Page 14 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

Beau hesitated. His brain was still suffering the after-effects of being half dead for several days, and he lost his train of thought as he registered the excitement in his valet’s eyes.

“It’ll work. I know it will. Why not just hear her out, eh? No harm in that, is there?” Kirby wheedled.

“Isn’t there?” Beau said darkly, eyeing Miss Honeywell with misgiving.

“Good heavens, Lord Beaumarsh. I do not see why you are getting so riled up when all I am attempting to do is to solve a problem for you,” Miss Honeywell said, impatient at his apparently wilful refusal to hear her out.

“You must forgive me, my dear,” Beau said, adopting his most condescending tone for the sheer pleasure of riling her. “But in my experience, ladies will do most anything for the chance of becoming the next Lady Beaumarsh. So, no matter what your scheme is, it will not prosper.”

She gasped at that, the blush he had expected earlier staining her cheeks. This time it was not so attractive, a hectic splotch of red that was only outshone by the sheer fury blazing in her eyes.

“Why, you conceited, arrogant, vile—” She broke off, breathing heavily as she struggled to contain her temper. Having made what looked to be a truly heroic attempt to rein it in, she took a breath, her words measured and spoken with icy contempt. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, my lord. My father is Reverend Honeywell, and, among other things, he has taught me the story of the Good Samaritan. I am doing this because it is my Christian duty to give help if I can, no matter how ill-deserving the person in question. The idea that I would ever lower my standards sufficiently to marry an idle peacock whose only concern appears to be whether his waistcoat is the precise colour of vibrant blue to match his eyes is an insult to my intelligence. I would not wed you if my life depended upon it, never mind my reputation. I trust I have made my position clear?”

Beau stared at her, admitting himself a little surprised by the attack and the precision with which she struck. It gave him a rather odd and most uncomfortable feeling to have a woman who ought to be beneath his notice call him out for all the things he despised in himself. He doubted whether he’d have cared a whit if anyone of his acquaintance had levelled the insult at him, for he would have put it down to jealousy. Miss Honeywell was not jealous. Oh, no. She was in earnest and meant every word, and he felt the cold sting of them as they pierced his usually elephantine hide.

“Crystal,” he replied with a thin smile.

“Excellent,” she said in return, the word accompanied by a bland expression that gave nothing more away. Having lost her temper once, she had retreated behind a mask of cool civility. He did not blame her and intended to do the exact same thing.

Kirby stood between them like a great ox, dithering. Beau sent him an impatient glare that promised retribution for this morning’s work but held his temper firmly in check.

“Well, which one of you is going to outline this masterful plan? I have a day to idle away, wine to drink, and you might consider my position as a leader of fashion. Those waistcoats won’t choose themselves, will they?” he said, trying to sound diverted by the idea but unable to keep the scathing tone from his voice.

Kirby glanced at Miss Honeywell, who seemed to have decided she had said enough for one day. Huzzah.

“Well, Miss Honeywell suggests we write to your cousin, telling him you are about to turn up your toes, and to come at once so you might give him details of your estates and financial dealings before you croak. Then, you enact a deathbed scene, where you get him to admit just how he administered the poison, assuring him you hold no hard feelings, and that you’d have done the same thing if your positions were switched.”

“The devil I would!” Beau said hotly.

“Just to lull him into speaking plain,” Kirby said, looking as though his patience was wearing thin. “So, you get him to confess, and once he has, Reverend Honeywell and the local justice of the peace come out from behind the curtains and bear witness to his confession. Then, if anything ever happens to you, nefarious-like, he knows he’ll swing for it.”

Beau opened his mouth to ridicule the plan and then closed it again. It was rather elegant in its simplicity, and he saw at once why Kirby liked it so much. It would work. Edwin would break his neck to get here and witness his nemesis’ demise and would enjoy the opportunity to crow over his own cleverness. Though he wanted nothing more than to tell Miss Honeywell she was a silly chit with cobwebs for brains and bid her a curt goodbye, he could not.

“Fine,” he said, with a less than conciliatory manner, but he was cross and out of sorts and appearing before this woman who seemed to see him far too clearly in anything other than his precise best was making his skin itch. “You win. I’ll write to Edwin.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back to the hotel.

Chapter 5

Sweet and Sour.

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

Clementine seethed for the rest of the day, despite her best efforts. She kept busy, even forcing herself to perform tasks she usually avoided, like sorting the linens for mending, hoping to keep her mind from stewing over that… that dreadful man. How dare he! The gall of the arrogant peacock, implying she was only helping him as a ruse and was actually setting her cap at him. As if she would squander a moment of her time on such a… a waste of a man. Yes, she thought savagely. That was precisely what he was—a waste. He had been born to wealth and privilege, with good looks and robust health, and what was he doing with all the gifts bestowed upon him? Well, nothing useful, that was for good and certain. She ought to have left him to his fate and washed her hands of the entire matter.

“Whatever did that poor napkin do to vex you so?”

Clementine looked up at her father, who was regarding her with a fond mix of interest and concern. Glancing down at the napkins she had been arranging in the linen cupboard, she dropped the one she had been twisting in her hands and smoothed it out with little success.

“I hope that was not Lord Beaumarsh’s neck you were wringing,” he added with a wry smile.

Clementine sighed. Her father seemed to know everything that happened in Little Valentine, which, considering his well-known dislike of gossip, was quite remarkable.

“Mrs Adamson?” she guessed.

“I popped into The Mermaid’s Tale to speak to Mr Cogger as he was not at Sunday service and I’ve been meaning to find out why. Mrs Adamson invited me to take tea with her whilst I was there and scolded me on my lackadaisical parenting. She is a lovely young woman. I cannot think what is wrong with the men in this town that she is not besieged with offers of marriage,” he said, shaking his head in exasperation.

“She has offers of a different kind,” Clementine said in disgust.