The Wagered Miss Winslow (4 page)

And she also wasn’t nearly as heartless as she seemed. But the coin was burning a figurative hole in the suede bag so that she wanted to get back to her workroom, wash it thoroughly, and see if her supposition was correct, and it was indeed a Roman coin. Beaumont Remington was an inconvenience, a hindrance to her plans, and the accident was, after all, his own fault.

“Here,” she said, quickly untying her bonnet and slipping the blue scarf out from the slots in its crown. “I think we can make do with this as a sling. Your arm is injured, isn’t it? I shouldn’t think you’d be cradling it so carefully otherwise.”

“Picked up on that, did you, miss?” Beau asked, ignoring her offer in order to walk over and inspect the damage to his curricle. “What do you propose we tie around this poor apparatus—for it seems to have likewise suffered a fracture.”

Rosalind frowned, sliding the blue scarf through her fingers. “Fracture? Then your arm is broken? How can you be certain?”

Beau turned to her and, with the sun full on his face, she got her first really clear look at him. His smile was breathtaking. “How, madam? Because this would not be the first time I’ve broken it. Got it caught up in the rigging once, aboard ship.” He frowned, although his startlingly blue eyes were dancing with suppressed mirth. “Or was that my right arm? It was some years ago, you understand, during my time spent in the Royal Navy.”

     Rosalind’s soft heart—later she was to say that it must have been her soft
head
—was touched. “You’re a veteran?” She approached him, holding out the scarf.  “Here, bend down, if you please, for you’re as tall as a tree, and I’ll tie this behind your head once you’ve slipped your arm into it. Be careful now, for I wouldn’t want to cause you any further injury.”

“You wouldn’t?” Beau quipped, his speech suddenly, deliberately, taking on a hint of a brogue. “And here I am, thinkin’ as how I’ve delighted you no end, topplin’ into the dirt. It just goes to show how wrong a man can be, doesn’t it?”

R
osalind had the good grace to blush. “Am I really that transparent, sir?” she asked, her fingers trembling slightly as she secured the knot of the makeshift sling behind his head and then stepped back, carefully placing some space between herself and this tall, handsome man whose smile was so charmingly boyish. Really! Anyone would think she was as impressionable as Mollie, allowing her head to be turned by a handsome face! “I don’t really wish you harm. It is only that you shouldn’t have been driving so fast on this lane, and your accident has made me late for tea.”

Beau nodded, wincing slightly as he adjusted the sling so that his arm might be more comfortable. He may have broken it, more’s the pity, there was no denying that possibility. Bridget would ring a mighty peal over his head for this piece of nonsense. “A thousand apologies, ma’am,” he said, bowing as politely as is possible when encumbered by a tightly tied blue scarf. “And you are correct. I was being cow-handed, and woefully negligent into the bargain. I should have known better than to spring my horses along an unknown road. My mind was elsewhere, I suppose, contemplating my first sight of Remington Manor.”

Rosalind frowned in confusion. “Remington Manor? Are you sure you are where you think you are? I have lived here for almost five years, and I can safely state that there is no Remington Manor in this area.”

Her words prompted another wide smile, and she felt her stomach do a small flip inside her. She must have lingered out in the sun too long, for she could not recall ever having such a queer reaction to anyone. It could only be hoped that Riggs had prepared an ample tea, for she might be in dire need of some solid food in her stomach. But what was he saying? Oh yes, he was saying something about this nonexistent Remington Manor he had told her he was looking for.

“There was such a place,” Beau said as he turned his back to her, looking out over the meadow, hoping for some sight of his never-before-seen birthplace, “but for the past five and thirty years it has been erroneously known as Winslow Manor.” He turned back to her, his blue eyes dancing, his delight in what he was saying almost palpable. “Until today, that is. Now the estate is in Remington hands once more. My hands, as it turns out.”

Perhaps Beau was feeling too full of himself to notice that Rosalind’s freckles were suddenly standing out in sharp contrast to her chalk-white face. Perhaps he was too upset with himself for having suffered an accident that would surely delay his arrival at Remington Manor for at least another day, while he traveled back into that quaint walled town of Winchelsea and sought out a physician to set his broken bone. Or perhaps he just wasn’t paying attention. No matter. He didn’t notice.

Rosalind tried to speak, but no words would come. She looked to Mollie, who was standing safely out of earshot, still tending to the horses. She cleared her throat, gripped her hands together tightly, and tried again. “You—you have purchased Winslow Manor? Just who did you purchase it from, may I ask?”

“Niall Winslow, of course,” Beau answered, absentmindedly, still scanning the horizon for some hint of a roof or a tower, or some evidence of the estate. He had asked in Winchelsea as he passed through the small town, but he may have been in too great a hurry to have listened attentively to the directions given him by an old man he’d stopped at the corner, just beside the ruins of what looked to be an ancient church.

He turned back to Rosalind at last, wondering if she knew her face was smudged with dirt. And what an odd outfit! A rope for a sash? A man’s cloak? Why on earth, he wondered, would the servant be rigged out in such a manner? “You are familiar with the name, aren’t you?”

“Familiar with it?” Rosalind’s ears were buzzing. Oh, she was familiar with the name all right. Familiar with the name, familiar with the rascal himself, and depressingly familiar with all his Machiavellian tricks. “Yes, I know the name, and the man,” she answered, her voice a dull monotone. “And, knowing the man, I can only assume you did not
purchase
the estate, but
won
it. Was it cards, or perhaps a wager on a horse race? No, that would be too mundane. Niall—er—Mr. Winslow strives for a bit more dash than that. Please allow me to hazard a guess. Did you speculate on which of two raindrops would first course to the bottom of a windowpane? Surely
that
is just the titillating sort of wager to inspire a man to throw caution to the winds and take a chance on gambling away a fortune.”

Beau tipped his head to one side, deciding that he might have judged this strange young woman too swiftly, relegating her to the rank of servant. She spoke like no servant he’d ever encountered, even though she dressed worse than most he’d seen— complete to the ragged hem of her gown that trailed out beneath the bottom of the cloak. Yet her speech was too fine for that of a serving girl, and her arrogance would make it impossible to envision her in the role of servitude. “Yes, I won it, as it was won

on the turn of a card by the Winslows in the first place. Only I wasn’t half so underhanded about the business as the Winslows were. But enough of ancient history. I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“I don’t believe I tossed it in your direction, Mr. Remington,” Rosalind responded, her anger simmering very close to the surface now, so that she had to clench her teeth not to give herself away. “My name is Rosalind. Rosalind ... Winters. So you have won Winslow Manor? And were you on your way there now, to take possession of your winnings?”

“I was, Miss Winters,” Beau admitted, eyeing her through narrowed lids. Perhaps this woman was employed at the estate in some obscure way, or lived nearby. She certainly seemed possessive of the place. But then, he remembered, this was the countryside, and he was an outsider. Bridget had warned him that he shouldn’t think he would be welcomed with open arms. “I will, sadly, have to postpone my arrival for at least another day, until I nave seen to my injury and made provisions for the repair of my vehicle. Do you have any idea as to how I should go about these two projects?”

Rosalind found that she had a multitude of ideas—although there wasn’t a convenient cliff nearby over which she could suggest that he, his curricle, and even his fine horses might jump. “Mollie,” she called to the maid, “go fetch Sam Hackett, if you please, and tell him to bring his wagon. Mr. Remington has need of Dr. Beales.”

She turned back to Beau. “Sam will tie your horses to the back of his wagon and drive you into Winchelsea. I suggest you have him deliver you to the Grapes and Hoops, where you can secure a private room for the night. Sam will see that Dr. Beales is brought round to tend to you and, as Sam is always happy to increase his income, he will doubtless also be happy to take care of having your curricle brought to the smith.”

Beau’s smile was genuine, as this strange young woman had impressed him with her talent for organization. “And here I was worried, being told country folk were a standoffish sort. You have handled it all quite nicely, Miss Winters, and I thank you. But I wonder if I could prevail upon you for yet another service. Is it possible, seeing that I am not to reach the end of my journey today, that you could point out the general direction of my new estate? Just so that I can assure myself that I have indeed been traveling along the right roadway.”

An imp of mischief, similar to but not exactly identical to the one that had prompted her to give him a false name, caused Rosalind to consider sending the man off in the entirely wrong direction, but she knew that would only be delaying the inevitable. She had at least a day’s warning now, which was twice as much as she had had a few minutes ago, and that would allow her sufficient time to mount a defensive against the fellow.

She pointed past his left shoulder. “It is that way, just over the hill. If you follow this pathway you will come to the rear of the manor, and pass by the gate marking the tradesmen’s entrance. You have to follow the stone wall to reach the front gates. Will you be sending word of your arrival?”

“No, ma’am,” Beau answered, watching the man he already knew to be Sam Hackett approaching on a rickety farm wagon. “I’m not so silly as to believe I’ll be as welcome as the flowers in May, even if it is only a skeleton staff of servants in residence, according to Mr. Winslow. I think it’s surprising them all I’ll be, and in more ways than one. I am assured I will make a much better master than the previous owner.”

“Is that so, Mr. Remington?” Rosalind responded, openly seething. How dare the man insult her in this fashion! To hear him talk, anyone would think that Winslow Manor had fallen into rack and ruin and only he could resurrect it. What overweening arrogance—although, to be fair, if the man thought Niall was in charge, that might excuse his poor opinion. Her brother, for all his air of superiority, was not fit to mind mice at a crossroads, which was why their father had been so careful to install competent managers at the other three Winslow properties.

Three competent managers and herself, that is. Her father had known she would take exemplary care of Winslow Manor. Why, he had even more than once lamented within her brother’s hearing that the wrong Winslow was wearing the skirts! Niall had never forgiven him, or her, for that insult.

But all of this was now neither here nor there. Niall had something up his sleeve, some nasty reason for tricking this oddly intriguing man and setting her up for what, she was sure, would amount to more than a fair bit of bother. But Niall may have overstepped himself with this particular prank, for she felt certain that Beaumont Remington, this strange mixture of arrogant Englishman and, to her trained ear, Irish peasant, would not take kindly to deception.

“Ah, here is Sam with the wagon, Mr. Remington. I’ll allow him to take things from here. Please don’t worry about the scarf, for it is old and I shan’t miss it. Come, Mollie,” she called in a clear voice, already heading for the pony cart. “It is time we were heading home. Riggs will be beside himself, forced to act the martyr with no one there to witness his travail.” She wished to get clear of Sam Hackett before he called her by name and gave the game away before she could even make her first move.

“Yes, miss,” Mollie answered reluctantly, as Sam Hackett went to loose the bays from the shafts. She took a moment to steal yet another look at the handsome Mr. Remington. Were there ever shoulders so broad, she wondered, a waist so nipped, legs so strong and straight? His hair as dark as night, his eyes the color of a cloudless sky at noon, his face all lines and angles, without so much as a hint of softness. He was a god, that’s what he was, one of those Greek or Roman gods like Miss Winslow showed her pictures of in those books of hers. Even with his traveling clothes all dusty from his fall, and with his arm trussed up in Miss Winslow’s blue scarf, Beaumont Remington was bigger than life, bigger and better than Jake, the ostler at the Grapes and Hoops, better than Ned, the second cook at the Three Feathers, and even better than Willie Shanks, the chandler’s apprentice and the one real love in her life—this week.