Page 9 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

Izzy raised her eyes to the heavens and sighed, and Mrs Adamson looked increasingly ill at ease. “His lordship’s affairs are his own, Miss Honeywell. I know how it pains you when you cannot rearrange the world and everyone in it so everything falls into perfect order, but that man is not orderly and never will be. Be content with managing your family and all the lame ducks that fall into your path. Lord Beaumarsh is perfectly capable of looking after himself.”

Clementine smiled and assured Mrs Adamson she had not the least intention of interfering. The lady looked relieved, if not entirely convinced, and bade them a good day.

“I overheard something the other day,” Izzy said, lowering her voice as they made their way towards Winsham Woods. “About Mrs Adamson.”

Clementine glanced at her. “Papa doesn’t like us to gossip.”

“I know that,” Izzy said impatiently. “But everyone knows she was a rich man’s mistress before she came here.”

“Everyone thinks they know,” Clementine corrected sternly.

“Yes, but I was in the haberdasher’s buying some lace trim for Bea and I heard Madame Auguste talking to Mrs Doomsday, and they said she was mistress to the Marquess of Sheringham. They spoke as if it was common knowledge. Do you think that’s really true? Can you imagine? A marquess?” Izzy shook her head in wonder.

Clementine shrugged, still aggravated by Lord Beaumarsh being so appallingly idle he couldn’t bestir himself to save his own skin. “I don’t know, nor do I care. Mrs Adamson is a lovely woman and a successful businesswoman who deserves our respect and friendship. The way some people in this town treat her is shameful. We do not know if there is a grain of truth in the rumours, and even if it is true, so what? We know nothing of her circumstances at that time in her life. She may have been in desperate straits and had no option but to accept an offer that was less than respectable. She has survived and made a success of herself in a world that is unkind to the female sex. I, for one, think she is admirable.”

“Oh, so do I!” Izzy said hurriedly. “I was only curious. I mean, a marquess.” She breathed the word more than spoke it and Clementine laughed.

“A marquess!” Clementine repeated, throwing one hand out as if declaiming the word to the heavens. “You were not so impressed with an earl, I think.”

Izzy grinned. “Well, I was a bit impressed. He looked terribly wicked and handsome lounging about like that, just like Childe Harold.”

“Yes, a pretty fribble without a sensible thought in his head,” Clementine said, the frustration in her voice clear. “Honestly, all that wealth and power and the fool can’t even stop his family from trying to murder him. Oh, if only I were a man, the things I would achieve! Perhaps if I were, he’d listen to me, but you simply can’t tell some people. Yet someone should make him see sense.”

“Clementine,” Izzy said, wagging a finger at her. “You may not interfere in his life. No.”

“Oh, I’m not going to,” Clementine said crossly and picked up her pace, leaving her sister to scurry behind her.

The Vicarage, Little Valentine, South-East Coast of England. 2nd June 1815.

The following morning, Clementine threw herself into her daily tasks. She spent an hour developing her word square game, shared breakfast with her family and then began deciphering her father’s horrible handwriting, reworking it into something legible. Yet in the back of her mind seethed a knot of irritation that would not let Lord Beaumarsh’s imminent death by his cousin’s hand alone.

She told herself it was none of her affair if he didn’t care for his own wellbeing, but that had never stopped her from advising her neighbours when she saw a solution to their troubles. Clementine did not see why it ought to now, just because he was a stranger. Not that she was a busybody. Far from it. She was known for both her tact and her discretion, and loathed gossip as much as her father did. But people brought their troubles to her as often as they did Reverend Honeywell, knowing she was a sensible and educated woman with a good head on her shoulders. But just because they had invited her interference and Lord Beaumarsh had not, did not seem reason enough to at least try to help him.

Now she stood in the garden, wearing her oldest gown, helping Izzy pick fruit. She popped a raspberry in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. The tart sweetness exploded on her tongue, but her mind was too occupied to fully appreciate the delicious treat. Still, she plucked another from the bush and ate that too.

“Clem.”

Really, though, it was too vexing. How could that idiot man just leave his murderous cousin to go about attempting to finish him off and do nothing? Nothing! It was ludicrous. Not that she cared whether he lived or died. Well, no, that was not entirely true. Having been brought up to believe all life was sacred, she could not pretend indifference. But it would not matter if it were the Earl of Beaumarsh or Mr Bagot the butcher who was a grumpy curmudgeon, or some other fellow she didn’t know from Adam. No one had the right to take another’s life, and it annoyed her beyond bearing that the indolent fool of a nobleman was just going to let the matter rest. Clementine plucked another raspberry and was about to pop it in her mouth when her sister’s voice penetrated her abstraction.

“Clementine!”

Clementine jumped guiltily and dropped the raspberry to discover Isabelle glaring at her.

“What?” she demanded.

“We’re supposed to be picking raspberries, not eating them, and you’ve not heard a word I’ve said for the past ten minutes.”

“I have!” Clementine retorted.

Isabelle raised an eyebrow and folded her arms. “Go on, then.”

Clementine racked her brain for a likely topic, realising Izzy was right; she’d not heard a word.

“There, see?” Izzy said smugly. “You’re mooning about the Earl of Beaumarsh. Don’t deny it!” she warned, a devilish light in her eyes.

“I certainly shall deny it,” Clementine said at once, appalled by the notion. “Daydreaming about that idle peacock? I should think not.”

Izzy gave a disgruntled snort, challenging her sister with a hard stare. “Then it’s worse than I feared.”