The Wagered Miss Winslow (25 page)

M
oonlight filtered into the lavish stateroom as the occupants lay together on the wide bed, comfortably drowsy after a mutually satisfactory romantic interlude meant to celebrate their first night aboard ship.

“Happy, m’darlin’?” Beau inquired, pressing a kiss against his wife’s temple as she snuggled close against him. He certainly hoped so, for he considered himself to be happy. Very, very happy.

“Umm-hmm,” Rosalind answered, threading her fingers through the mat of dark hair on Beau’s chest. “I would be happier still if Bridget had agreed to join us on our trip, but she says she will be enjoying herself mightily at Remington Manor.” She tipped up her head, to look deeply into her husband’s eyes. “Have I thanked you yet today for deeding your half of our estate over to me?”

“Today and every day since first I presented you with the deed, which is more than enough. I merely wanted you to know that Remington Manor is not nearly so important to me as you are. You’ve become my life and soul.”

Rosalind knew her smile must appear to be odiously self-satisfied. “I know,” she teased. “I just wanted to hear you say it again.”

“It’s a truthful little demon you are, Rosie Remington,” Beau countered, looking through the porthole at the starry sky. “It’s a good night for digging, don’t you think?”

Rosalind sobered for a moment. “You don’t suppose he’ll blame us, do you?”

Beau pulled her closer. “Blame us? But how? I didn’t offer him advice, did I? As far as your brother knows, I have lost as much money as he, only I could afford to do so. As to this business about treasure—who’s to say how much is buried there? No, Rosie. Niall won’t blame us. Of course, he won’t blame himself, either. He’ll blame Dame Luck. Now, come here, wife. I believe I’m in need of another kiss.”

Rosalind grinned, deliberately putting on the flustered air of the brainless twit she had presented to Niall at Lady Stafford’s ball. “Oh, la, sir, I don’t know if I should. I mean, I shouldn’t wish for you to believe me loose, or too free with my favors, or—”

“Stow it, Rosie,” Beau growled happily, then hauled her close and stopped her playful protests with his mouth...

... and, as the sleek ship cut through the dark waters of the Channel on its way to the sea, some distance away, just beyond the white cliffs and the small town of Winchelsea, nearby the whimsical windmill, on the grounds of the ruined church of St. Leonard’s, the light of a single lantern could be seen, its flame flickering in a slight breeze. And the scrape of a single shovel—digging, digging—interrupted only by the sound of an occasional male curse, could be heard rising from the bottom of a deep trench...

Thank you for reading
The Wagered Miss Winslow
.

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for updates on my print and eBooks.

And read on for an excerpt from
The Mischievous Miss Murphy
.

Chapter One

S
ome four hours later, just as dawn was breaking over the city, Tony Betancourt was about to take his leave of the local guardhouse and its bemused head constable. That man was still a trifle dazed after being half bullied and half cajoled into seeing the error of his subordinate’s actions in mistaking a Marquess for a common housebreaker. And not just any Marquess, oh no, but the beloved scion of one of the most powerful families in the land (not to mention the grandson of two Dukes and the godson of no less than three of the royal Princes).

Jack Watkins had let a band of housebreakers all but denude Sir George Forwood’s house in order to collar a titled Lothario, and his superior knew his only pleasure to be had out of this entire episode would be from verbally ripping a strip off the watchman’s ignorant hide.

The newly released and, amazingly, still amused Marquess paused at the threshold to the street, his interest mildly piqued at the sight of a middle-aged, foreign-looking gentleman dressed in turban and flowing robes, and the man’s strikingly beautiful and obviously irate female companion. Who had the Charlies nabbed now? he thought idly, leaning against the doorjamb and assuming the part of interested bystander. Really, this place was better than having a front seat at Covent Garden for the farce.

“You cannot incarcerate the person of the Maharajah of Budge-Budge,” the female was explaining with some heat. “The King shall have your jobs for this insult. Indeed, you will be fortunate if you escape that easily. Such an affront! Such an inexcusable indignity! I blush to call you my countrymen. Why, we English have...”

Lord, Tony thought in admiration, what a rare beauty! Waist-length hair more white than blonde swirled around her body like sea foam, its style as unorthodox as the exotic slant of the enormous sherry-colored eyes that dominated her heart-shaped face. In a temper, as the female obviously was at that moment, she was glorious. How would she look in bed, heated by another sort of passion? Tony questioned silently, immediately committing himself to answering his own question. And although the sun was up and his belly told him to go somewhere and seek out his breakfast, wild horses could not move him from the spot.

Reluctantly, Tony turned his attention to the girl’s companion, whose determined tugging on the sleeve of her cloak had interrupted her fine, impassioned speech. The dark-skinned man spoke a few singsong phrases in some unknown tongue and then lapsed once more into meditative silence. The girl nodded agreement to whatever the man said and, pressing her palms together as if in homage, favored him with a polite bow before turning back to the assistant constable (who was looking rather shaken, with all this talk of kings and dire punishments and such).

“The Maharajah graciously agrees not to mention this little misunderstanding when he visits Carlton House this evening. But he is fatigued—from his long journey, you understand—and wishes a speedy resolution to this, er, unfortunate incident.”

“B-but,” stammered the assistant constable, “there is still the matter of the price of your food and lodging at The Swan With Two Necks this last sennight. It must be paid.”

“The Maharajah has no English money, as I’ve told you repeatedly. He will settle the bills once he meets with his bankers later today. The innkeeper was precipitate in summoning you,” explained the female with the resigned monotone parents used on children who persisted in asking the same question time and again. “Anyone would think the man believed we were not intending to pay. Three pounds six,” she sneered, giving her glorious head a toss. “Surely a trifling amount when weighed against the consequences of insulting one of his royal majesty’s guests, don’t you agree?”

Get out of that one, my good man, Tony prodded silently, looking at the assistant constable in some amusement. There was definitely something havey-cavey going on here, he knew, having already noticed that the Maharajah’s dark face looked so very out of place when measured against the lily-white hands clasped so reverently across his ample belly, and if Indians had twinkling green eyes, it was the first the Marquess had heard of it.

No, if that man was the Maharajah of Budge-Budge (if such a benighted Indian village even boasted a Maharajah), then Mark Antony Betancourt was the King of Persia. But the girl—that magnificent creature—what had she to do with his counterfeit highness?

While the assistant constable looked to one of his underlings, who was just then busily inspecting the scuffed toe of his left boot, Tony pushed himself away from the doorjamb and sauntered leisurely over to the counter. “Here you go, folks,” he said cheerily, tossing some coins down on the scarred wood. “Never let it be said we English don’t know how to treat visitors to our shores.”

Turning to bow elegantly toward the pair of imposters, he winked broadly, adding, “If I may offer my services, ma’am, your highness? I would deem it an honor to accompany you back to The Swan to redeem your luggage, which I am sure the Doubting-Thomas innkeeper has confiscated.”

The girl looked dubiously at the arm Tony extended to her and then, at a discreet shove from her companion, sweetly smiled her acceptance of his kind offer and placed her hand on his sleeve.

The Maharajah preceded them through the door into the street, and it was not until they were a full block away from the guardhouse that his highness ducked into a narrow alleyway and confronted their rescuer. “And who might you be, laddie?” he asked baldly, a bit of a brogue marking him as Irish.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Tony drawled, bowing once again. “I am Mark Antony.”

An irreverent sniff came from the female still holding his arm. “Certainly you are,” she said, disbelief evident in her tone. “And I am Cleopatra.”

Tony smiled, an action that sent sparks of mischief dancing in his dark eyes. “No, you’re not,” he contradicted, adding, “Cleopatra’s m’sister.”