The Wagered Miss Winslow

By Kasey Michaels

A Kasey Michaels Alphabet Regency Romance Classic.

Beaumont Remington -- known only as "Fish" in The Haunted Miss Hampshire, is a man searching for revenge ... but what he finds with Rosalind Winslow, the sister of his enemy, is something much more satisfying:

She was a pretty enough little thing, he granted to himself, and she would have brought out more of his protective tendencies if he didn't believe she could probably hold off an army on her own, if not with weapons then with her sharp tongue and even sharper intellect.

And it wasn't as if he had ever held out any great hopes for a love match. He was too raw, too uneducated, and too set in his ways to ever believe he was the sort females of Rosalind Winslow's birth and breeding might flock to with visions of happily-ever-after gleaming in their eyes.

But she was a Winslow, and her family and his were sworn enemies, not that he had so far been able to summon up any real animosity toward her. Did this house, this property, mean enough to him that he would even consider marrying a Winslow?

He looked around the large room, taking in the purity of its architecture, the beauty of its furnishings. This was only one room. If the rest of the house lived up to its first impression, how could he turn his back and walk away? This was his family inheritance, the place of his birth. His parents, or so said Bridget, had been immensely happy here, and their bodies, as well as those of his grandparents and great-grandparents, were interred in a mausoleum somewhere on the property.

He had been robbed, cheated of his home by an unscrupulous Winslow who had preyed on a disconsolate, grieving man. For twelve years Beau had believed himself to be someone else, and for the past twenty-three years, two months, and six days he had been living only for the moment he would walk back into this house and claim it for his family, for the Remingtons.

Could he marry Rosalind Winslow in order to secure the house and estate grounds?

He could.

He would.

But he would have to be careful how he went about it ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kasey Michaels
• Release date: Mar 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452496306

Kasey Michaels

USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels is the author of more than one hundred books. She has earned four starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, and has won an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award and several other commendations for her contemporary and historical novels. Kasey resides with her family in Pennsylvania. Readers may contact Kasey via her website at www.KaseyMichaels.com and find her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/AuthorKaseyMichaels.

Book preview

The Wagered Miss Winslow

A Regency Novel

Kasey Michaels

Electronic Edition Copyright 2011: Kathryn A. Seidick

EBook published by Kathryn A. Seidick at Smashwords, 2012

Original Print Edition published, 1992

Cover art by Tammy Seidick Design, www.tammyseidickdesign.com

EBook Design by A Thirsty Mind, 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author.

Table of Contents

Titles

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Excerpt: The Mischievous Miss Murphy

About the Author

Kasey's Alphabet Regency Titles:

Now Available:

The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane

The Playful Lady Penelope

The Haunted Miss Hampshire

The Belligerent Miss Boynton

The Lurid Lady Lockport

The Rambunctious Lady Royston

The Mischievous Miss Murphy

The Wagered Miss Winslow

Coming Soon:

The Savage Miss Saxon

Moonlight Masquerade

The Somerville Farce

A Difficult Disguise

A writing style, voice, and sense of humor perfectly suited to the era and genre.

— Publishers Weekly

Michaels... maintains her crown as mistress of the intelligent and sophisticated Regency romance.

— The Belles and Beaus of Romance Newsletter

Prologue

Our tale begins in the shadow of the Regency, the last day of March 1820, to be exact about the business. His Royal Highness, George Augustus Frederick, for too long the Prince of Wales, has been King since two days past the evening of January 29, at which time his papa (who, to many minds, had lingered long enough upon the throne, yet whose departing of it, to many of those same minds, only made things worse), had finally breathed his last, tortured breath.

Unfortunately for the new King, he has been laid low with the pleurisy, and has been so systematically bled by the esteemed royal physicians that he cannot really enjoy his new office. But no matter. He will not be crowned until more than another year has passed.

Although the new King rallied sufficiently to belatedly bar his Queen, the infamous Caroline, from mention by name in the churches during Sunday sermons asking for prayers for the new monarch, his health lapsed yet again in late February, so that he was conspicuous only by his absence at the great public ritual that was his father’s funeral.

The court is still officially in mourning (the ladies draping their bonnets with crepe and the gentlemen sporting black cockades), and the Season is not yet officially begun—as it is rather a ticklish exercise, this yearly pursuit of frolic, when the new King is almost hourly rumored to be hovering at death’s door, while spending his good days thinking of ways to hide from his detested, encroaching wife, who has sent word that she will be returning to England by early June to support her husband in his bereavement.

And so, while waiting for the outrageous Queen Caroline to come tripping home and enliven their lives, and with nothing much else to do, London Society has turned to a proverbial favorite time-passer—gaming.

This suits one Beaumont Remington, late of Paris, France (his past beyond that point his own secret), more than he can say. We join him now, as he enters the thin, late-winter London Society, an ingenuous smile on his darkly handsome face—and thoughts of revenge safely hidden in his heart.

One

So it’s out and about you’ll be going’ again tonight, Bobby m’ love? the apple-cheeked little woman asked worriedly as she entered the sparsely furnished study, drying her hands on the hem of the large white apron that girdled her ample figure. And it’s thinkin’ you were done with this evil business I’ve been, she added, shaking her gray head as she sat herself heavily in a burgundy leather chair. Enough, Bobby. It’s not natural, it’s not, t’ keep on with this. It’s the devil’s own dirty business, don’t you know.

The tall, wide-shouldered man dressed to perfection in a dark-blue frock coat buttoned over a sparkling white waistcoat—which was topped by not one but two impeccably tied cravats, his fawn-colored trousers neatly strapped beneath the soles of his highly polished short boots—replaced his watch in the right-hand pocket of his trousers, adjusted the fob, and turned to smile at Bridget Reilly.

The devil’s own dirty business, dearest Bridget? he repeated, amused, his wide smile lighting his startlingly blue eyes, carving vertical slashes into his tanned, high-boned cheeks, and revealing a perfect set of whiter-than-white teeth. That does sound ominous. Perhaps it’s retreat you have in mind for me now, when I am within hours of my final success? Is that how you raised me, dear lady—to run away just when victory is in sight? Or is it that you fear for your little Bobby’s safety?

Your safety? Bridget sniffed, giving her gray curls a toss at this ludicrous question. Hasn’t the man been born what could harm you, don’t you know, for it’s a charmed life you’ve been leaden’. No, Bobby. It’s your immortal soul what’s in danger now, and no mistake. Think, boy, before you go letting’ the sins of the past become the troubles of the future.

Beaumont Remington, known to Bridget as Bobby for so many years that he’d long ago ceased to correct her and had resigned himself to answering to that name, picked up his enameled snuffbox from a nearby table and dropped a kiss on the woman’s head as he made for the doorway leading to the foyer of his mansion in Portman Square. And sure an’ it’s that future that awaits me now, m’lovely, he said, his deep voice hinting at more than a nodding acquaintance with that melodious Irish brogue. The luck is with me tonight—I can feel it. So give me your best blessing, Bridget, and let me be on with it.

A minute later, still buttoning his chamois redingote, a thin ebony cane tucked under his arm, Beaumont Bobby Remington descended the marble steps to enter the closed carriage, cheerily calling his destination to the coachman sitting on the box, and rode off to fulfill his destiny.

I win again. Damned boring, I call this, Niall Winslow drawled, giving an exaggerated yawn as he collected the counters and surveyed his opponents at the table from beneath sleepy lids. I could take myself off to White’s if I wished to gamble for such tame stakes. I say, Georgie-boy, you leaving already? Don’t go away, we pray you. If you can’t spare the blunt, he sniped sarcastically as his cronies tittered behind their hands, we might play for straws, if only so that we won’t be denied your delightfully invigorating company.

No, no. It’s not that, Niall. Just saw the time, that’s all. Getting late, you know. Must go now, truly I must. Young George Smythe, who had dropped the best part of three thousand pounds to the pale, blond exquisite whose slight figure and die-away airs hid the inclination and ability of a superior swordsman who had pinked more than a half dozen men in clandestine duels over the years, then bowed his head and skulked from the smoke-filled gaming room. He did not see Beaumont Remington lounging against the arch, taking snuff, as he was just then desperately trying to conjure up a suitable excuse that would convince his bride of six months that they would be much better off rusticating at their small country estate for a few months—until his next quarter’s allowance came due.

Winslow, however, did see him, and his quick grin and a wink to his compatriots said volumes about his enthusiasm to welcome another sheep to the shearing. Beau, my good man! I had about given up hope you would come to recoup that obscene amount of money I have won from you these past weeks. What does it stand at now—ten thousand?

Beau pushed himself away from the archway, a slow smile warming his features, and took up the chair recently vacated by George Smythe, nodding his hellos to the other two gentlemen at the green baize faro table featuring enameled representations of the thirteen different cards used in the game. Fifteen, I believe, Niall, but why quibble about such a paltry sum? I feel that Dame Luck is with me this evening, even if you do hold the bank. Stakes, gentlemen?

Ah, yes, the stakes, Niall answered smoothly, one soft white manicured hand caressing the top of the box which held the cards. That would depend upon you, my friend. How quickly do you wish to win back your money?

A thousand pounds at a time. Beau replied, laying the considerable stack of counters he had brought with him on the tabletop. To begin with, of course.

Niall did not blink, or in any way react to this suggestion, although the other two men at the table were quite vocal with their objections, starting a three-way debate (Beau sat quietly, smiling, watching), that concluded only when the other two gentlemen excused themselves and the faro box was put aside so that Niall and Beau could begin their first game of two-handed whist.

The other gentlemen did not retire from the room, but made up a small audience that grew as each hand was played, Beau soon the poorer by another six thousand pounds. Men had hanged themselves over half that amount, a quarter of that amount, but Beau continued to smile, and continued to play.

An hour passed, and then two, and although he had not quite recouped what he had lost so far that evening, Beau’s luck had begun to turn.

We are only back to where we started, aren’t we? You’ll never get anywhere this way, my friend, Niall pointed out when Beau had won the last rubber, at last bringing him even. And, unless you wish to stay here until the sun rises and sets once more—not that I am averse to such a circumstance, you understand—I suggest we consider raising the stakes.

Beau’s smile was slow, and oddly satisfied, although only one very young man (in town for his first Season, a Mr. Richard Symons, who was standing directly behind Niall Winslow) happened to notice, which perhaps explained why, when Mr. Symons turned to his nearest companion and quietly suggested a private wager of a monkey (that is, five hundred pounds) as to Remington being the eventual winner, he was immediately taken up on his offer.

I’m agreeable, Beau answered quietly, the glass of port at his elbow still nearly untouched. But I suggest we dispense with all these preliminaries and merely cut the cards a single time, the highest card taking all. That should speed things up, so that you can return to your home before dawn, in time to lay your head upon your pillow.

Done! Niall agreed, picking up the deck and beginning to shuffle. What are the stakes?

I believe fifteen thousand pounds was mentioned earlier, Beau said silkily, taking snuff, his hands steady, his intensely blue eyes unblinking as he stared across the table at his opponent. Oh, yes—one thing more. Mr. Symons, you look like a resourceful fellow. Could I importune you to procure us a fresh deck?

Niall frowned, his hands stilling in mid-shuffle. Beaumont Remington had not outwardly accused him of fuzzing the cards—he wouldn’t dare!—but the inference was there. And what was this business about fifteen thousand pounds won or lost with a single cut of the deck? Was the man mad? Or was he just so bloody rich that he could afford to be stupid? He suddenly wished he knew more about this Remington fellow. He had only been interested in the color of his money, but perhaps he should have been paying more attention. Now it was too late to do anything but play along. Especially after that business of calling for a new deck of cards.

Agreed, Niall said slowly at last, knowing all eyes were on him, waiting for his answer.

Mr. Symons reappeared with the new deck and, at Beau’s request, snuffled the cards before placing them facedown on the table. The tension in the room, a chamber which had seen more than one fortune made or destroyed on the turn of a single card, grew palpable as Niall Winslow, at Beau’s behest, lifted his choice from the deck: a jack of clubs.

My, my, Beau remarked, taking a sip of port, "that is a prodigious card, is it not? I shudder to think of the unlikelihood of drawing a better one. Mr. Symons—if you would do me the honor of drawing for me?

Me? Mr. Symons exclaimed in shocked accents, his prominent Adam’s apple climbing high in his throat. Then just as quickly he puffed out his thin chest, proud to have been chosen for such an honor. He wished he could lay claim to a composure as rock-solid as Remington’s, but he knew he did not have it in him. His hand trembling like a blancmange, he slipped his fingers over the deck, closed his eyes, and lifted a stack of approximately twelve cards, to reveal the results of his cut: the queen of hearts!

We did it! Mr. Symons shouted when the murmur of approval around him gave him the courage to open his eyes and take a peek at his choice. It was a heavy responsibility Beaumont Remington had handed him, and it pleased him no end that he had performed up to expectations. His success, coupled with the fact that his own money was not involved, prompted him to dare, Shall we go again?

If it amuses you, Mr. Symons, Beau replied, apparently bored by the whole affair.

Niall Winslow’s pale-blue eyes narrowed as he tilted his head and eyed his opponent. The man couldn’t be cheating. For one thing, Symons was too paper-skulled to play the part of sharper. Besides, Remington’s luck couldn’t hold. It never had before. Again, he said while the company waited, and for the same stakes.

It came as no surprise to any of the gentlemen in the room when Beau nodded once more, inviting Winslow to have the first draw.

Niall declined the honor, motioning to Mr. Symons, who went on to draw the six of spades, a circumstance that caused that young man to sway where he stood.

Niall Winslow, however, drew the three of diamonds, and found himself falling from dead even to owing Beaumont Remington fifteen thousand pounds.

Again! Mr. Symons all but shouted, growing somewhat bosky on his unexpected success. Please, sir? he added with almost pathetic anxiety, wildly bobbing his head in Beau’s direction.

Niall abandoned his negligent pose at the table, sitting up very straight indeed as he called out for both a fresh deck and a fresh bottle.

But the results were the same. In the blink of an eye he had lost a total of thirty thousand pounds, an unthinkable amount, an obscene amount, and he knew he would have to push away from the table a loser, for he had precious little left to bet with unless he were to dip into his capital, which he most certainly would not do.

It has been an enjoyable, and educational, evening, Remington, he said, making to rise, only the presence of a small tic in his left cheek giving any signal as to his inner turmoil. I shall send you a draft on my bank in the morning. Perhaps we can do this again?

We could, Beau said reasonably enough, his fingers rifling through the stack of counters in front of him before he tossed two of them, representing a thousand pounds, to Mr. Symons, who was near to weeping in his happiness over his newfound good fortune. However, he added softly, there may be an easier way. You hold title to a certain estate in Sussex, my friend, near Winchelsea, I believe. One of your minor holdings, I am sure. I have always wished for a country estate. I will pledge the thirty thousand you have lost to me tonight and, to make the thing truly interesting, we will each wager another fifteen thousand pounds on the outcome.

Niall sat down once more. Winslow Manor? You want me to cut the cards for Winslow Manor?

I prefer to call it Remington Manor, actually, Beau remarked, smiling up at Mr. Symons, who had disappeared momentarily to procure yet another fresh deck and was just now elbowing his way back through the crowd. It is the name my great-grandfather gave it when he had it built.

Niall put a hand to his mouth, shaking his head, so that Mr. Symons, for one fleeting moment, believed the man had begun to cry. But Niall Winslow wasn’t crying. He was laughing. Quietly at first, and then with increasing gusto, until he threw back his head and chortled. So that’s it! he exclaimed at last, looking at Beau.

I knew the name was familiar. You’ve been planning this for some time, haven’t you, Mr. Remington? Clever. Very clever. I should have known no man could be as abysmally unlucky at cards as you have been. I believe I should be insulted.

The crowd around the table was now five or six deep, and everyone was waiting, titillated, for the inevitable challenge, the slap, the exchanging of cards, and the naming of seconds.

But they were to be disappointed.

My losses against the deed to Winslow Manor? I believe that was the wager? Niall asked, reaching for the deck.

"And another fifteen thousand pounds to the winner, just to sweeten the

Reviews for The Wagered Miss Winslow

[Leena Aluru · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Decent one time read. U really like Beau and Rosalind.