Page 8 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“I shall, of course,” she said at once, and her expression changed to one of concern. “But would you like me to summon a doctor? Surely if you have—”

“No, certainly not,” he said with some force. “Kirby has already forced me to endure the prodding of an incompetent quack, and I’ll not repeat the indignity. It because of the wretched fellow’s advice that I’m here at all. I’ll recover soon enough without the town’s ghastly waters. I usually do.”

“Usually?” she exclaimed, and Beau noted with interest that everything she felt was clearly expressed upon her face, judging from the scandalised shock he was looking at now. “You have been poisoned before?”

Beau felt his lip curl as he regarded her with well-earned world-weary cynicism. “My dear, I am a wealthy man with a title. My cousin is my sole heir, and he’s so very eager to inherit. He is ten years older than I am and has been trying to end my life since I was a boy. Sadly, my health is shockingly robust, but he feels compelled to make these little attempts from time to time. Yet, I continue to breathe. Pray do not trouble yourself over it.”

“But… But that is sheer wickedness!” she said, outrage shining in her eyes. Good Lord, but she was a virago. He’d bet anything that she ran this misbegotten town, for she was too bold and outspoken not to. “He must not be allowed to get away with it. Have you informed anyone? A magistrate?”

“Miss Honeywell,” Mrs Adamson said in an undertone, but the young woman ignored the warning and Beau stared at her with interest before he replied.

“I have no desire for my family name to be dragged through the mud and to give the tattlemongers a field day.”

“But you are always in the scandal sheets for one reason or another. What difference does it make?” she demanded, looking genuinely perplexed.

Irked by the question, Beau stiffened. “There is a good deal of difference between being remarked at a certain gathering in the company of a certain person, or for wearing something the ton finds remarkable, or for cutting a toadeater down to size with a few choice words. Personal family business ought to remain in the family.”

“But surely you will do something?” she asked him, looking appalled by his sanguine acceptance of the situation.

“What do you suggest I do?” he replied, bored with this interview now. His guts felt most peculiar, his head throbbed like the very devil, and all he wanted to do was sleep. “Poison him in return?”

“Certainly not, but—”

“I think we had best leave his lordship to his recovery,” Mrs Adamson said firmly, for which kindness Beau made a mental note to give the proprietress a generous tip. “It really isn’t seemly for you to be here, Miss Honeywell, and I do not want your papa here preaching at me about the impropriety I have allowed in my establishment. It is hard enough to be a single female and run a respectable hotel. I cannot allow you to jeopardise my standing in the town.”

Miss Honeywell looked vexed and frustrated by this observation but did not argue the point. Instead, she turned back to Beau and dipped a curtsy.

“Thank you, my lord, for your understanding. I hope you recover quickly.”

Beau inclined his head and watched as Mrs Adamson escorted them to the door. She had almost ushered Miss Honeywell through when the woman stopped, opening her mouth to speak once more. What she might have said remained a mystery, however, as her younger sister gave her a firm shove and expelled her from the room.

Kirby gave a snort as the door closed behind them. “I like her. Got gumption,” he observed with approval.

“Just because she thinks like you do, does not make her right,” Beau grumbled, having heard enough from Kirby on the subject of how he ought to deal with his cousin.

“Yes, it does,” Kirby replied, picking up the cup Beau had sincerely hoped he might have forgotten about. “Now drink your medicine like a good fellow.”

Beau groaned.

Chapter 3

One cannot help but wonder who will drop dead first?

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, South-East Coast of England, 1st June 1815.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, letting you visit that man in his rooms,” Mrs Adamson said, shaking her head. “Your father will skin me alive.”

Clementine laughed at this preposterous notion and Mrs Adamson smiled ruefully.

“Well, he ought to skin me alive. He’s a deal too lax with you and your sisters, if you ask me,” the lady added with some force.

“No one saw us, I’m sure,” Clementine said soothingly. “And we’ll go out through the kitchen and back through the woods.”

Mrs Adamson looked sceptical, but she sighed and shook her head. “You two need to watch yourselves, especially around the likes of Lord Beaumarsh. You’ve got what you wanted from the meeting, now stay away from him.”

“Oh, we shall,” Isabelle said firmly, before darting a fierce look at her sister. “Won’t we, Clemmie?”

“Hmm?” Clementine said, her mind still turning over the conversation with Lord Beaumarsh. Would he really allow his cousin to almost take his life and do nothing? Surely, he could not mean it. Catching Izzy’s scowl, she started and returned to the conversation. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said, hoping that was the correct answer.