“You don’t need to say anything else, Madeline,” he said. “I can deal with him.”
“But I’m here to protect you,” she protested. “That’s what you are paying me for.”
His eyes went hard then. “I am not paying you to put yourself in that kind of danger.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” she said, swallowing the lie. Nelson had found Malcolm’s body—had seen her run and reported her crime to the local authorities. She’d lived in fear of him ever since. “Do not use my name around him—he could use that against you. It might put you in greater jeopardy.”
“He’s here to see me,” he said. “He’s been talking to the Chandlers. A brute with a shovel might be beyond my skill, but a greedy man looking to make a bargain? That is my specialty. Give me five minutes.”
He gave her a reassuring smile, then bounded up the stairs. Maddy followed, carrying a tray with tea and a few of the biscuits Annie had brought over that morning. Her arrival barely drew Nelson’s attention, as he’d already concluded that she was beneath her notice. She had to keep it that way. He was standing in front of her bookshelves, pawing her precious books. It took all her self-control not to tear him away from them and throw him out the front door.
“He will be here shortly,” she said as she set the tea down and poured out a cup for him.
As if on command, Beau appeared in the doorway. Somehow, the man who’d ravished her in the garden in his shirtsleeves had disappeared, replaced by this polished gentleman in a fresh suit, looking every bit the relaxed country gentleman.
“Can I help you?” he said, putting on a polite, disarming smile. He turned to Maddy. “You may go.”
His dismissal was one of an employer to a servant, and it jarred Maddy more than she’d imagined. Still, it was part of the charade she’d agreed to, and a moment like this, it truly mattered. Maddy nodded silently and left.
She would not go far.
Chapter Twenty
Beau resisted the urge to watch Madeline leave, focusing all his attention on his uninvited guest. Despite the fact Nelson Taylor was of average height and had the build of a gentleman, he bore the manners of a man who needed to prove his importance. Beau had been so blinded by his anger at Mr. Taylor’s slight toward Madeline near the rail platform, he had not noticed the man’s reddish-brown hair or his rather remarkable beard.
But there was something more today in the way he pulled back his shoulders, puffing up his chest like a pigeon prancing around a park bench. It was a sort of confidence that came from knowing you had the upper hand.
There was no doubt why. At the moment, he had Beau’s life in his hands. Taylor was coming to make a deal, and with terms so utterly in his favour, he could walk out of here a very rich man. Clearly Taylor knew who he was. But Beau had always found it useful to acknowledge any advantage that his opponents thought they had. If they thought they could use your shortcomings against you, they would. It was far better to own one’s harmless indiscretions rather than have them weaponized. Patricide was far more than harmless, but the principle still held, especially since Beau was innocent.
He decided the best defense was to deflect that pomposity with his own. Confidence was king when your neck was on the line—in business anyway. Frank had taught him that, and it had been a good lesson.
His uninvited guest had been pawing at Madeline’s books, helping himself to one of the volumes. Taylor slid the book back on a nearby shelf as Beau held out his hand.
“Beau da Silva.” Beau introduced himself with the same ease he used in all his business dealings, a signal to Mr. Taylor that his being here did not rattle him in the slightest. “And you are Mr. Nelson Taylor.”
His opponent nodded curtly. “I represent George’s College.”
They shook hands, then Beau gestured for them to sit.
“This is quite an eclectic little library you have here,” Taylor said, gesturing to the shelves that housed Madeline’s books. “I didn’t know you were a rosarian.”
“I spent some time in Boston with the Gardners,” Beau replied. “They have a remarkable garden built right into the courtyard of the house. I was hooked.”
The story was partially true. He had been to dinner parties in Boston several times at the Gardners. He’d made the connection through Hugh Evans, whom he’d saved from drowning.
Taylor appraised Beau carefully. There were far too many unspoken questions in the air.
“I take it you are here to discuss the offer for the property?” Beau asked, eager to get this man out of his house as soon as he could with as little damage as possible.
“Yes indeed,” he said. “I just paid a visit to the Chandler farm, and decided to take the opportunity to call on you personally.”
“Let’s get to it then,” Beau said. “My housekeeper has provided tea, but if we are going to get into the business of negotiations, then perhaps something more bracing is required.”
Mr. Taylor waved off Beau’s offer. “My client has been anxious about the sale. They are eager to acquire the property, so they can proceed with their plans.”
“And what would those plans be?” Beau asked.
His question seemed to take the man off guard. What the buyer of a property wanted to do with it was not really his business. When Beau had originally decided to sell, he hadn’t given much thought to it. Of course, that was then. Before he’d found he enjoyed reading in the chair near the window in this parlour, or taking his breakfast with Maddie in the dining room, which had lovely sun in the morning. Before he’d found his grandparent’s recipe book and fixed up the pergola with his half-brother.
