “I suppose it has. Well, best get ready. Em’s told you about our grand plan, hasn’t she?”

“If you mean the plan to marry me off, then yes. I can’t say I’m shocked. I’m only surprised it took her two weeks to broach the subject.”

“She’s been plotting it for weeks.” Jem sighed. “Quite proud of the scheme.”

“I’m still
right
here
,” Emily said from the doorway. “And I
am
proud of it. It’s just…”

When she trailed off, both brothers turned to her. Emily’s merry face looked sober all of a sudden. “We think you’d be happier, Hal. If you were married.”

Henry pasted a smile across his face. “Don’t worry about me. I’m quite as happy as can be expected.”

Emily studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “One hour, Hal. Jemmy, do come with me. You may help me decide which dress to wear.”

The earl followed his wife. “It doesn’t matter, Em. You always look marvelous. Besides which, you never wear what I choose.”

“That’s because you’d send me out with no bodice. Honestly, Jem!”

Their voices quieted as they moved down the corridor, and Henry allowed the smile to drop from his face. He could guess what they’d begun talking about: just how happy
was
he?

He’d given them a truthful answer on the surface of it. He was as happy as could be expected. But a man in his situation had little enough reason for happiness.

Still, he had determination. Surely that was even more important. With enough determination, happiness might one day follow.

He dragged his easel to the edge of the morning room and gave his painting one last look.

Just as horrible as he’d thought. But in time, it would get better.

With a rueful shake of the head, he left behind his first foray back into painting and went upstairs to prepare for his first foray back into London society.