Free A Gentleman’s Game by Theresa Romain

hadn’t told Nathaniel he hated having his chair pushed, either.
    If Rosalind was right, such things ought to be understood without having to be explained.
    Nathaniel hesitated. “Hannah. Do you think Father likes to have his chair pushed?”
    She rolled a fist in the small of her back. “I don’t know. Maybe. If he asked for help. I can’t say I remember it ever coming up.”
    “But you were his secretary for years.”
    “Yes, but I’m a woman. And his daughter.” She linked her arm with Nathaniel’s and dragged him toward the doorway to the drawing room. “A father doesn’t ask a daughter for help. And a man certainly doesn’t ask a woman. Why, what brings on this question?”
    Rosalind Agate had brought so many uncertainties to his mind that Nathaniel could hardly untangle enough thoughts to reply. “Oh…just wondering.”
    This was not an answer, but Hannah knew when to let a small idiocy pass without comment. “Shall I come over some day soon? I’m not allowed to ride, but I can walk.”
    He blinked himself back to the dark entryway of Hannah’s home. “That might be a good idea, yes. If Miss Agate agrees to go to Epsom, Father will need your help again. But”—he had to drop a brotherly hint—“have a servant walk over with you. Bart and Father will take turns shooting me if I encourage you to venture over alone in your condition.”
    “That’s how they show their love,” Hannah said.
    Nathaniel knew when to let a small idiocy pass too. He only embraced her—tentatively, so as not to bump that human foal she was growing—and bade her farewell.
    “When you come again, bring some novels with you,” she called after him.
    He nodded, leaving her with a parting wave. Then he walked back to Chandler Hall with even more questions than before, and the suspicion that he wanted them answered as much to learn about Rosalind Agate as to lead a traveling party to Epsom.

Six
    A few days galloped by. Long spring days that still seemed too short as Rosalind ran from study to stable and back again; days of water and walking and mineral oil and nux vomica and more of all of them, again and again. Of radishes to tempt Jake’s appetite to return, and plaits in Sheltie’s mane as the little pony leaned hard against Rosalind, each soothing the other.
    Rosalind welcomed the exertion. If it weren’t for the fatigue that knocked her into bed, deeply and dreamlessly asleep at the end of each day, she would have wasted her nights in wakefulness and confusion. And the reason was Aunt Annie—and so much more.
    The day after Sir William had decreed that everyone entering the stable must remain in pairs or groups, Rosalind had finally managed to slip into town to collect the post. “Our master is expecting some confidential letters,” she lied to the footman whose usual errand it was, and he gratefully accepted her offer of an hour of freedom while Miss Agate carried out his work.
    Within the usual shuffle of business was one sealed note for Rosalind.
    Stay where you are. I am giving you the opportunity to search.
    Anweledig
    The Welsh signature made the letter seem more like a secret and less like an edict. Anne Jones was neither Rosalind’s aunt, nor did she truly bear a Welsh name meaning “invisible.” When Rosalind had begun to work for her a decade before, she had been young and raw and frightened of everything, her burns hardly healed, her muscles weak from her long recovery. Then Anweledig was the counterpart to Rosalind’s Cyfrinach, or “secret.” The two of them stood against the world that had taken so much from them both. Together they would conquer.
    Now, at twenty-three, Rosalind went under her own name. She knew better than to think she would conquer, but she was determined not to be beaten.
    Aunt Annie had told her about the man known as Tranc who had bought up the debt the sainted Widow Jones incurred to save young Rosalind’s life. The name Tranc meant death—and worse than that, Welsh