The Wagered Miss Winslow (17 page)

With these two devoted persons by her side (Riggs, she was told, had taken to his bed behind the kitchens, complaining of a putrid cold), Rosalind retraced her steps, the valet rapidly scribbling down her musings and adding suggestions of his own as to fabric, color, and the number of furnishings each room would require.

“And carpets!” Rosalind said as their footsteps echoed in the main drawing room, where the sheer drapes at the windows allowed light without the bright glare of the sun to penetrate the large room. “We will need at least three in here alone, won’t we, Woodrow?”

The valet, who had more talents than an entire traveling circus, nodded solemnly, scribbling on the page. “Three here, ma’am, two in the dining room, and the ballroom floor will need a good polishing. May we suggest interviewing for staff, ma’am?”

“Staff!” Rosalind exclaimed, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “What a chucklehead I am, Woodrow. I completely forgot about staff. We shall need —”

“Two upstairs maids, three downstairs maids, two more bodies in the kitchen, a woman of all work, a housekeeper, and a valet for Mr. Remington,” Woodrow supplied helpfully. “We have already begun the process, and there will be a list from which you may choose on your desk in the main salon first thing in the morning.”

“A valet?” Rosalind had heard Woodrow’s cataloging of needed staff and her spirits had immediately plummeted to her toes. “But Woodrow, you are Mr. Remington’s valet. Don’t tell me that Bridget was right, and that you are planning to leave us?” Actually, Bridget had told her that Woodrow, who had been hired as more of a teacher to Beau than a valet, was “divilishly high in the instep, and will most probably be gone before the cat can lick her ear, don’t ye know, seein’ as how he never much liked us anyways”—but Rosalind didn’t think Woodrow needed to hear all of that.

Woodrow drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “That had been the plan, yes, ma’am. However, after consulting with Mr. Remington, we have decided to stay on, in a rather different capacity.”

“A different capacity?” Rosalind echoed, beginning to feel like an inordinately apt parrot. “And what would that capacity be, if I may ask?”

“You may, m’darlin, although I’d much rather tell you myself,” came Beau’s cheerful voice from the doorway. “Woodrow still isn’t quite used to the idea, you see, and might not invest it with all the wonderful brilliance my plan deserves.”

“Beau!” Rosalind whirled around to see her husband negligently leaning one shoulder against the wooden frame of the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

How handsome he was, dressed in the very height of fashion, his ebony curls gleaming in the filtered sunlight that lit the room. He looked to be the answer to any maiden’s fondest dreams, and he was her husband. Her smile wide, she went to him, wishing they could greet each other with a kiss, but limiting herself to only extending a hand to him, a hand that, thankfully, he took, then raised to his lips.

“Good afternoon, wife,” he said quietly, winking at her as he lingered, still bending over her hand, releasing it at last with every indication of reluctance. “How do you like our humble,
empty
abode?”

Rosalind covered her hand with the fingers of her other hand, massaging the spot where Beau’s lips had touched her skin. “Even though you did warn me, I fear I am nearly overcome, sir, with the daunting project you have set me,” she said, allowing him to take her elbow and guide her toward the sparsely furnished study at the rear of the mansion. ‘However,” she added, sinking into a large burgundy leather chair that left her feet dangling a good two inches above the floor, “I do believe I shall enjoy myself mightily filling the rooms and depleting your pocketbook. You did say you were very wealthy now, didn’t you, Beau? You will forgive my forwardness, but as your wife, I believe I should have a least a dollop of information about our financial situation.”

Beau poured himself a glass of port and then prepared a glass of sherry for his wife. “Vulgarly wealthy, I believe, is the way Woodrow termed it, m’darlin’,” he admitted, handing her the glass. “I have spent the morning setting up accounts in all the Mayfair shops Woodrow assures me are top-drawer, so that you may begin beggaring me at your convenience. However, I do have one request, if you will.”

“You want me to clear all my purchases with you?” Rosalind asked rhetorically, nodding as she saw the wisdom of such a stricture. After all, she would have to make certain not to cram the mansion full of delicate chairs and overstuffed sofas that might serve to drive a large man like Beau screaming for the comfort of his club. If he had a club. He should. He might not be titled, but he was a gentleman’s son. Surely he would soon have a wide acquaintance in London, such a wide and varied coterie of friends that he would have little time or inclination to spend his days with a convenient, pla- tonic wife who was herself terribly busy with this business of setting up a household. Goodness, but her thoughts were fast sending her into the doldrums!

Beau perched himself on the arm of Rosalind’s chair, one leg bent over the other, his hand and glass nestled in his lap. “Ah, Rosie, I see the wheels turning in your head even as you sit there so quietly—the perfect wife. You’re thinking that I plan to be a demanding husband, adding up bills and lecturing you on the economies to be derived by keeping green peas from the daily menus. But never fear. I leave the running, and the furnishing, of the household in your capable hands. And why not? Remington Manor is a pattern-card picture of a well-run estate. No, I trust you implicitly, m’darlin’.”

“Then what—” Rosalind began, only to be struck speechless as Beau leaned down and planted a quick kiss on the tip of her nose.

“The furniture can wait, Rosie,” he explained, feeling very much in charity with the world, as this husband business was beginning to appeal more and more with each passing moment. There was something so nice about it, so settled. “I have established accounts for you in every modiste shop in Bond Street. This place must be furnished, but first we have to rig you out from top to toe, as it were, in the highest fashion. Do not stint, Rosie. I want your brother to see you parading my wealth from one end of Mayfair to the other.”

“Niall?” Just saying her brother’s name brought Rosalind crashing back to reality. For a moment there when Beau was telling her to gather a new wardrobe for herself she had thought—but that was silly. He wanted her rigged out in the finest clothing, but not because he wished to be proud of her, or because he thought she would look beautiful.
Niall
. He was the reason for all this show, all this elaborate pretense—a pretense that included the fact that she now wore a heavy gold ring on the third finger of her left hand.

“Yes, m’darlin’ Rosie—
Niall
,” Beau said, standing, his proximity to his beautiful, desirable wife muddling his resolve, as his mind turned to thoughts of love rather than revenge, so that he thought it prudent to distance himself from temptation. He placed his glass on the table. “Riding alongside the carriage all day yesterday on our way to town, I had time to cudgel my brain for a suitable vengeance. Would you care to hear about it?”

No! She would not care to hear about it. She would die a happy woman if she could live another one hundred years and then pass on to her reward five minutes before a single living soul so much as whispered Niall’s name. But she couldn’t tell Beau that; he wouldn’t understand. Even more frightening, he might understand completely—not that it would matter overmuch, for then she would simply perish on the spot from embarrassment.

Summoning a bright smile, she looked up at her husband, momentarily diverted to see that his grin was a mixture of boyish excitement and pleasure at being able to share his brilliance with her. “Please, Beau, don’t make me wait another moment. Is Woodrow involved in this plan? He must be, or else you wouldn’t have interrupted him when he began to tell me of his new duties.”

“Ah, yes, Woodrow,” Beau said, shaking his head. “He has made himself quite indispensable, one way or the other, hasn’t he? But I have to own, I doubt my plan would work without him. It took some doing to convince him, but it would seem our starchy valet has more than a touch of lovely larceny in his soul. You won’t mind having him living with us, will you?”

“Living with us?” Rosalind was confused. “Beau, Woodrow already lives with us.”

“True enough. However, from this day on, he will also be dining with us, going into company with us whenever possible, and generally living the sort of life he is far better prepared for than I could ever be. Rosie, did you know that his father, and his father’s father, and his father’s
father’s
father—who served royalty, I’ll have you know—were all gentlemen’s gentlemen? Oh, yes. Woodrow comes from a long, illustrious line of valets. Bridget says Woodrow is so much the gentleman that he only wears his hat on three hairs of his head.”

Rosalind bit her bottom lip for a few moments, not trying to decipher Woodrow’s lineage, but attempting to figure out why Beau seemed to be planning to pass the valet off as—what? A relative? A close friend? She shook her head, unable to understand.

“His last name is Fitzclare,” Beau continued as he sat down, deciding it best that he get on with this explanation business as quickly as possible. “Woodrow Fitzclare. The name fairly reeks of respectability and, the saints be praised, I found him in Paris, where he had been serving some frog whose abysmal luck at piquet will serve to purchase more than a few of your shingerleens—I mean, fripperies. Anyway, he hasn’t been in England for years, or in London itself for a dozen years before that. No one will know him.”

Rosalind took a sip of her sherry, then placed the glass on a side table with a shaking hand. “That is all very commendable, I suppose, save for that business about gambling your way from penury into a fortune, which I am convinced Woodrow has bade you to never, ever mention. However, I
still
don’t understand.”

Beau crossed his legs and settled his clasped hands in his lap. “It’s simple really. So blessedly simple that I cannot imagine why it took me all of a day to figure it out. You see, Rosie, Mr. Woodrow Fitzclare is my closet friend and, lately, my most trusted advisor. Oh, yes. I haven’t made a financial move without him in decades. Truly. With his help, I have invested—quite heavily as a matter of fact—in one profitable venture after another.”

“Really? Go on,” Rosalind urged, beginning to see a possible destination for her husband’s wandering story, although she was beginning to wish he didn’t look so smug. Beau might possess many admirable virtues, she thought, but modesty was most obviously not his strongest suit.

“Mr. Fitzclare,” Beau continued happily, “is such a wonderful friend, such a valued advisor—but alas, I am nothing but an undereducated Englishman with the vacant attic of the lowest itinerant Irish seaman, something the
ton
might whisper about, yet never dare to say too loudly, for my money—and my lady wife—make me acceptable. But to continue. I not only have profited by Mr. Fitzclare’s advice, but I will soon begin to brag of my good fortune in company, to anyone who will listen.”

“Niall will listen,” Rosalind said, grinning, and totally in charity with her ingenious husband as she finally understood. “Oh, Beau, you may have been forced to live by your wits for too many years, but you have been blessed by your opportunities. So, do you think ten thousand pounds is enough to devote to my wardrobe? For this week, you understand. After all, I shouldn’t wish to be cheese-paring about the business.”

W
ithin two weeks a total transformation had taken place within the walls of the Portman Square mansion. After spending two dizzying days combing the city for furnishings, Rosalind had met a wizened little man in a shop she’d discovered tucked into a small corner just on the fringes of Bond Street, collapsed gratefully into the chair he offered her, and, over a cup of tea, explained her dilemma.

She had a love of fine things, of course, and a clear idea of what she wanted. However, the job was so daunting, and the mansion so very large, that she could not but help feeling overwhelmed with responsibility. The wizened little man, one Jules Fordham, had commiserated with her at some length before offering to escort her home (over Mollie’s protests) to see “these great, cavernous spaces that must be filled without delay.”

Rosalind felt comfortable with the man whose small shop appeared crammed to the rafters with just the sorts of things she favored. Besides, she was more than ready to turn over the major responsibility for this particular chore to a trusted advisor and get on with the business of rigging herself out in a high style to which she had always longed to become accustomed. So thinking, she had silenced Mollie with a look and allowed Mr. Fordham to ride with her in the closed carriage back to Portman Square.