A Gentleman’s Game Page 8

“Just with a pistol,” he added. “I’d be a fool not to carry some sort of firearm. Hundreds of thousands of pounds are at stake in each classics race, and we’re in the company of two potential champions.”

  If he could see through the leather of her gloves, he was sure her knuckles would be white. “That was all I needed for perfect calm. A reminder of the level of trust heaped upon us.” Quickly, she darted a glance and a tight smile at him. “Truly, that’s not why I’m tense this morning. I have not sat a horse for ten years, and I fear I’ve lost the feel for it.”

  A decade—about the time she mentioned she had left her parents’ home. What had sent her out into the world so young? Where had she spent her time since?

  This was hardly the time for such questions, when her shoulders were squared with brittle determination. So he only smiled with reassurance—not that she was looking around to see his expression. “You’ll soon get the feel for it again, though I won’t take back what I said about you being sore as a—” He cleared his throat. Best to spare her the colorful similes. “We shall have a week on the road, and by the end of that time, you’ll be riding as well as a jockey.”

  She looked unconvinced. He tried again. “Seven days, if you’d rather think of it like that.” A bit of quick arithmetic, and he added, “One hundred sixty-eight hours. The time will pass quickly, and you won’t have to sleep outdoors or anything of that sort.”

  He explained the plan of shifts he and the grooms would take, stopping at the selected lodging houses where he stayed on his many trips to London, and where he trusted the owners to care for both human and equine guests.

  She didn’t seem to be listening, so he finally gave up the explanation. “If you had attended to any of that, you would have been impressed by the organization and planning.”

  She swallowed, flexing her hands on Farfalla’s reins. “No, no. I was giving my full attention to every word. I was very impressed.”

  The mare sneezed, shaking her head.

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Nathaniel.

  There was more to Rosalind’s tense posture than the stiffness of a woman who had not sat a horse in a long while. Maybe she was worried about spending so much time in this company of men. Their number was so large that they effectively chaperoned her, but still he should have brought along a maid.

  Or maybe this company of men and the unexpected freedom from work had set her to thinking of someone else. Someone special who lay heavily on her mind.

  The idea that Rosalind had pledged her heart had never occurred to him before, and now he wished it would un-occur. Though that was hardly unlikely. As governess to an earl’s family, she had doubtless encountered every level of society from night-soil men to dukes. Raised by a horse breeder turned baronet, Nathaniel saw his own place as somewhere between trade and gentry.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing between trade and gentry except a void.

  “You must be missing someone,” he ventured.

  “Hmm?” Her grip on the reins had slackened a bit since Farfalla’s emphatic sneeze. Beneath the shallow brim of her straw bonnet, Rosalind bit her bottom lip.

  “Missing someone.” Unwise to poke at this snake of a subject, maybe, but he couldn’t resist. “You seem distant. Are you thinking of a loved one?”

  “Unless you think I love my worry that I shall topple off this horse, no.”

  Poke. Poke. “No suitors left behind you in the earl’s household? Or ahead, maybe, somewhere on the road to London? You must tell me if there’s someone dear to you we ought to visit.”

  “Secretaries don’t have suitors.” She ventured a pat to the withers of her mare.

  “This from the woman who swore that ‘secretaries don’t’ would not fit into her vocabulary.”

  “This from the man who assured me there was a time and place for such a phrase.” Her lips crimped with amusement. “If this is the sort of conversation you’re to threaten me with over the next week, I shall ride ahead and talk to Pale Marauder instead.”

  Fifteen or twenty lengths ahead, the cream-colored colt let a dropping fall to the road.

  “Or perhaps not,” Rosalind added. “I’ll keep company with you if you promise continence—”

  “Done.”

  “—and tell me about your own pursuits.”

  “Not much to tell, really.”

  “Because you are pure and monk-like, or because you don’t want to share your scandalous stories with me?”

  “Ah…whichever one will get me in less trouble with you.”

  She laughed, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since she took to her sidesaddle. Sensing the change in her rider’s grip, Farfalla eased into a trot.

  “Oh!” The first jolt surprised an exclamation from Rosalind, bouncing her in the saddle.

  Nathaniel clucked to Bumblebee, who was eager to lengthen his own strides, and they again kept pace with the other pair. “Do you like trotting?”

  “I’d…rather…keep…my teeth.” Rosalind’s jaw jarred as she was tossed by each trotting stride rather than posting smoothly. Before Nathaniel could offer further instruction, she murmured something and gave a little tug on the reins. Farfalla’s ears swiveled back, listening, then she slowed to a walk.

  Bumblebee’s ears pricked with interest. Given a bit more rein, he touched noses with the little mare.

  “Making friends?” Rosalind wondered.

  “Something like that.” Bumblebee might be a gelding, but he was still a male who appreciated a pretty female of his own kind.

  Which reminded Nathaniel: Rosalind had asked him whether he’d ever played the suitor. He suddenly wanted to give her an honest answer. “You asked about my romances, Rosalind. Leaving aside the milkmaids—”

  “Oh, must we?”

  “—I courted a lady, but it came to nothing. Curse of a younger son, I suppose. The lady thought she could do better, and in the end she did. I’ve no real ties in either London or Newmarket.”

  This would be a delightful time for her to say something like How could such a thing be possible or No one could be better than you.

  Instead, when she spoke, she sounded puzzled. “Do you not wish for attachments? Even those of friendship?”

  “Can you possibly be wistful? Rosalind Agate, who embraces the role of a secretary and lives in unfettered independence?”

  Her little mare walked on a way before Rosalind answered. “I didn’t say I was unfettered. Or independent.”

  “With a gambler’s fortune in your pocket, you’ll have all the freedom you wish. Settle down in a seaside cottage…keep sheep and cats…pickle vegetables…”

  She made one of those Houyhnhnm noises. “What an idyll you describe.”

  “It’s not for everyone, of course. But since I made that particular vision up in about three seconds, I could easily come up with a different one.”

  “I don’t know what my vision would be.” She turned her head toward him for an instant, and he noticed something shadowed and soft in her gaze before she looked away again. “Let us reach Epsom before we worry about what comes next.”

  “Let us reach Epsom,” he agreed. “And then we shall worry.”

  That sounded too much like a promise, and the pistol felt heavy in the pocket of his coat. He flailed around for a new subject of conversation. “I started reading As You Like It,” he said. “Do you know the play? My sister Hannah told me it has a Rosalind in it.”

  “Yes, I do know it.” She accepted the turn of subject readily. “I was bedridden for a time when I was younger, and to pass the time, I read whatever I was given. I made my way through all of Shakespeare and was delighted to find a heroine with my name. It’s not my favorite play though.”

  “No, it’s awful rubbish. I’m not a scholar by any means, but I’m certain a woman couldn’t cavort around in trousers and fool everyone into thinking she was a man. Not only fool them, but get half the shepherdesses in the world to fall in love with her.”

  “If you won�
�t allow for women cavorting in trousers, you’ll take away half of Shakespeare’s plots.”

  “You’ve read all of his plays, have you?” That was interesting. “Do publicans’ daughters commonly read Shakespeare?”

  “They do in my family.” She ventured another pat on the mare’s withers, then added, “The Agates fell into running a coaching inn rather than rising to it. My grandfather was a country squire who sold off all of his land to cover debts. After he died, his widow took boarders, and that’s how it began. Eventually the house became an inn. London was growing toward Holloway by then, and there was more custom from travelers than boarders. They never sold off the library, though. No matter how the household changed, each child in my father’s generation and my own got the finest education a gentleman’s collection of books could provide.”

  A short version of what was no doubt a long tale, but it made sense. It explained her learnedness, her plummy accent. “You were fortunate,” he said, “to grow up in an inn, and with so many ideas about.”

  “Compared to Chandler Hall, there’s a sad lack of marble on the floor.”

  “Yes, but…” Surely if one operated an inn, one never knew what the day would bring. Which was the opposite of Chandler Hall, where everything had already been decided. Everything from the hour at which horses were fed to the number of bites of vegetable Sir William would take at dinner.

  There was nothing for Nathaniel to do there. There was no need for him.

  “You must have met a great many interesting people,” he finally said.

  “Few milkmaids, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  When he turned, ready to protest, she winked.

  And he smiled.

  The rest of the morning passed in occasional conversation as the sun painted the sky pale blue and dried the surface of the road to a dusty gold. Around them, the terrain swelled into gentle slopes and open greens perfect for gallops, but the travelers kept to a sedate walk.

  Mostly.

  In the opposite direction, a few farm wagons passed, causing Pale Marauder to stamp with temper and Epigram to turn and follow the luscious scents of spring vegetables. Once he broke into a trot, which inspired Pale Marauder to match his stride. That one never could resist a race. But Lombard and Peters kept a capable hand on both horses, slowing them back to a walk.

  One encounter with a milkmaid averted.

  With about eighty miles to cover, their pace was good. If the horses could make fifteen miles today, they would reach the Dog and Pony before tonight, saving a day’s travel.

  Saving it for what, though? The sooner they arrived at their destination, the sooner Nathaniel would be at loose ends again.

  He called an early halt for luncheon.

  The party exited the road into a treed field through which a brook threaded. When the laden carriage caught up with them, Nathaniel oversaw the unpacking of hay for the horses—an edict from Sir William, who did not want the Thoroughbreds cropping grass at the roadside. Instead, he had measured out feed in careful amounts that reminded Nathaniel of the way the baronet regulated his own meals.

  Testing the water of the brook with a bare palm, Nathaniel found the water too cold. With the help of Noonan, the Irish-born groom who had ridden in John Coachman’s laden carriage, he hauled buckets for the impatient horses. Dill and Button, the first set of outriders, built a fire to boil water for a kettle of tea, and when it was ready, they splashed a bit into each bucket to warm the water for the thirsty horses.

  The second pair of outriders to arrive were craggy, scar-faced former boxers incongruously named Egg and Love. It was unwise for a man to do so much as smile when either introduced himself, but their tenderness with animals could not be surpassed. They began removing the horses’ tack and setting it aside for a quick cleaning amid pats and quiet conversation seemingly at odds with their bulk and fierceness.

  As Dill and Button took over with the water buckets, Nathaniel located Rosalind in the process of serving food out of a hamper. “There’s a chamber pot in the carriage,” he murmured. “If you’ve need. There’s room within for you to have privacy.”

  He was not sure which of them blushed more, but—he had to say something. She might be a lady, but ladies were possessed of bodies the same as every other creature on this journey.

  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 lea
ding 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?”