Free A Gentleman’s Game by Theresa Romain Page A

death, which was somehow more intimidating than the English sort. Tranc could hire anyone anywhere. With a shilling’s worth of poison and five minutes unobserved, he could kill thousands of pounds of horseflesh. And what could be done to an animal ten times Rosalind’s size could easily be done to Rosalind herself.
    Though this letter, brief though it was, implied that Aunt Annie—not Tranc—had arranged to sicken Sir William’s horses. That she had arranged for the animals to be ill so that Rosalind could search the baronet’s papers in the resulting confusion.
    The only thing that would take Sir William from his house was his stable. If Aunt Annie knew this, then Sir William was more than a stranger to her. And this was, perhaps, why Anweledig was so certain the answer lay at Chandler Hall. The answer to whatever had happened in Spain in 1805.
    Year after year, each of Rosalind’s positions had included secrets and searches. And each seemed to have pulled Aunt Annie closer to the answer she sought. Rosalind had no idea what it might be, or even of the question. She had asked, but queries sent by letter could be easily ignored.
    She always wrote to Aunt Annie in care of the foundling home the woman had helped to establish in East London. Return letters came from different parts of the country. Among all her charitable works, perhaps Anne Jones pursued a hunt of her own.
    If she did, Rosalind did not know the purpose of that either. She knew only that once she found the right papers, Aunt Annie would turn them over to Tranc, and they would both be safe.
    In darker days, Rosalind had wondered if her life was worth the layers of debt she had incurred to save it. But now, for the first time in a decade, she saw the promise of choice ahead of her. Of a life free from secrets and spying. A life that was real .
    She just needed to carry out one last betrayal, and then she’d be an honest woman.
    * * *
    “You look like a half-laundered cloth that someone forgot to wring out,” came a familiar voice. “Are you all right, Rosalind?”
    She hadn’t heard the study door open—but then, Sir William’s latest order had hit her with an unexpected force that left her ears ringing in disbelief.
    With a quick tug of breath, she tried to pull herself together before looking up from her usual litter of papers. Nathaniel Chandler crouched next to her chair, blue eyes at the level of her own. “I’m fine.” She turned away with the excuse of neatening a stack of paper. “I think I just ate some moldy hay.”
    “Very amusing. Ten points for wittiness. But I think”—he stood, then rested his weight on the corner of his father’s long table-turned-desk—“that you spoke to my father, as I did just outside the study. And that what he told me, which put a smile on my face, has put a frown on yours.”
    A broad, tanned hand came down on the stack of papers. “Rosalind. Truly. Will it be that bad to come to Epsom with me? I had hoped you’d be happy to receive such a sign of my father’s trust.” His tone was dry; they both knew that trust in Rosalind was a sign that his father’s confidence in Nathaniel was lacking.
    If only she had what they had: the fraught pairing of parent and child, so near at hand that they could be wary of each other. Test one another in everyday ways.
    But if she had that, she wouldn’t be wary. She would be grateful if her father were near.
    She rummaged for some explanation that might serve as an adequate excuse. “I don’t feel that I can leave my work. Or travel. At this time. To Epsom.”
    “Your short sentences. Do not. Convince me. Of anything.” He hopped himself up the rest of the way, sitting atop the table and letting his booted feet swing free. “What about a poem instead?”
    Rosalind looked up into his face. “Happy to oblige. ‘Roses are red. Nathaniel, I wish you would get Epsom out of your head.’”
    “I’m impressed. Your poetry is even worse than mine.”
    Despite