Page 11 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

Clementine snorted. “It’s not nefarious. Well, not exactly.”

“Well, I am entirely reassured now,” Clara said, darting her a look of mingled concern and interest.

“You’ve heard about the earl, I suppose?” Clementine asked, linking her arm through Clara’s as they walked to the village.”

“The earl?” Clara repeated.

Clementine looked at her in surprise before remembering how painfully shy Clara was when out in the world. Her visits to the shops were for necessities only and not society. She did not make friends easily, conversing with anyone was a trial to her, and her aunt crushed any attempt she made to create a life for herself. Many of the residents of Little Valentine, who heartily disliked her aunt, largely ignored Clara, and viewed her situation as a poor relation with indifferent contempt. Gaining anyone’s attention for any reason was anathema to Clara and so she did nothing to change her position, despite Clementine’s urging. The only reason they were friends at all was because of Reverend Honeywell. He had pitied Clara’s miserable situation and had insisted her help in the church was not only indispensable but her Christian duty, something even her aunt could not gainsay, though she had tried. It had given Clara a small measure of freedom.

So, Clementine told Clara all about the earl’s arrival in the town and their rather inauspicious meeting. To her delight, Clara crowed with laughter over the scene, which Clementine deliberately embellished to entertain her. Her laughter faded, however, when Clementine explained about the murderous cousin.

“The poor man,” Clara said, her unremarkable features filled with pity. “How awful to know a member of your own family wishes you dead.”

“I wouldn’t pity him too much,” Clementine remarked. “From all I know of him, he’s a spoilt dandy with more hair than wit. Still, I think he ought to bestir himself to thwart his cousin and not just sit about looking decorative and waiting for him to make another attempt.”

“Is he decorative?” Clara asked, interest shining in her eyes.

Clementine slanted her a look, startled by the question. “I suppose so, if you like that sort of thing,” she said dismissively. Though the image of Lord Beaumarsh reclining in his silk banyan like some pampered pasha returned to her with some force, much to her consternation. He had looked like he was waiting for one of his wives, or many mistresses, to peel him a grape. Sinfully handsome and cynical to the core, it was no surprise he was the darling of the beau monde. She pushed the image away, disturbed by the odd frisson of awareness it sent prickling beneath her skin.

“What sort of thing?” Clara pressed, giving an impish grin at the look on Clementine’s face. “Oh, come on, Clementine. I have very little excitement in my life and suddenly you’ve introduced this remarkable story, with murder and a handsome aristocrat. Give me some details, can’t you? It’s better than a Mrs Radcliffe so far, but I’m lacking vital information.”

Clementine gave a short laugh, discovering herself unsettled at the demand, but complied all the same. “Well, Izzy said he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, though she could not decide between azure and cobalt, but she said his hair was the colour of ripe barley and that he had very broad shoulders.”

“Never mind what Izzy said, though I grant you that is a fascinating description,” Clara admitted. “What did you think? You were there too. You were the one who spoke to him, were you not?”

“Well, yes,” Clementine said reluctantly.

“So?”

“I don’t know!” Clementine replied, realising she sounded a little testy. “He is very handsome, I suppose. Too handsome. It’s clearly not done him a whit of good, for he’s idle and stupid and vain.”

Clara stared, shocked by her words, and Clementine fought a blush. Her father would certainly have something to say about her judging a fellow creature so harshly when she did not know him at all, and rightly so.

“Goodness. He did make an impression on you.”

“Vomiting on a lady’s boots is unlikely to endear a fellow to her,” she replied dryly, though a surge of guilt for her bitter words made her queasy.

“No,” Clara said, regarding her with interest and making Clementine feel thoroughly unsettled. “I suppose it wouldn’t.”

“His lordship was also very sarcastic when I suggested he ought to do something about his cousin and demanded if he should poison him in retaliation. The wretched devil said it with such an air of bored indifference too, like he could barely be bothered to speak the words to me, for I was too far beneath his notice,” Clementine said, still unnerved by how annoyed she sounded.

“He sounds insufferable,” Clara admitted.

“Precisely,” Clementine said with satisfaction, relieved her friend could appreciate what she had determined from the moment he had stumbled from his carriage. There, see? She was not being unreasonable.

“So, why are you determined to help him?” Clara asked.

It was not an unfair question, which made it even more galling when Clementine could find no ready answer.

Kirby did not slam the door as he left the earl’s rooms, but it was a close-run thing. He did not appreciate gossip about his master, however, and was not about to add to it. Bad enough the great lummox had made a spectacle of himself the moment he’d arrived. He would not have people speculating about the quality of his valet. People did, of course, all the time, and would certainly do so in a place like this, for Kirby did not look like a valet. He looked precisely like what he was, an ex-con, ex-boxer, and a fellow who’d been born to swing at Tyburn. He would have done too, no doubt, if not for the earl.

As a young sprig of only seventeen, Beaumarsh had run with a fast set who got up to a fair amount of mischief. Discovering during this time that, whilst he could fight, he had not yet grown into his height and breadth, and was also too idle to exert himself overly, he had looked for a manservant who would act as a bodyguard. Why Beau had stepped in and saved him from the Watch that day, when they had wanted to take him up for starting a public disturbance, causing grievous bodily harm, and a deal of property damage, Kirby had never fathomed. Yet saved him, his lordship had.

Five years older than Beau, Kirby had been a prizefighter and had taken exception to discovering he was being cheated out of his rightful earnings. The ensuing fight had been violent and messy. Beau had paid for all the damage, smoothed things over with the magistrate, and given Kirby the first honest—mostly honest—employment he’d ever had. He’d even allowed him to learn on the job, for he had been a shocking valet in those early years. Somehow, however, the two of them had grown up together, and both appreciated their good fortune. Especially Kirby, who had discovered to his own great surprise he enjoyed his work and had a keen eye for colour and style.

All of which was why he owed the fellow his loyalty and would walk over hot coals if he must, despite wanting to break the devil’s nose himself at regular intervals.

Still, the situation was what it was and no amount of bleating about it would change things. So, Kirby must go about the town and do a bit of damage limitation by throwing his master’s money about and dropping a few interesting words in the right ears. It was amazingly easy to change people’s perceptions of a situation if one had the right strategy.