Page 15 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“Sadly, she does,” her father agreed. “And yet she bears the indignity with such grace. I admire her, I do truly.”

“As do I,” Clementine agreed, closing the linen cupboard door and hoping to divert her father onto a different subject so he would forget the earl. “We really ought to do something to change people’s perception of her and make her respectable. It is too bad that she is treated as though she’s a scarlet woman by people who would call themselves Christians.”

“Quite so, quite so,” the reverend agreed. “But that does not answer my question. Was that Lord Beaumarsh’s neck you were wringing with such enthusiasm?”

Clementine regarded her father, noting the mischief in his expression, and threw up her hands. “Yes, if you must know, it was indeed. Really, Papa, he is the most arrogant and vexatious man it has ever been my misfortune to meet. If that is what the nobility considers the cream of the crop, I can well understand why you decided to have nothing to do with it.”

Her father returned a wry smile. “Well, that is kind, pet, but it is rather the ton that decided to have nothing to do with me. Or at least, my father decided for them.”

“Yes, but you could have not married Mama, if it meant cutting ties with everything you knew,” Clementine insisted.

The reverend laughed heartily at that. “Oh, no. No, indeed, I could not have done. One day, when you fall in love, you will realise how vital one person can be to your happiness. It was not even a choice. It simply never occurred to me not to marry her. The rest of the world could go hang for all I cared.”

Clementine smiled, always delighted to hear her father speak of her mama. “You were both very lucky, I think.”

“Undoubtedly,” the reverend said with feeling. “But stop trying to divert me, you wicked child. I know your tricks, but I’m up to your weight, you see. We were speaking of the earl and his dastardly cousin’s plot to murder him.”

“You did have a nice chat,” Clementine said wryly as her father followed her down the stairs to his study.

He closed the door behind them and went to pull the bell cord by the fireplace. “How could I fail to in such charming company?” he said, regarding her with a smile. “She thanked me again for all the help we gave her when that wretch Adderly was creating such a nuisance of himself making disrespectful offers, but I reminded her that was all your doing. Really, putting the word around that he was besotted and courting her with all the assiduousness of a lovesick puppy was just the thing to ensure she never saw the fellow again. If he’d continued to dog her steps, he would have looked entirely foolish. Your Machiavellian mind is a wonder to me,” he said, without a trace of irony.

“That shouldn’t be a compliment, Papa,” Clementine observed, but her father simply shrugged. When Polly appeared, he asked her for a pot of tea and some biscuits before returning to their conversation.

“Well, it is a compliment when your skills are used entirely for the good of others, which brings me back to the earl. Mrs Adamson told me what his valet let slip and, of course, hearing that, I did not doubt you would be itching to come up with a plan to thwart his cousin in his endeavours. I take it you have a plan?” he asked, treating his daughter to a level look that was at once benign but dared her to pull the wool over his eyes.

Clementine nodded. “I do, and I fully intended to tell you, before you scold me for not doing so, for I shall need your help with it.”

“Oh?” her father said, perking up, for he enjoyed being a part of her plots and schemes when he could.

Succinctly, Clementine outlined her plan for Edwin Cavendish, and her father sat back and chuckled, settling his hands on a rounded stomach that was rather plumper than it ought to be.

“Simple and easy to execute,” he said with approval. “He shall be hoisted by his own petard. Well done, Clemmie, my dear.”

Clementine smiled, basking in the light of her father’s approval. “Thank you, Papa.”

“No, no. I thank you,” he said, grinning. “I have always wanted to hide behind a curtain and reveal my presence at a dramatic moment, and now I have the chance. How marvellous.”

Clementine snorted and went over to her father, pressing a kiss to his whiskery cheek. “You are quite welcome, dearest Papa,” she said, and left him to make a mess of her orderly desk.

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, South-East Coast of England. 5th June 1815.

“Not there, there,” Beau snapped, aware he was trying Kirby’s patience.

He had been impossible for the past two days and it was a wonder the poor man hadn’t landed him a facer. He knew he deserved it. No matter how many times he told himself he did not know why he was so vexed and out of sorts, he knew it was a lie. He could put it down to the remnants of poison in his system, or to the machinations of a man who was his own flesh and blood, or to being incarcerated in a place he would not be caught dead in usually, or simply to the usual ennui that seemed part and parcel of the life of a high-born gentleman.

It was none of those things.

Try as he might, he could not rid himself of Miss Honeywell’s words, and more to the point, the scathing tone with which she had delivered them.

The idea that I would ever lower my standards sufficiently to marry an idle creature 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 felt his stomach clench as the words rang in his head again, and it definitely wasn’t the arsenic or the wine. It was that dowdy young woman, wearing a gown years out of date, who seemed to have no notion of fashion and who ought to be far beneath his notice, who was twisting his guts into a knot. It was her cool appraisal of his character, the way she had called him out, pointing directly at everything he was feted for and yet hated most about himself. He had spent his whole life presenting himself to the ton as an indolent, cynical man of fashion, one who cared for nothing and no one, and he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. The ton thought him sophisticated and urbane, clever and witty, and the one man they must have at any gathering to ensure its social success. And Miss Honeywell had made him feel his entire life had been a colossal waste of time and effort. He could not understand how she had done it.

Miss Honeywell was not here, however, and Kirby was—the poor sod.

His increasingly aggravated valet gritted his teeth and moved the glass of wine one inch to the left.

“You ought to be drinking the waters, that’s what we came here for,” Kirby said stubbornly, not for the first time that morning.