Page 21 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“That was very good of you,” she said, taking her father’s arm and guiding him to the door. “Go straight up to bed now for you’ll having a shocking headache in the morning, I fear. I will bring you a nice pot of coffee first thing, though.”

“Ah, you’re a good girl, Clemmie,” Honeywell said, patting her cheek as she released her hold on him. “Night, night, pet. Goodnight, Beaumarsh!” he called over his shoulder as he made his way indoors.

“Good night, sir.”

Beau hesitated, knowing he ought to leave at once, but strangely reluctant to do so when he might continue looking at Miss Honeywell.

“My lord,” she said, moving closer and stopping just the other side of the gate. “I wish you would allow me to apologise for my words earlier. I’m a tactless clodpole who sticks her nose in where it has no right being, I know it’s true, and I ought never to have spoken so. Please forgive me.”

Beau studied her, reading the sincerity in her expression. Moonlight fell upon her face, softening features that were often set in implacable lines, stubborn creature that she was. Why the devil was she even concerned about his difficulties? She had made it very clear she didn’t give a farthing for him and was not interested in him as a man. Not as a husband, at least. Miss Honeywell had made that point most succinctly, and he did not doubt the veracity of her words. She would do far better than he when she took a husband. No doubt she would choose someone she considered worthy. A man of character, of high morals and unimpeachable honour. Perhaps the local schoolteacher was such a creature, though surely she could look higher than that. She did not care about social standing, though, that much was obvious.

“Oh dear. I have vexed you,” she said with a sigh, as Beau realised he’d still not replied to her question. Worry made her brow furrow and, before he could think better of it, Beau reached out and touched the little crease in her forehead, as if he could smooth it away. It vanished as her expression shifted from concern to astonishment, colour flooding her cheeks, and Beau snatched his hand back, as shocked as she was.

“It seems I must apologise now,” he said with an awkward laugh. “I believe I am a little foxed myself. Please do not trouble yourself, Miss Honeywell. There is nothing for you to apologise for. Now, I had best be going. Good night.”

“Good night,” she whispered, the words a little breathless.

They rang in Beau’s ears as he hurried back the way the reverend had led him and prayed he would not get lost. Had she welcomed his touch, he wondered, despite reviling him for being a vain peacock? No, he had best not think of that. Far better that he got himself back to the hotel before Kirby fretted to death and convinced himself Edwin had kidnapped him.

With that happy thought quickening his steps, Beau hurried back to The Mermaid’s Tale.

Chapter 7

Kedgeree, lace, and talkative seagulls.

The Mermaid’s Tale. Little Valentine, South-East Coast of England. 6th June 1815.

“You’re looking quite the plump currant this morning, my lord,” Kirby said with approval, as he handed Beau a pristine white cravat.

Though Beau would be the first to credit Kirby for turning him out in prime style, the cravat was his own domain and one he jealously guarded. Kirby took no affront, however, for Beau’s hands were deft and sure and even the fussy valet would admit his efforts were to be applauded. Choosing the mathematical for its simplicity and style, Beau only needed one attempt before Kirby handed him a small gold pin with a sparkling sapphire at the top with which to fasten it.

“Yes, I feel rather better,” Beau admitted, turning away from the looking glass.

“It’s all that sea air, fresh, ain’t it? Air in the city is so thick you can chew it,” Kirby added with a grimace.

“That must be why I’m famished,” Beau remarked, regarding Kirby with speculative interest. “But you cannot be implying that you would prefer to remove to the countryside?”

“Why not?” Kirby asked, not looking up as he rearranged his master’s brushes and articles on the dressing table. “I like it here. Pretty, ain’t it? Peaceful too, and it’s not like there’s no society. Reckon you had a fine time putting the world to rights with the reverend and his cronies.”

Beau laughed and shook his head. “It was a very pleasant evening, I admit, but only because it was a novelty. You surely can’t see me retiring to such a spot? I’m not in my dotage.”

Kirby straightened and rolled his eyes. “Not retiring, and I ain’t speaking specifically of this town. But Cavendish House isn’t a million miles away, and it’s such a lovely place. Seems a shame to let it go to waste.”

“It isn’t ‘going to waste,’ it’s tended by an army of people and much enjoyed by my mother. It also supports itself and the staff, and is in excellent heart, I thank you,” Beau said testily.

“Reckon that’s true,” Kirby allowed. “But only your ma sees it. You’re never there. The place needs a family, kiddies running about and causing mischief and—”

“Good God, Kirby!” Beau exclaimed, exasperated. “What has got into you? You’re worse than my damned mother. Stop trying to get me leg shackled. Edwin ought to get that letter any moment, presuming he’s home, and he’ll be down here before we know it. Once that little scene has been enacted and I am safe to go about without employing someone to taste every morsel before I eat and drink, like some ancient Roman emperor, we shall be on our way.”

“Yes, sir,” Kirby said stiffly, gathering up his master’s dirty linens and stalking from the room.

Beau groaned. Now Kirby would sulk, and he really did not have the energy to jolly him out of it. Though he usually broke his fast in the privacy of his own room, today Beau decided escaping his huffy valet might be for the best and escaped downstairs.

Like the rest of the hotel, the breakfast parlour was bright and elegant. Large windows opened onto the front of the house, displaying the lovely blue sea sparkling in the sunshine. A soft breeze drifted in, bringing with it a salty tang and the soft rushing sound of waves upon the shore.

“Good morning, my lord.”

Beau looked up as Mrs Adamson walked into the room. She looked like a summer day in a lovely gown of white jaconet muslin. She wore her hair twisted with a simple bandeau and the cascading red curls were extraordinary against her fair skin and the white dress. He wondered what a woman of her looks was doing running a hotel of all things and speculated about Mr Adamson. Was she a widow perhaps, or was the ‘Mrs’ a social nicety? He suspected the latter but cared little either way. She was a delightful picture to rest his eyes upon, but she held no interest for him, and he wondered why.