The Wagered Miss Winslow (21 page)

And, of course, there was the matter of Niall Winslow, and their determination to give him some of his own back for having played such a terrible prank—a lifetime of nasty pranks—on Rosalind, although Beau admitted to himself that he had long ago forgiven the man for gambling away half an estate while knowing that his own sister held deed to the other half.

After all, how could he be angry with the man who had not only helped him to recover his family home but had also served, in an oblique sort of way, to introduce him to his darling wife—and made him the richer by forty-five thousand pounds into the bargain! It would take a mean-spirited man indeed not to be thankful to the person who had, willingly or not, made possible such a shower of riches.

Even Rosalind had at first made noises about forgoing their scheme to teach Niall some humility, but that had all changed a few days after her brother’s initial visit to Portman Square, when the ever-surprising Woodrow, following up on Beau’s suspicions, had followed his master’s new valet to the Three Castles, a mean cockfighting pit at the bottom of Andrew’s Hill, and there saw him conversing with Niall Winslow.

Beau had planted that particular seed, deliberately dropping the information that he was in need of a valet on the day of Niall’s congratulatory visit to his sister, and had immediately recognized Niall’s fine hand in the arrival of a well-dressed young man who had stopped at the door of the mansion “seeing all the hurry and flurry, good sir, and supposing for myself that someone so new in town as to still be lugging furniture inside might be in need of a fine gentleman’s gentleman.”

Fursby, the opportune valet, had proved to be competent (although Woodrow privately decried the man’s way with boot-black), and Mollie had fallen in love with him on sight, causing Bridget to say that she had never been so busy, forced to spend her days hunting the two of them out in closets and the like before the girl could “ruin herself like her flighty mither Mairghread did a’fore her, don’t you know.”

With Niall’s spy nicely in place, it hadn’t been difficult for Beau and Woodrow to play out their little farce concerning the business of not “Woodrow Fitzclare of the Yorkshire Fitzdares,” but Woodrow Fitzclare, “the Enchanter, the Sorcerer, the Fountain of all Wisdom—the Marvel of my age!”

Rosalind, for her part, had believed the introduction of a large crystal ball—carelessly left on a table in Beau’s study—was taking the business too far, but Fursby possessed all the most endearing qualities of a hired spy—he was alert, nosy, and determined to report back to his master on every detail of what he had seen and heard. Niall, for his part, Beau had informed his wife, possessed all the most endearing qualities of a pigeon ripe for the plucking—the most helpful of all being an all-consuming greed.

Thanks to the happy accident that Beau had a way of “forgetting” to secure the door that led from his study to a small hallway connecting that room with the morning room, Fursby had been an interested listener to every conversation Beau and his resident “Merlin” had concerning the handling of the Remington financial investments.

The procedure was simple enough: at precisely eleven o’clock every morning Woodrow would walk, unannounced, into Beau’s dressing room, bow dramatically, and state that he was “ready”; at which time Beau would hastily dismiss his valet, take Woodrow by the elbow, and the two would descend to the study, locking the door to the hallway behind them.

But not the door to the hall that led to the morning room.

After waiting a prudent five minutes, just on the off chance Fursby might be delayed, Woodrow—who had been positioned so that he could easily be seen from the door that had remained ajar—would don a flowing black cape lined with bright red silk, place a ludicrously enormous cloth-of-gold turban on his gray head, and wave his hands dramatically above the crystal ball, swaying where he stood and moaning low in his throat.

“I see a vision, sir,” he had said that first morning as Beau had hovered close, his expression intense. “I see trees. Great trees. Tall trees, reaching into the blue, blue sky. I see birds of all colors, flying through the trees. I see ships, their keels low in the water, their holds filled with the fruit of these great trees. I see—I see great chests, and chairs with carved legs, and side tables, and mantelpieces. I see—I see—no, no, it has faded now. There is nothing more.”

Woodrow, appearing drained from his brush with the extraordinary, had then collapsed into a chair Beau had hastened to supply, and announced knowingly: “Mahogany. Fine furniture. The West Indies. Africa.”

“Really? Are you quite certain? But of course! Lumber, and shipping. They are hand in glove in this one—leaving me not one investment, but two! You’re a genius, Woodrow, a veritable genius! I’ll see to it at once,” Beau had promised.

Another morning, clad in his cape and turban, Woodrow had expounded on knitting looms, and Beau had promptly taken himself off to the Exchange, where he had been seen placing a goodly amount of money into manufacturing shares.

From Monday through Friday, for nearly three weeks, the scenario had been repeated, with Woodrow giving his usual stellar performance as soothsayer and Beau following through at once, ordering the selling or—for the most part—buying of shares on the Exchange.

And every new transaction had been profitable, if only modestly, a result that should have been obvious to anyone who took the time to realize that Woodrow’s “visions” had never included an investment that carried with it any great risk. Beau showed a profit on each and every transaction, which is the same as to say Beau
and
Niall found their pockets heavier by a considerable amount, for, as hoped, Niall had duplicated Beau’s every financial move the moment Fursby delivered the information to him at the Three Castles.

The line had been neatly played out, as Beau had explained to Rosalind just last night as they snuggled together in their wide bed. The “fish” had taken the bait, which had set the hook quite nicely. Now it was time to reel in their catch.

Today, Beau was sure, Fursby had delivered the latest bit of information Woodrow’s crystal-ball gazing had supplied, and at this very moment Niall Winslow was most probably hotfooting on his way to a decrepit warehouse near the wharfs, to meet with Douglas MacDougal, the marvelously mustachioed Scottish actor Beau had hired to set himself up as the inventor of a miraculous method of producing Scotch whiskey at half the price and in a quarter of the time.

The most ingenious, the most believable thing about his plan, Beau thought happily as he sat in the elegantly furnished drawing room, awaiting Rosalind’s arrival so that they might take a drive together, was that, in truth, there actually were many ambitious men out to change the world with their inventions and make a fortune for themselves and their investors in the process. Unfortunately, the majority of these modernizing inventions, in Beau’s experience, had about as much chance of success as a village idiot would have of sitting in the House of Commons.

“Perhaps I should think of some other, less likely event to use as a comparison,” Beau mused aloud, good-naturedly considering the hodgepodge of mediocre puppets and paper-skulled twits who were currently taking up space in the government.

“Who are you talking to, darling?” Rosalind asked as she entered the room, looking about and seeing it unoccupied by anyone except her husband—who, by the by, was looking quite handsome in his new jacket. She bent to kiss him and silently hoped that he would be equally impressed with her embroidered “lingerie gown” of white muslin and her similarly embroidered green velvet spencer, even though she would not don her matching scarf and bonnet, called a “cap and Betsie” until they were ready to leave for the park.

And he was impressed. Heedless of the fact that he might muss her gown, and before she could move away after kissing his cheek, he pulled her down onto his lap, showing her exactly what sort of kiss he believed to be proper in greeting her husband. Of all the benefits to be found in married life, Rosalind had long since decided that Beau’s ardent kisses were the one thing she absolutely, positively could not live without.

Five minutes later, slightly breathless (and definitely disheveled) Rosalind laid her head on Beau’s shoulder and asked again, “Who were you speaking to when I came in, darling? Or was he a private muse?”

Beau dropped a light kiss on the tip of Rosalind’s adorable little nose. “There are no secrets between us, m’darlin’,” he said, smiling. “If it’s the truth you want, I was just sitting here congratulating myself on my own brilliance.”

Rosalind shook her head at this audacious statement. “You may be English by birth, Beaumont Remington, but there will always be a bit of that Irish scamp, Bobby Reilly, in you, thank goodness, as I’ve grown to love that child so. Now, tell me about this latest bout of brilliance. Have you found a way to settle this spat between Mollie and Riggs? They’ve been at daggers-drawn for days, and Bridget has confessed to being at a loss as to what we should do about it.”

Beau looked at her quizzically. He thought he was up to snuff about all the goings-on of every inhabitant in the Portman Square mansion, but obviously this particular problem had escaped him. “Mollie and Riggs? Why would they be at loggerheads?”

Rosalind, clearly pleased to know something her husband did not, readjusted herself on his lap (this wonderfully naive action nearly distracting him from his interest in whatever she might say). “Why, it’s Fursby, of course. They are both madly in love with him.”

Her expression clouded in endearing confusion. “I know you must believe that—um—that little talk we had shortly after our marriage served to explain Riggs to me, but I have to admit that I am still finding the whole business a trifle difficult to comprehend—not that I am asking you to repeat your explanation, for I am not. But now I must confess that I find myself to be even more confused. I am at a loss as to how to go on—I, who have always credited myself with my ability to deal with all sorts of servant squabbles.”

“Squabbles?” Beau choked out the word. There were times, he thought, when life was even better than a play. “Tell me, darlin’, what does Fursby have to say to the matter?”

Her expression serious, Rosalind said, “Well, he’s
flattered
, of course. I suppose that’s only natural.”

Rosalind’s innocent pronouncement nearly unmanned Beau as he bit his bottom lip to hold back a shout of laughter. “Of course,” he said at last, averting his head. “Excuse me—it was a silly question. The whole thing is, as you have explained it, perfectly
natural
.”

Now, Rosalind might have led a sheltered life in many ways, but she knew as well as her husband that there was nothing natural at all about having their maid and their butler engaged in a battle for the affections of her husband’s valet! Flouncing off her husband’s lap to stand in front of him, her arms akimbo, Rosalind countered, “Don’t treat me like a child, Beau Remington! I know it’s not
natural
.”

Then she frowned again, for, in truth, the situation did rather confuse her. “Although it
is
natural for Riggs, so that’s all right,” she added softly, then sighed. “But it doesn’t matter. Fursby is deeply attached to Mollie, although I cannot tell you why. She is as flighty as a migrating bird, you know.”

“According to Bridget,” Beau remarked, recognizing the Irishwoman’s turn of phrase in his wife’s words. He had been and still was much gratified by the close association that had blossomed between Rosalind and his foster mother. Bridget had refused “ta be turned into somethin’ that I’m not, just because you’ve come into your own,” but that did not mean that Beau was comfortable with the woman’s demand that she and her white apron remain in the role of upper servant. But Bridget was stubborn, and appeared to be happy, so that Beau had become resigned to the situation.

He rose now, to stand in front of his wife, deciding a change of subject might be the safest tack to take in order to steer the conversation out of dangerous waters. “It’s nearly done, darlin’,” he said, winking at her.

This abrupt shift away from matters domestic did not serve to put Rosalind at sea, for she was, as her husband had said more than once, “an intelligent little colleen,” and immediately understood Beau’s statement. “You and Woodrow have talked about the invention that is lending miraculous improvements to the brewing of Scotch whiskey? What a piece of nonsense! I still cannot believe Niall will be so easy to gull.”

Now Beau did laugh out loud. “Your brother? Rosie, m’ darlin’, Niall Winslow is so greedy he heard the coins jingling in his mother’s pockets before he was born. With the moderate financial successes Woodrow’s magical powers of soothsaying have given him these past weeks, Niall has been throwing his blunt all over London, buying himself a whole new wardrobe and setting up a carriage and four for his latest West End Comet. I—”

“Niall is keeping a mistress?” First the business about Riggs, and now this! Really, she
had
been living a sheltered life in East Sussex. Rosalind’s green eyes had widened in shock, but then she sighed in resignation and shook her head. “Well, of course he is. How strange. I believe myself to be such a woman of the world that I have refused the inclination to blink at Riggs’ ridiculous infatuation with Fursby, but the thought of my own brother setting himself up with a mistress still holds the power to astound me. I
am
a country bumpkin.”

She walked over to the table where she had left her Betsie and began tying the scarf around her head in preparation of donning the bonnet. “Never mind me, Beau—please go on. ‘