Page 13 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling and contemplated his life. Would anyone really notice any difference if Edwin had succeeded? Kirby would be bereft, that was certainly true. He seemed to view Beau as something between a recalcitrant pupil who wouldn’t heed sensible advice and a saviour who could do no wrong. It was a somewhat confusing stance for them both, but they seemed to rub along merrily enough. His mother, of course, would mourn him. The poor dear had harboured such hopes of her only son, doing everything in her power to ensure he did not turn out like his benighted father.

When his sire had died, with Beau barely out of leading strings, she had been delighted with the turn of events, for it meant she could mould her son into exactly the kind of man she wanted him to be. So, as well as the obligatory classical education, Beau had been schooled in the art of looking beautiful, being a leader of fashion, and gaining the admiration of the entire ton. She had done a marvellous job too, doting on her only child and spoiling him beyond anything reasonable. Anything Beau wanted, Beau had been given. It had all been terribly easy.

And here he was, at the top of the tree. A leader of the fashionable world with everyone lower down the rungs of the ladder desperate to gain his attention, to ape his style and mannerisms. God, it was dull.

Of late he had harboured an intense desire to present himself to the ton wearing some outrageous costume, perhaps pink pantaloons festooned with embroidered giraffes and a purple-and-green spotted coat with a yellow waistcoat. Anything to break the monotony. Yet his innate sense of style would not allow him to do something so egregious. Knowing his luck, the style would catch on, and he would be forced to endure the sight of his peers decked out in such ludicrous getups. A horrifying thought.

So that was him. The Beau. The beautiful Earl of Beaumarsh. A fashionable fribble. No wonder his cousin wanted to kill him. Beau didn’t blame him. Though the poor fool should not waste the effort, for Beau was convinced he’d die of boredom any day now. Certainly, he’d expire if he stayed in Tiny Sweeting for much longer, or whatever the blasted town was called. He did not know what Kirby had been thinking, bringing him to such a place. If he’d wanted to force those disgusting waters down his throat, the least he could have done was take him somewhere fashionable, like Bath.

Glumly, he wondered what his life might have been like if he’d been allowed to join the army as he had wanted to do. He might even now be preparing to fight Boney again, now that the devil had escaped his prison on Elba. Yet at the ripe old age of sixteen, when he had told his mother of his plans, she had thrown a hysterical tantrum, swearing that she would do something drastic rather than live the rest of her days waiting for news of her beloved son’s death in some dreadful battle. Young as he’d been, he had not yet fully comprehended the ways in which she manipulated him and truly believed she might swallow an entire bottle of laudanum rather than endure the stress of not knowing whether he was alive or dead. All nonsense, of course. He knew better now, for though his mama truly was a kind and doting parent and could not be prouder of her son, she was as spoiled as he was and there was little, she would not do to get her own way. Still, he had retaliated by getting into some very dodgy situations until sense had prevailed and he’d hired Kirby to keep him alive.

Sighing, Beau wondered what mischief the dowager countess was up to now, and how much it would cost him to extricate her from it. Best not to think about that.

Thumping the pillow, Beau turned onto his side, reminding himself Kirby was unlikely to let him go home until he was properly well, and closed his eyes. Perhaps he could sleep a little longer if he tried.

He was just beginning to believe he could doze off again when the door to the adjoining room creaked. Ordinarily, Beau would not have stirred. Kirby often got up and went about his business when Beau was sleeping. Yet instead of his valet’s usual competent and brisk movements about the room, whoever it was stopped, as though fearing the sound had woken him.

Instincts prickling, Beau instantly wondered if Edwin had tracked him down. A preposterous idea, for who in the name of everything holy would look for him here? Cracking one eye open, this scepticism was borne out as he saw Kirby tiptoeing across the floor, holding his boots in his hand.

Frowning, Beau wondered what on earth the devil was up to, creeping about the place. As he watched, Kirby padded on into the sitting room and Beau heard the door that led to the hotel’s corridor opening and closing.

He sat up, wondering if Kirby had got lucky and found a willing woman to entertain him. But if that was the case, why was he sneaking out now, when he would be needed in an hour or so, when he might have had close to the entire night with her? He was up to something, but what? Hurrying from the bed and ignoring the curiously weak feeling in his legs, Beau ran to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The sitting room had a wonderful view, as the front of the property looked out onto the beach and a vast expanse of blue sea that glittered in the early morning sunlight. Beau ignored the lovely view, however, in favour of spying on his valet, watching until he appeared and headed out of the hotel, walking directly onto the beach.

His curiosity piqued, Beau did something he had never done in his entire life and dressed himself. As he needed to move fast if he wanted the slightest chance of finding out what Kirby was up to, he made a hash of it and did not dare look in the mirror. He did not wish to know what he looked like, unshaven and rumpled as he must be, and he hurried past the looking glass before his courage failed him and the idea of being seen in public in such a state of disarray forced him to remain imprisoned in his hotel suite.

Happily, it was early enough that there were few people out and about yet, and Beau slipped out of the hotel and down to the beach without anyone noticing him. The beach itself was deserted, though he could see tiny fishing boats bobbing about far out at sea. He looked right, and then left, and then right and left again, and had almost convinced himself he had lost his chance and should hurry back indoors before anyone saw him, when movement caught his eye. Staring harder at a long, low line of rocks that appeared as a dark, somewhat malevolent shape, he realised he had discovered his quarry, who was indeed speaking to a woman.

“Why, the old sly boots,” Beau muttered, surprised, for he had never known Kirby to be much in the petticoat line himself. Though he liked a pretty wench as much as the next fellow, Kirby harboured fond, if unlikely, hopes of finding a sweet young lady and getting married, of having a home and a family. Beau did not like to disabuse him of the merits of the idea, nor to throw cold water on his valet’s hopes and dreams with his own cynicism, but he did not believe the dream would prosper. The only marriages he had seen were financial transactions where two people wanted to gain something from the other. The ones that worked best seemed to be when the two joined together in holy matrimony led entirely separate lives.

He was about to return to the hotel and leave his valet to his assignation when Beau realised he recognised the young lady. And it was a young lady. More precisely, it was Miss Honeywell, the impertinent chit who had called on him demanding reimbursement for her boots. Not that he blamed her for doing so, only for staring at him with such a look of… of revulsion. As if his entire person offended her. Kirby had liked her at once though, that much Beau remembered. He had just not realised how much.

“Devil take you, Kirby, what are you playing at?” Beau exclaimed, darting a look around to see if anyone had noticed the couple, for he knew well enough what kind of stir it would cause if anyone got wind of his valet dangling after a well-bred young lady in a place like this. If Kirby looked less disreputable, it might not be such a problem, but people tended to take one look at him and assume the worst. That could sometimes be useful, but not right now.

Cursing under his breath, Beau realised he must intervene before either he or the young lady got too involved. Taking one last look around to be certain he was not observed, Beau hurried across the beach. Though it was a lovely summer morning, there was still a stiff breeze blowing across the beach, and the sound it made, combined with the distant shushing of the waves farther down the beach, disguised his footfalls until he was almost upon them.

Kirby looked up, startled, as he remarked Beau bearing down upon them.

“My lord!” he exclaimed, surprise turning to horror as he took in the Beau’s rumpled appearance. “My lord!” he repeated, the appellation heavy with reproach this time.

“Don’t you ‘my lord’ me,” Beau said testily, glaring at his manservant with impatience. “You’re the one who got me to drag my sorry behind out of my bed and dress in this unsightly fashion. You’re the one keeping inappropriate assignations with young ladies who ought to know better,” he added, giving Miss Honeywell a pointed look that should have made her blush scarlet. Indeed, her colour did rise, giving a pleasing pink tinge to her lovely complexion, but far from looking shamed or guilty, the girl only returned his glare with equal force.

“You really are the most ridiculous creature,” she said with a huff. “I feel sure that if Mr Kirby had any romantic notions, he would have suggested we find a rather more intimate and comfortable meeting place than the beach. It is a trifle damp,” she added tartly.

Kirby made a choked sound, and Beau swivelled his head to stare at his valet but, if that had been laughter, there was no evidence of it on his face now. Indeed, the wretch had adopted one of his best hangdog expressions, mingled with a healthy dose of reproach and hurt feelings.

“I’m here for your sake, my lord, and that’s the God’s honest truth,” he said, all dignity and injured pride.

Beau narrowed his eyes at Kirby before regarding Miss Honeywell once more. “It’s quite true,” she said, holding his gaze. “We are here to discuss your continued wellbeing, and for no other reason, which I am certain must be apparent by now.”

Damn, but she was a self-possessed female, so confident and sure of herself. Most women blushed, fluttered their eyelashes, and looked bashful when he turned his attention upon them. Well, apart from the knowing ones who were long past fluttering and pretending innocence. Not that he blamed them for using their charms to try to capture his interest, it was their assigned role, to pretend they had not a brain in their heads, just as it was his to play the indolent nobleman. This young woman clearly had not read her script with enough attention. Though, he supposed in such a countrified part of the world, the prescribed roles might not be held to so rigidly.

“My wellbeing,” he repeated, bemused until he remembered her indignation at him letting his cousin off for his murder attempt with no reprisals. “Good Lord, Kirby, you don’t mean to tell me you’ve indulged this foolish girl and allowed her to convince you I’m in mortal peril?”

Miss Honeywell’s blue eyes flashed with a martial light that left him in no doubt of her opinion of him. “The only foolish person here is you, my lord, if you insist on believing you are in no danger. From what Mr Kirby has told me, it is only thanks to your resilient constitution that you survived this last attempt. If your cousin is as desperate as it appears, he will try again, and soon.”

“My family and their somewhat dysfunctional method of showing their feelings is no one's business but our own,” he said, his tone severe as Miss Honeywell gave a loud snort in answer to his words. Had she no notion of proper female behaviour? “I did not ask you to meddle in my affairs and, indeed, I asked you in no uncertain terms to leave them be. This is a private matter and—”

“It’s a splendid idea,” Kirby piped up, before Beau could finish his stinging set down.