Page 18 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“My lord?” she said in confusion.

Beaumarsh stared at her and shook his head. “When you focus your attention on a fellow, it’s like you might see directly into his head and poke about in his brain,” he said peevishly.

Clementine laughed and then wondered if she ought to be insulted by his words. Honestly, she couldn’t be bothered even if it had been an insult. She was too intrigued. “I assure you, I cannot do so,” she told him gravely.

“Hmm.” He looked unconvinced. “It’s my belief you are lucky you were not born a few decades earlier.”

“You mean I might have been burned for a witch?” she said with a snort. “Yes, I don’t doubt. A handy method for getting rid of females with too much perspicacity or knowledge. I cannot help but observe, Lord Beaumarsh, that it is your fear of my knowing what is in your head that makes you ill at ease, for you know as well as I do, I cannot perceive that which you do not willingly share.”

“Ah, but I don’t believe that,” he said, shaking his head and staring at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “What was it you gleaned about Kirby, about me, from the little I told you about him? There was a look in your eyes like I had revealed something of great interest that was most unsettling.”

Clementine opened her mouth to deny it and then closed it again. Though she hated to admit it, she was rather enjoying their conversation and was loath to put an end to it just yet. So instead of doing the sensible thing and refusing to be drawn, bidding him a good day, she considered what she had inferred from his words.

“Mr Kirby treats you with what some might consider a lack of respect, and yet he is clearly devoted to you,” she said, observing his face to see if his reaction confirmed her words. “There is a strong bond between you, one that runs deeper than employer and employee. That speaks of a long-standing relationship, or perhaps one forged in fire, by enduring an experience that shaped you both. But you refuse to acknowledge the sincerity of Mr Kirby’s devotion, putting it down to the fact that you pay well. That speaks to me of a man who does not value his own consequence and feels he does not deserve such devotion. You do not like yourself very much, I think, my lord,” she said gently, careful of his feelings and very aware she ought not to speak so intimately, and yet he had asked her to do so.

The coldly elegant, cynical lord she had first met at The Mermaid’s Tale made a sudden and aggressive reappearance. His face shuttered, his bearing stiff where it had been relaxed. She felt the chill immediately. To her surprise, she deeply regretted having offended him, for whilst his good opinion was nothing to her, she had not meant to upset him and had clearly touched a nerve. That had been thoughtless of her and not well done. Just because the words might be true did not mean he wished to hear them spoken by a stranger.

“As I said, Miss Honeywell, a fellow does not enjoy having you poke about in his brain,” he said curtly.

“My lord, I beg your pardon. That was dreadfully—”

“Think nothing of it. I invited you to speak your mind, did I not? Now, I believe I have had enough fresh air for one day. If you would excuse me.”

“Of course,” Clementine said, cursing her unruly tongue as she watched him snatch up the blanket he’d been sitting on and stride away. She wished he would allow her to apologise. What had she been thinking, saying such a thing? Yet it had seemed so obvious. Before her stood a man who had every advantage life offered, and yet he seemed not to value himself in the least. Why was that, she wondered? What had given him such a low opinion of himself?

“Not your business,” she told herself sternly as she sat down on a rock, brushing the sand from her feet now they were dry. “You must stop interfering in other people’s lives. Well, unless they specifically invite you to interfere,” she amended, and then sighed.

She was a hopeless case.

Chapter 6

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

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

Beau strode back to the hotel, anger burning inside him. How dare she! How dare she? The words circled in his mind as he slammed through the doors of the hotel, making Mrs Adamson almost leap out of her skin at the sight of him. He startled her to such a degree, the lovely flower arrangement she was about to place on the table in the centre of the entrance hall almost slid from her grasp.

Beau leapt forward and steadied it, and between them they put it carefully down.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, letting out a breath. “I did not mean to scare you.”

Mrs Adamson smiled. It was a lovely smile, and she was a beautiful woman, yet the smile did not quite reach her eyes. It was not quite genuine. She was not quite genuine, as if she were playing a part. Unlike Miss Honeywell, who was most determinedly exactly what she appeared to be. An interfering little busybody, he thought crossly. Yet that was not true, nor fair. He had asked her, had he not, what it was she had gleaned from his words? Just because she was a deal too astute for his comfort was not her fault.

“You appear a trifle discomposed, Lord Beaumarsh,” Mrs Adamson observed. “Why not come through to the terrace? Major Hancock and Captain Dearborn are already there, and Reverend Honeywell. It is a lovely cool spot on a warm afternoon and overlooks the sea. I have a splendid Rhenish wine, chilled to perfection,” she added enticingly.

Beau hesitated. He had fully intended to go upstairs and make a nuisance of himself to Kirby until he felt better, but he was far too curious not to meet the dreadful Miss Honeywell’s father, and he thought perhaps his stomach might accept a little glass of white wine where it had baulked at the red.

“That sounds perfect,” he said, and allowed Mrs Adamson to lead him up the stairs, through an elegant lounge area and towards large glass doors that opened onto the terrace.

Stepping outside, he discovered it was an enchanting spot. Large pots overflowing with red geraniums were set at intervals along the elaborate wrought-iron balustrade. The scarlet flowers seemed brighter still, set against the black painted fancy work of the railing. Along the wall of the house scrambled a lush climbing jasmine, the scent of its tiny white flowers quite intoxicating. Beau took a moment to appreciate the setting and the splendid view over the sea as Mrs Adamson led him to a table where three men were seated, sharing a bottle of wine. They looked up as Beau appeared, their expressions ranging from disapproving to welcoming.

“My Lord Beaumarsh, might I introduce you to Captain Dearborn, Major Hancock, and Reverend Honeywell? Gentlemen, this is the Earl of Beaumarsh.”

The reverend leapt to his feet and grasped his hand, shaking it warmly. “Good day, good day to you, my lord. How delightful to meet you!”

Beau did not know what he had expected of Miss Honeywell’s father, but he at once warmed to this jovial fellow with his twinkling blue eyes and toothy smile.

“A pleasure, my lord,” Major Hancock said, his greeting more formal but no less cordial.