The Wagered Miss Winslow (7 page)

“And the top of the morning to you, Miss Winslow!” he exclaimed cheerfully, removing his hat as he made an elegant bow in her direction, and doing just as Woodrow had begged him not to do—resorting to the lilting brogue of his youth. “It’s a lovely day for dying.”

Rosalind frowned, confused by Beau’s directness as well as his seemingly calm acceptance of his fate. He was supposed to bluster, perhaps even fall to his knees and beg for his life. Didn’t he understand? The barrel of the fowling piece wavered momentarily before she could redirect it at his heart. Of course he’d understood—the scoundrel. He was calling her bluff! Well, if he thought for even one moment that he had defeated her with his cool declaration, he was about to be rudely disappointed. “Dying, Mr. Remington?” she responded, rallying swiftly. “Then do you accept the supposition that I am fully prepared to use this weapon?”

Beau took two leisurely steps in her direction, his laughing blue gaze never leaving her face. The battle had been joined, but it was to be a battle of wits, not weapons. He was liking this strange young woman more and more with each passing moment. And her hair did look lovely as springtime as the sunlight created a halo around her unbound blonde hair. “I accept anything, Miss Winslow, except defeat. It’s come home I have, after so many years away, and if I were to end my sojourn upon this earth by spilling out my life’s blood upon the soil of my birth, then so be it. To die at your pretty little hand will be my last blessing. Do your worst, m’ darlin’ colleen,” he invited cordially, spreading his right arm wide, as if inviting her to violence. “I can do no more.”

The barrel of the fowling piece was redirected toward the wide steps. “On, good grief,” Rosalind said in some exasperation, handing the weapon to a giggling Mollie. “There’s nothing more pitiful in this world than to be forced to be witness to the blathering of an Irish martyr, even if he claims to be English by birth. Come along, Mr. Remington. I believe we have something to discuss, if you can promise me you will not weigh down your end of the conversation with overblown
begorras
and shameless blarney.”

Intelligent enough to know better than to crow over his success, and male enough to indulge himself in a satisfied smile once Rosalind’s back was safely turned, Beau mounted the steps two at a time and followed his hostess (his boarder? his intended wife? his unsuspecting prey?) through the green-and-white-tiled foyer and into a ground-floor saloon whose furnishings immediately made him feel entirely too large for the room.

As he looked from the delicately carved pink-and-green-flowered furniture, to the vases stuffed with spring flowers, the fragile porcelain shepherdesses lining the mantelpiece, the sheer floating draperies on the floor-to-ceiling windows that led out onto a side patio, Beau was taken aback to realize that, although this might legally be his house, he was standing square in the middle of a woman’s room—and feeling as comfortable as a high-strung pachyderm who has somehow tumbled down a mouse hole.

“Oh, do sit down, Mr. Remington,” Rosalind suggested with exasperation, angered to find herself somewhat breathless, for Beaumont Remington was such a
large
man that he dominated the room, his very presence seeming to siphon off most of the available air. “I’ll ring for refreshments and then we can get down to cases. Mollie!” she called toward the foyer. “You are cast in the role of chaperone, if you’ll recall. Now please get yourself in here.”

“Yes, miss. Right away, miss. Here I come, miss,” Mollie said, walking and curtsying at the same time as she angled herself toward a straight-backed chair in the corner, a convoluted piece of locomotion which greatly slowed her progress, infuriated her mistress, and allowed Beau the freedom of grinning in earnest.

“Hello, there, Mollie,” he said, winking at the maid. “That’s a lovely frock you’re wearing, if I might be so bold.”

The maid’s quick blush was his reward for this compliment, a reward which was compounded when he saw that his words had brought a like flush of color into Rosalind Winslow’s patrician cheeks. He had been right to feel optimistic about the results once she had done with a good wash and brushup. Still no more than a sprite of a creature—a good wind might blow her away—she was looking much more the thing today, dressed in a fetching sprigged muslin gown, her unbound hair caressing her creamy shoulders. Past her first youth, Miss Rosalind Winslow was still a comely creature, and would be even softer around the edges once she had known a man’s loving.

“Riggs will be bringing a tea tray shortly,” Rosalind said, oblivious to Beau’s imaginative assessment of her charms. She then made herself uncomfortable by seating herself on the very edge of a plain wooden chair, motioning for Beau to seat himself on the sofa, the largest piece of furniture in that area of the room and one he approached gratefully—only to have the cushions of the sofa engulf him like the jaws of a gigantic, cotton-mouthed lion, his sling rendering him helpless as his knees were levered to within inches of his chin. “By the saints,” he complained, struggling to free himself. “This hell-born contraption is trying to eat me.”

Moving a mental writing slate to the front of her mind, Rosalind drew a line down the middle of it and marked a large check on her side of the board, believing she had scored a direct hit on Beau’s consequence and greatly leveled their playing field. Although it looked to be most comfortable, the sofa had long since given up any pretense at being anything more than an attractive trap for the unwary, and the sight of her adversary clutched in its pink-and-green-flowered jaws was a comfort to her soul.

Beau had a deep appreciation for the strategies of war and he immediately recognized Rosalind’s move to be a masterstroke, but that did not make him any more at ease in his predicament. With his left arm confined to the sling and his right arm effectively compromised by its position, wedged as it was against an arm of the sofa, he could only look the fool if he tried to struggle free of his position.

Conversely, he could only appear a worse fool by attempting to put a bright face on things and pretend that he was comfortable—a facade he could hardly maintain once the tea tray arrived and his hostess handed him his cup, which the dratted woman was sure to do, smiling benevolently as she sat back and watched him scald himself.

While still caught on the horns of this dilemma, his attention was taken by the arrival of the butler—the servant’s identity and role was a natural assumption, as he was rigged out in the trappings of a butler, complete with butler’s keys. Before Beau could refine overlong on the puzzle that asked why, if there was indeed an able man in residence, Rosalind had opted to use Mollie as her second line of defense at the front door, the thirtyish, blondly handsome yet painfully thin butler minced across the room as if he were treading on eggshells, to place the tea tray on the low table in front of the sofa.

Standing up very straight and wringing his white-gloved hands together in front of his chest, the butler looked at Beau, his eyes wide, and exclaimed, “Oh, laws! He is so
big
, isn’t he, miss? ‘Tis no wonder Mollie was all a-twitter. But what is this? He is injured!” He then turned to Beau, holding out his gloved hands. “Here, good sir, allow me to be of assistance, pray. You should be much more comfortable on the settee. Isn’t that so, Miss Winslow? Naughty of you to treat a guest so shabbily. Dear me, yes.”

Beau held out his good hand, unable to summon a single sound, and allowed Riggs to assist him to his feet and help him to the facing settee.

“There! Now we’re all right and tight, aren’t we?” Riggs exclaimed triumphantly once the transfer had been effected to his satisfaction. Then, without another word, he went swiftly about his business, smartly snapping pristine white serviettes and placing them on both Rosalind’s and Beau’s laps before requesting permission to pour.

Rosalind lowered her eyes, for she knew them to be dancing with the mischief she felt when she had peeped at Beau out of the corners of her eyes, to see him watching Riggs’ performance, aghast at the spectacle. “Thank you, Riggs, but no,” she said as evenly as she could. “I do believe I should like to take it from here. You may go.”

The butler pressed a spread hand to his bony chest, gasping. “Have I done something wrong? Oh, dear! The flowers! The flowers on the tray are slightly wilted, aren’t they? We have been at sixes and sevens all morning, preparing for the siege. Yet how could I have been so remiss? I will tend to this directly!”

Rosalind’s smile was benevolent in the extreme. If she had asked Riggs to perform as he had just done she couldn’t have been more satisfied with the results. Beaumont Remington was wide-eyed with incredulity, staring at Riggs as if the butler might be contagious, and himself so unlucky as to be downwind of the fellow. “Please do not bother, Riggs,” she said kindly. “The flowers are, as usual, lovely. It is just that my guest and I have important matters to discuss. You do understand, don’t you?”

The white-gloved hands fluttered in midair like agitated doves, then flew home to roost at his sides. “Do I understand? Oh, how condescending of you, Miss Winslow, how charitable, to worry your head as to my sensibilities.” He bowed deeply in her direction. “I am overcome by your kindness. Please, excuse my impertinence. I shall retire at once. Will your guest be staying to luncheon? I should wish to be sure we shall nave ample time to prepare a suitable repast for such a
large
appetite.’

“I’ll let you know,” Rosalind replied shortly, robbing her words of their sting by the way of a sympathetic smile. “Thank you, Riggs.”

The butler bowed deeply once more in her direction, and then turned to a frowning Beau, repeating the motion, before turning sharply on his heels and exiting the salon with his distinctive mince.

Beau watched him go, then looked to Rosalind, his eyes narrowed. “You know what that fellow is?” he questioned with all the frustrated effrontery of a completely male animal.

“Riggs?” Rosalind responded, frowning. “I believe he is English, Mr. Remington, although he was not born and raised here in East Sussex. He is a wonderful man, although prone to worrying over every little thing, so that I am usually at pains not to upset his sensibilities. Mollie says he’s worse than an old woman. Do you take milk and sugar in your tea, Mr. Remington?”

“I most certainly do not,” Beau answered tightly, more than happy to leave her happy in her ignorance. He rose abruptly, suddenly anxious to prove that he was one hundred percent male, and didn’t know the
meaning
of the word
sensibility
. “As a matter of fact, I do not take tea at all unless I am too sick to refuse it. I see a drinks table, Miss Winslow. Would it be rude of me to procure myself a glass of wine?”

“It would, but I doubt it will affect your decision to do so, Mr. Remington,” Rosalind said, pouring herself a cup of the steaming liquid. “And then, once you have satisfied your thirst, perhaps you might like to see my legal deed to this house.”

All thoughts of availing himself of a glass of wine in his own house departed in an instant. “
Your
deed, Miss Winslow? Forgive me if I appear confused. The deed to Winslow Manor resides in
my
pocket, madam.”

Rosalind’s hand shook only slightly as she replaced the cup on the tray. “Yes, I’m convinced that it does. The deed to the estate, that is. The house and all its outbuildings, however, are mine. Might I suggest that you were too overcome with your successful capture of Niall’s deed to
read
the document?”

Beau reached inside his coat and pulled out the official-looking document, quickly scanning the pages for the pertinent information. He read through the damning paragraph twice before raising his eyes from the page and glaring at Rosalind.

“The devil’s work is in this, now isn’t it, m’darlin’?” he crooned softly. “No need to produce your deed—for I believe you. My land—your estate house. Your brother must be laughing himself from one end of London to the other.”

“I imagine so,” Rosalind said, angry with herself for feeling compassion for this man who had only yesterday been so full of himself, so full of the fire of righting what he believed to be a decades-old wrong. “He has succeeded in thwarting us both. Without the land, I have no income with which to live, and without the house, you have no real reason to want the land—unless it is for sentimental purposes.”

She rose, setting aside her serviette. “I can only suggest that you allow me to purchase the land from you, which I must admit I can do only if you are willing to be generous about the terms.”

Beau rallied, remembering his earlier considerations, made while a much less charitable Rosalind was leveling a fowling piece at his chest. “Or I can purchase the house, leaving you free to establish yourself elsewhere,” he offered, already sure of her answer.

“That suggestion is not acceptable, Mr. Remington,” Rosalind countered, as he had felt sure she would. “This has been my home for the past five years, and the only home I ever wish to have. I am content here, and my tenants would be alarmed if I were to leave them. No, it will have to be the way I have already stated it—I shall purchase the land from you.”

Beau availed himself of the settee once more, not caring that his hostess was still standing. “If I refuse, will we go round and round again, offering and counter offering, or can we move on now, Miss Winslow? You see, it has occurred to me that your brother, except for being the poorer by forty-five thousand pounds one way or the other, has thus far had the most to gain from his deceptive handling of this affair. I might even go so far as to put forth the notion that he took great personal pleasure in knowing he has discomfited his sister—indeed, nearly dispossessed her. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were to turn the tables on the man?”