Page 12 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

Kirby began his day at the tobacconist, though Beaumarsh neither smoked nor took snuff, and spent a good deal of money whilst regaling the shopkeeper with one of the more amusing anecdotes about the Beau. By the time he left, Mr Garvis was chuckling appreciatively about the young man’s ready wit and was well pleased with his patronage. He also gleaned some interesting information when asking about the best wine merchant to buy from. Garvis had readily supplied the name of a most respectable and long-established wine merchant, whilst asking some pertinent questions that led Kirby to understand that there was a healthy trade in smuggled goods that might be made available if someone was ready to make a significant purchase. Always alert to a good deal, and more than content to get one up on the taxman, Kirby gave the correct answers and was told someone would be in touch. Intrigued and pleased by this, Kirby went about his business.

He ate a hearty lunch at The Ship Inn, a respectable establishment where some of the clientele eyed him dubiously and then went for a drink at the less than respectable Dog and Duck. Here he stood the inhabitants several rounds of drinks, some of whom looked as if they’d not moved for several weeks, never mind hours. That the place was frequented by smugglers as well as fishermen, he did not doubt, but he certainly felt more welcome than he had at The Ship and whiled away a pleasant couple of hours. Still, the afternoon was upon him, and he knew he’d best return and check Beaumarsh hadn’t, in fact, turned up his toes.

Whilst his master’s constitution was indeed that of an ox, the arsenic had laid him low, and Kirby did not feel his concern undue despite the idiot’s exasperation over his fussing. Kirby, suddenly anxious that his master's condition might have deteriorated during his absence, quickened his pace along the street. The tearoom door then flew open, startling him as Miss Honeywell rushed through. She stood directly before him and Kirby muttered an oath, skidding to a halt before he knocked the lady down. Beaumarsh had already made her suffer enough indignity, he did not wish to add to it.

“Good afternoon, Miss Honeywell,” he said, raising his hat and giving a polite bow whilst wondering what she was about accosting him in the street. Kirby was well used to arranging assignations with ladies for the earl, whose handsome face and form was irresistible to certain women. His estimation of Miss Honeywell, however, had not been at all of that kind, and he’d been keenly aware of the ill-concealed contempt she had for his employer. That being the case, he was more than a little curious as to what she wanted.

“Mr Kirby,” she replied, equally civil. “I would like a word, if it is not too much of an imposition.”

Kirby looked at her in surprise. “I can spare a few minutes, I reckon, though I’ve been gone for some time and his lordship won’t sleep forever. I was just hurrying back to check on him.”

“Yes, you seemed to be in a rush. You are still concerned for his health, then?” she asked, her tone brusque.

Kirby nodded, appreciating her forthright manner. “I am, miss, but he won’t see another doctor so you may as well save your breath.”

She nodded her understanding. “It does not surprise me. He seemed a rather recalcitrant patient.”

“Worse than a five-year-old, he is,” Kirby said with a snort, and then felt his colour rise as he realised he’d been indiscreet. Years in the earl’s employ, he was used to holding his tongue and keeping his master’s secrets as close as his own. Yet two minutes speaking to Miss Honeywell and he’d been lured into speaking too candidly. Miss Honeywell did not seem to notice his discomfort, but merely nodded, apparently unsurprised by the description.

“And do you believe his cousin will try again?”

Kirby hesitated. He ought not say another word, yet he knew damn well Edwin would try again and, whilst the fellow was a snivelling little fop, even the most incompetent criminal got lucky occasionally and Edwin only needed to be lucky once. Moreover, no one else knew and his master refused to discuss the problem, believing Edwin was too incompetent and foolish to be an actual threat. Even having been made seriously ill, Beaumarsh just cited his continued ability to breathe as proof of his cousin’s idiocy. He’d had the perfect opportunity, and he bungled it by underestimating the dose.

“I promise you I am the soul of discretion,” Miss Honeywell said earnestly.

Kirby believed her. He had liked the young woman upon first meeting her, noticing the sparkle in her eyes and her disdain for Beau’s indolent pose. Privately, he thought Beau could do with a bit of shaking up and could not help but wonder if Miss Honeywell might be just the thing.

As an interesting idea sparked into life, Kirby considered the young woman before him. She was not at all in his lordship’s usual style, that was for certain. She was no highflyer, but neither was she bracket-faced nor bacon-brained. An intelligent, well-bred, handsome girl, she had a fine figure, striking blue eyes, and a peaches and cream complexion that glowed with vitality. There was a restlessness about her, and he suspected she was a woman who did not enjoy sitting about doing nothing. Well, why not confide in the girl, a bit at least, and see what she was made of?

“His cousin will try again,” Kirby admitted, his tone grim. “He’s up the River Tick without a paddle and, if things get much worse, he’ll be forced to flee the country. He owes money to some fellows who are not kindly disposed towards people who can’t pay their debts, and I reckon he’s getting desperate. I’ll be honest with you, miss, and admit I didn’t give the previous attempts any more consideration than his lordship, for Edwin Cavendish is a fool and not up to his lordship’s weight. But this last time has me thinking it’s not so difficult to slip a dose of poison in someone’s wine, and I can’t be at his lordship’s elbow at every moment of the day and night.”

Miss Honeywell frowned, her nose crinkling charmingly as she considered this. “Then I was right to be concerned. Mr Kirby, I know I have not the least right to give you or your master advice, but the thing is, I feel certain I have a solution for dealing with Mr Cavendish, and think it is not only terribly simple, but almost certain to prosper. Yet, I suspect Lord Beaumarsh will dislike it very much and refuse to play along.”

“You’re right there, miss,” Kirby said with a snort, intrigued to know what she was plotting. “He’ll have my hide if he even suspects I’ve spoken to you about it.”

Miss Honeywell nodded thoughtfully. “I presumed at much. Yet it really is a wonderfully simple plan,” she said with a dejected sigh.

Kirby looked up, aware suddenly of the interest passers-by were giving them and realised it was not at all the thing for a fellow of his ilk to be seen chatting with a lady like Miss Honeywell. “I’d best be running along, miss,” he said, jerking his head toward two women who had walked off looking scandalised. “Afore you set the whole town chattering. I’d be pleased to hear more about this plan of yours, though. If you’d be willing to share it with me.”

Miss Honeywell brightened. “Well, of course I would. I have no interest in the matter other than seeing that a villain does not commit murder. If you can convince his lordship—” She broke off, noting as Kirby had that they were drawing rather too much interest. Brisk now, she spoke quickly. “I often walk on the beach early in the morning, Mr Kirby. I shall meet you there tomorrow at six am sharp.”

With that, she gave him a curt nod and walked past him, disappearing back into the pretty little teashop. The door closed behind her with the jingling of a bell, and Kirby resumed walking, smiling a little as he considered Miss Honeywell and precisely how vexed his lordship would be when he discovered she had a plan.

Chapter 4

An assignation and a provoking peacock.

The Vicarage, Little Valentine, South-East Coast of England. 3rd June 1815.

Clementine padded silently down the stairs in stockinged feet, her oldest boots held in her hand. No one was awake yet, and the household was quiet except for the sonorous snoring from her father’s room. Clementine spared a thought for her sister Isabelle, whose room was closer to her father’s than her own, and wondered how the poor girl got any sleep.

Avoiding the third step from the bottom, which always creaked, Clementine made it downstairs without incident, stopped to put on her boots, and hurried outside, grabbing her bonnet with one hand and an apple in the other. Shoving the bonnet on her head, she did not bother to tie the ribbons and took a healthy bite of the apple, chewing contentedly as she strode across the garden and out into the lane. Avoiding the village, for there were plenty of early risers, she instead cut across and took the path through Winsham Woods. It was a little eerie at this early hour, for the woods was famous for being haunted, though Clementine set little store by such outlandish tales. But her father insisted ghosts were real, and he had far more experience with such things than she did. Instead of walking past The Mermaid’s Tale, she headed directly down to the beach, which was deserted at this early hour. Farther along the coast, the fishermen would likely be busy, but here it was peaceful.

Feeling too conspicuous on the empty beach, Clementine walked to a rocky promontory that jutted out into the sea. The tide was a long way out at present and rockpools were plentiful around the big smooth rocks. It had been a favourite place for her and her sisters when they were children. They had spent many happy hours catching tiny crabs and darting shrimps. Clementine had to admit the place still held a certain fascination for her as she stared down into the pools of water that seemed to contain entire worlds all of their own.

She felt less visible with the rocks at her back, though, and she selected one that was smooth and dry and relatively free of seaweed before taking a perch and waiting for Mr Kirby to appear.

Beau had slept fitfully again, likely because he had done little else but sleep since he had arrived in this godforsaken backwater. He felt as shaky as a lamb, though, an image that made him smile despite himself. Him, a lamb? Hardly.