The Wagered Miss Winslow Read Online Free Page B

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