Page 29 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“No. You weren’t,” he replied, a too knowing glint in his eyes.

Clementine huffed. Papa had too fine an understanding of human nature and was oddly omniscient at times. “I will not have you thinking that I am pining for the man, for I am not.”

“I know,” he said soothingly. “But he brought a bit of sparkle into our lives, did he not? I found him most interesting to talk to and wish I’d had the time to know him better, but he’s not a happy fellow, I fear. He’s searching for something, but he does not know it, and so he does not know what to look for.”

Clementine said nothing, having had similar thoughts about the man herself.

“I would have liked to be his friend,” she admitted.

“You are his friend, I think,” the reverend said placidly, linking their arms together as they walked the rest of the way home.

Chapter 9

Town bronze and country mice.

62 Sloane Street, Kensington, London, 6th June 1815.

The carriage drew up outside Beau’s town residence a little after eleven o'clock that evening. He jumped down, stretching out the cramps in his legs after too long confined in the carriage. He had allowed nothing but the briefest stops, too eager to be home. Yet now, as he looked up at his elegant townhouse, he was strangely reluctant to go in.

“I need a walk,” he told Kirby, who had sulked for most of the journey, making known his displeasure at returning so quickly to London. “I think I’ll visit my club and see who’s around.”

“Very good, my lord,” Kirby said morosely.

Beau opened his mouth to take issue with his gloomy servant but thought better of it. Kirby would get over it soon enough and everything would go back to normal. There would be the usual rounds of parties and social events, and his life would be his own again. It was an oddly depressing thought.

He told himself it was only that London was so scarce of company in the summer. In a few weeks, most anyone with any sense would leave to escape the heat—and, more to the point, the smell—by retiring to their country residences. Beau toyed with the notion of a visit Cavendish House. He’d not been there for an age, and his mother would be delighted if he spent a little time with her too. Perhaps he would, he mused, as he pushed open the door to White’s and looked around. It was quiet, making him wonder how many people had already left town.

“Beaumarsh!”

Beau looked around, raising a hand in greeting as he saw a familiar face.

“Stonehaven,” he said, nodding at the marquess, who had been a friend since his school days. “How do?”

“Well enough. This is an excellent claret, care to join me?”

Beau sat down and grimaced. “God, yes. I’ve spent the entire afternoon, and evening stuffed in a carriage with a sulking Kirby, and I’m tired and irritable. I’ll happily drink with you, but I need some food. Anything good on?”

“I had an excellent sirloin. I can heartily recommend it,” Stonehaven remarked, pouring out a glass for Beau.

Beau regarded his friend. He was a tall man, broad and powerfully built, with mid-brown hair and shrewd hazel eyes. They had been drinking companions and partners in crime since they were young lads sent away to school for the first time. Stonehaven liked to drink and to brawl far more than Beau, who feared breaking his nose, as Stonehaven had done more than once. Regardless of their differences, he was an excellent companion, yet Beau was aware he knew little about the fellow, despite having known him for so long. How odd, he thought suddenly, beset by the peculiar notion his childhood best friend was now a stranger to him.

“So, how are you? What have you been up to of late?” Beau asked with genuine interest, earning himself the quirk of an eyebrow.

“The usual,” Stonehaven replied, regarding Beau with curiosity.

“It wasn’t a trick question,” Beau said irritably, wondering why he was interested now when he’d been too idle or self-absorbed to ask the question in recent years. “I just wondered… I don’t know. Are you well? Have you seen your family of late? Do you have plans for the summer? Read any interesting books?”

Stonehaven stared at him suspiciously. “Good God, Beau, I’d heard you’d been taken ill. Did it affect your brain? Do you actually want an intelligent conversation with me? I can prattle as well as any old biddy if you like, but it’s not usually your brand of entertainment.”

Beau glared at him, realising he had been a terrible friend and wondering why Stonehaven had endured his selfishness. “We talk.” Didn’t they? Did Beau never ask after his family, or discuss politics with him or… or the weather, heaven help him? Surely they did something other than discuss the latest on-dits and what entertainment they were attending that night.

“Oh, indeed,” Stonehaven agreed with an amiable expression. “We say, ‘look, old chap, the brunette is for me, you take the blonde,’ or ‘deal me in,’ or ‘did you hear about Peterson, he’s up the River Tick and selling those fine greys.’”

“Fine, if you want to be an arse, I’ll find more agreeable company.” It was an unfair comment for Beau was now horribly aware he had been a complete arse, not Stonehaven.

Stonehaven chuckled, still good natured despite his friend’s egocentric behaviour. “Fine, fine. Have it your way. I am in perfect health. I saw my family three days ago. All are still breathing and spending my money as fast as they can get their sticky paws on it. I recently read Waverley. It’s rather hard going for the first few chapters, but overall, I rather enjoyed it. There. Does that satisfy your need for conversation?”

“You are an absolute pillock,” Beau said, but without heat, too relieved to discover he had not done irreparable damage to a friendship that was almost as old as he was.