The Wagered Miss Winslow (23 page)

As Beau had been speaking, the color had been slowly draining out or Niall’s face, like red wine pouring from an uncorked bottle. “What? Use my capital? No! Certainly not. As you said, only a—”

“Chuckleheaded nodcock,” Beau finished for him charitably, wishing Rosalind could be by his side, to share this moment, a truly glorious moment of triumph he fully intended to prolong. “A paper-skulled idiot,” he continued cordially. “A brainless twit. The rawest of greenheads. The—”

“Yes, yes,” Niall interrupted in some agitation, longing to pick up something suitably lethal and bash the grinning Remington over the head with it, repeatedly. So his brother-in-law had not used his capital. What did Niall care about that? The important thing was that he, Niall Winslow,
had
dipped into his capital in order to invest as much as possible in the failed MacDougal invention. That was the important thing!

Of course, he had mimicked Remington’s every move, pound for pound. He had invested all of his available money in the Exchange over the course of three weeks, so that when the MacDougal invention had come along he’d had no choice but to either pass on the opportunity or break a cardinal rule of investing and dip into his capital.

And why shouldn’t he have done so? For three weeks all of Woodrow’s predictions had come true, some of the shares earning him a modest return, some of them more. None of them had gone down in value by so much as a groat, dammit, and there was no reason to suppose that Woodrow would ever be wrong.

Why, in every investment Fursby had told him about since he’d bought the MacDougal shares, for another full week, Woodrow’s predictions had again proved to be excellent choices, although he hadn’t had more than a few pennies to invest in any of them, more’s the pity. But he hadn’t worried. Why should he have worried, when the MacDougal Brewing Machine was about to make him a very, very rich man!

Or so he had thought.

And he had thought so until this morning, as he had sat in his small breakfast room, wondering what sort of predication Fursby would bring to him today, and opened his mail only to read a hastily scrawled note from Douglas MacDougal.

The brewing process, MacDougal had written, had contained a flaw—a fatal flaw—that had only shown up once he had begun working on a larger scale than had been possible prior to Niall’s investment. MacDougal had been very sorry about the entire business, but there was nothing else for it but to return to Scotland at once and rethink his invention. He had thanked Mr. Winslow for his faith in him and enclosed the deed to the warehouse in the hopes that Mr. Winslow could recoup some of his monies.

Niall had had no inkling, no hint of a premonition that the investment had been an unfortunate move.
Unfortunate
? Niall sniffed, considering that to be a vast understatement. He was ruined, that’s what he was—or nearly so, and he would have to sell all the shares he had just bought and those he’d previously owned in order to save his two mortgaged estates. He would have to retire to the country at once to hide from his remaining creditors, and remain buried there at least until the fall harvest, when his coffers would begin to fill once more—unless a roof needed repairing, or a drought ruined his crops, or one of the tenant barns was struck by lightning and burned down. Lord, but it was depressing.

The only thing that could make the business less depressing would have been to know that his sister and brother-in-law would be suffering the same slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. But they wouldn’t be, would they? No, they wouldn’t.
Beaumont Remington
had not touched his capital. Oh, no. He wasn’t such a
nodcock
, such a
paper-skulled idiot
. A
brainless twit
. The
rawest of greenheads
.

How dare Beaumont Remington, this upstart, this ill-refined Englishman with the rough hands and the brawny shoulders of a common laborer, stand here smiling at him, saying he had lost one hundred thousand pounds but it had been acceptable because he could afford to lose it! Was the man an idiot? Didn’t he realize that he had lost a fortune? Dear God, but his old maid of a sister had fallen in a deep gravy boat. How rich was Beaumont Remington, anyway?

Very rich, by any estimation, Niall concluded, looking at the diamond that was stuck in the middle of Beau’s cravat. Rich enough not to blink as he tossed a fortune down the wind. And rich enough to bail his brother-in-law out of the River Tick, by God!

But why should he? Beau had made it plain long ago that he did not like him, Niall knew, even if he had been reasonably friendly since marrying Rosalind—although he had to admit to himself that neither Beau nor Rosalind had gone out of their way to seek his company these past weeks since they had taken up residence in Portman Square.

Besides, to admit to needing money would be to show that he was Beau’s inferior in matters of investment, and that Niall could never bring himself to do. He certainly couldn’t confess that he had inserted a spy into the Portman Square mansion in order to explain away his disastrous investment. Even worse, he could not blame Beaumont Remington for his loss—much as he longed to—because his brother-in-law had also lost a fortune in the investment.

Only Beaumont Remington had much more fortune to lose, curse him. Niall had hoped for at least some company in his despair, but even that was to be denied him. He could not gloat. He could not commiserate. He could not bring himself to beg. Oh, what to do, what to do? It was enough to send a fellow to the dogs directly!

“Winslow?” Beau said questioningly after he believed Niall had been silent long enough—knowing the man’s mind must be casting back and forth between sorrow over his current plight and contemplation of a way out of it, a way that, if their plan produced the desired results, included petitioning his “dear sister” for funds. “Are you all right? You’re looking rather pale—though I know a gentleman shouldn’t comment on such things. Perhaps a glass of wine might help? I could flag down one of the servants. I believe I just saw a deer gambol by a moment ago with a full tray.”

Niall summoned a wavering smile, which was quite a feat, considering that all he really longed to do was fall on the floor in a heap, sobbing. And then he remembered something—or, more accurately, someone. All was not yet lost! “No, no. I am fine. Really. But it is rather close in here, isn’t it? Leave it to Lady Stafford to turn a perfectly good domicile into a moulting meadow, eh? Shall we adjourn to the ballroom? I have just realized that I have not seen my dear sister as yet this evening. She will rebuke me for this oversight, I’m sure, but once I explain that I have been visiting with my new brother she will forgive me.”

“Of course,” Beau said, motioning for Niall to lead the way back to the ballroom, feeling just a smidgeon of pity for the fellow, who was following along with his plan almost as if he had been privy to its various twists and turns. Beau took a deep breath, remembering how Rosalind had looked when she’d discovered Niall’s trickery at St. Leonard’s, and all feelings of sympathy fled. “I imagine she is in need of rescuing anyway. When last I saw her she was in the far corner, near the doors to the garden, shouting into an ear trumpet.”

“Baron Chambers is here?” Niall asked, shaking his head. The baron would be easy enough to rout—as would this trumped up bumpkin. This very-deep-in-the-pocket bumpkin, damn him! “I would have thought he’d be dead by now. But never mind. I shall rescue little Rosalind from the deaf-as-a-post ancient. Why don’t you fetch us all something to drink, as I believe you offered earlier?”

“Of course,” Beau replied agreeably, bowing, partly because Woodrow’s lessons had taught him that he should and partly because he knew he had not been able to entirely banish the light of triumph from his eyes. So far his plan had proved extraordinarily successful. Now it was time he stood back and, as promised, allowed his adorable bride to apply
le coup de
grâce
. “Please inform my wife that I will join you both momentarily.”

“No rush, no rush,” Niall said with a dismissive wave of his hand, having already seen his sister, although it still amazed him to discover, at this late date, that the woman was a real beauty. If only he had noticed it earlier, he might have brought her to London and picked up some blunt arranging an advantageous marriage to some lovestruck swain too infatuated to notice that Rosalind could, when provoked, prove more headstrong than a donkey in traces.

But how was he to know? The last time he had traveled down to Winchelsea he had discovered her digging in the churchyard at St. Leonard’s, dressed like a positive quiz, with smut on her face, and prattling about unearthing “important antiquities” —as if he gave a tinker’s damn about any enterprise that couldn’t be turned to his own advantage. The day he, Niall Winslow, would be seen turning a shovel in the interests of history—or for any reason at all—had not yet dawned!

Niall made his way across the ballroom floor, heartened to see that the baron had been drawn away by a trio of dry-as-parchment old men who were probably bent on discussing Wellington’s strategy at Waterloo or some such meaningless drivel, clearing the field for his highly important discussion with Rosalind.

Seeing him (in truth, she had been impatiently looking for him these past ten minutes or more, wondering what Beau was doing to keep him in the gaming room), Rosalind waved in welcome. “Niall! I had no notion you were to be here this evening. How are you, brother? Oh, dear. Are you eating enough green vegetables? I recall that you never did favor them. You should, you know. You don’t look well.”

“I’m well enough, Rosalind,” he answered tightly, taking in the diamonds that sparkled in her ears and around her slim throat. Could he wheedle her out of them? he wondered. Could he concoct a convincing story that would bring her to tears and, more importantly, to his rescue? It was possible, if her ridiculous question about green vegetables was any indication of her concern. Perhaps he should follow her lead, and tell her that he was ill. Women could usually be counted upon to have a soft heart in matters of health. “May I have the pleasure of joining you?”

Rosalind motioned to the recently vacated chair beside her, privately delighted to see the sheen of perspiration on his brow. Obviously Beau had been busy in the gaming room, for she hadn’t seen Niall looking so distressed since their father had refused to increase his allowance in order that he could settle a debt of honor that had a lot to do with his inability to secure the affections of a certain opera dancer—and considerably more to do with the fact that he might, if unable to reclaim his vowels, have to resign from his club.

“Have you seen my husband?” she asked innocently. “I’m very incensed with him, you know. He has turned Woodrow out of the house. You remember Woodrow, don’t you? Such a sweet man, although I never did quite understand precisely what his connection with Beau entailed, or what his position was in our household. Beau was quite cross with him this morning, however. There was a terrible scene. And then, before I knew what had happened—Woodrow was gone, to visit France, I believe. He had told me once that he had some very good friends in France. I—”

“Rosalind—” Niall tried to interrupt, not caring a whit where Woodrow Fitzclare had gone. The man— this “Merlin”—was a walking disaster! What on earth had possessed Remington to follow his lead in investments? Even more to the point, what had he, Niall Winslow, been thinking, to trust his own fortune to a man who wore a cape and gazed into a crystal ball? He must have been momentarily out of his wits! But he was in full control of his faculties now, and he knew just what he would do. If only his sister would shut her mouth and listen to him! “Rosalind, I—”

She sighed, spreading her kid-gloved hands theatrically, and deliberately cut him off. “But he’ll be back someday soon, Woodrow will, I’m sure, even if Beau only sees fit to employ him as his valet, or some such nonsense. Yes, I am convinced that Beau will do just that. Woodrow would be a very good gentleman’s gentleman.”

“Rosalind,” Niall said again, nervously running a trembling hand through his well-ordered locks, “there has been some trouble.”

“La, yes, Niall. How good of you to understand. One way or the other we are at sixes and sevens in Portman Square. You see, Beau lost his valet this morning as well. Fursby told us he had to go into the country, as his mother had taken ill. What a shame, illness—a terribly depressing condition, and one I cannot truly appreciate, for I have always been most odiously healthy. I shall miss Fursby—not as much as Mollie, my maid, will miss him, of course, but I had become used to seeing him slipping through the house. And Riggs? Well, the man is despondent. But that’s another story entirely, and one which, I confess, I still do not entirely understand, so I shall not trouble you with it. Dear Fursby. Always busy, Fursby was, even following Beau down to his study each morning, just to be certain he needed nothing more in the way of outfitting himself for the day. Ah, such a goings-on. It isn’t like this in Winchelsea.”

Niall frowned, wondering when his sister had become so loquacious—and so stupefyingly
boring
. Not that he had ever before gone out of his way to engage her in conversation. Why, she had never spoken to him more than was necessary when he had occasioned to visit her at Winslow Manor—and then she had taken great pains to let him know she only allowed him into the house on sufferance. Marriage seemed to have brought out her beauty, which couldn’t be a bad thing, but it had also seemed to serve to hinge her tongue at both ends, and he couldn’t look upon that consequence with much gratitude.