Page 22 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“Good morning, Mrs Adamson. You are looking in prime twig, as my valet would say.”

“Your valet has said so,” she replied with a wry smile. “Now, what may I get you? Tea or coffee? The kippers are excellent but there is kedgeree or a nice sirloin, or you may have gammon and eggs.”

“Oh, coffee, gammon and eggs, I think,” Beau replied, looking up as Captain Dearborn came into the room.

“Very good, my lord. Good morning, Captain,” Mrs Adamson said, turning to him. “Your usual table?”

Dearborn glanced at Beau and hesitated.

“Please, do join me,” Beau offered, rather surprised at himself, for he could not endure company or conversation from anyone but Kirby in the morning until he’d had several cups of coffee.

Dearborn nodded and walked towards his table, carefully setting his walking stick on the back of his chair before sitting down rather heavily.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Oh, call me Beaumarsh, everyone does,” he said, assuming the man would balk at calling him Beau.

Dearborn nodded and ordered the kedgeree and a pot of tea. “Will you be with us long?” he asked once Mrs Adamson had taken their orders.

Beau hesitated. He was of half a mind to tweak the fellow and pretend a long stay, but he shook his head. “No. I have a little business to conclude, and then I shall return to London.”

“Business, in Little Valentine?” the captain said with a laugh. “Unless you are a smuggler or quack, I cannot imagine what your business might be.”

Beau raised an eyebrow, wondering whether to give the fellow a set down, but couldn’t be bothered. In London, he would have crushed such a comment, which showed too much interest in his personal affairs, but somehow it was different here, and he found he did not resent the captain’s interest so much.

Still, Dearborn was not such a slow top as to not realise his error. He cleared his throat. “I say, I beg your pardon. None of my affair.”

Waving this away, Beau shook his head. “It’s of no consequence, but I can assure you I am neither a smuggler nor a physician.”

“I never thought it,” Dearborn replied dryly. “I supposed you came to drink the waters. If it is not prying to ask, why did you come here? I would have thought Bath more your touch.”

“So would I,” Beau said wryly. “But as I was out of my head, my valet made the decision. I believe my physician told him this was the closest spa town to the city, and that sold it. He’s not much of a one for travel, especially in the company of a man who is as sick as a horse.”

“Can’t blame him for that,” the captain remarked, falling silent as the coffee and his pot of tea arrived. A young maid set the tray down at the table, laying the items out along with a jug of milk, another of cream and a bowl of sugar, before bobbing a curtsey and scurrying away again.

“Did the reverend stay long after we left?”

“He did,” Beau replied with a smile. “I walked him home, actually. I feared he might spend the night in a ditch otherwise.”

“Oh, that was jolly decent of you,” Dearborn said, looking so surprised Beau could not help but smile.

“It was. I can’t think what came over me,” he replied with a crooked smile.

The captain laughed at this sally and seemed to relax a degree, and when their breakfast arrived, they ate the splendid repast in amiable silence.

“Good morning, Miss Honeywell!” called a cheerful voice as Clementine made her way into the haberdasher’s.

“Good day to you, Mrs Doomsday,” Clementine replied, amused, as always, by the incongruity of the lady’s name and nature. Her mother-in-law, old Mother Doomsday, more than made up for the disparity, but had long since retired from the shop, heaven be praised.

“What can I do for you today?” the lady asked, her eyes bright and alert with the prospect of a large order.

Sadly, the Honeywell family did not spend large sums upon fabric and furbishing, for whilst their home was a comfortable one and they were well provided for, fashion was rather beyond their reach. It had never bothered Clementine before, but that morning when she had slipped on her favourite sprigged muslin, she had noted how shabby it looked, the lace upon the short, puffed sleeves sadly threadbare, and the ribbon trim worn thin in places. Having noted the splendid job Bea had made of Izzy’s yellow gown, she thought perhaps she might try to do the same herself.

There was no particular reason for the effort, she assured herself. A desire to have a few pretty things for the summer was perfectly natural. Yet the image of Lord Beaumont, handsome and unreachable in the moonlight, flickered in her mind’s eye. Recalling the moment when he had reached out and softly traced a line over her brow with his fingertips still made her shiver.

Fool, she told herself sternly, and returned her attention to Mrs Doomsday, whose hopeful expression had fallen into one of resigned good cheer.

“Some blue ribbons, and perhaps a few yards of lace,” Clementine said with a smile.