Page 10 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)

“Why, the old sly boots,” Beau muttered, surprised, for he had never known Kirby to be much in the petticoat line himself.

Though he liked a pretty wench as much as the next fellow, Kirby harboured fond, if unlikely, hopes of finding a sweet young lady and getting married, of having a home and a family.

Beau did not like to disabuse him of the merits of the idea, nor to throw cold water on his valet’s hopes and dreams with his own cynicism, but he did not believe the dream would prosper.

The only marriages he had seen were financial transactions where two people wanted to gain something from the other.

The ones that worked best seemed to be when the two joined together in holy matrimony led entirely separate lives.

He was about to return to the hotel and leave his valet to his assignation when Beau realised he recognised the young lady.

And it was a young lady. More precisely, it was Miss Honeywell, the impertinent chit who had called on him demanding reimbursement for her boots.

Not that he blamed her for doing so, only for staring at him with such a look of…

of revulsion . As if his entire person offended her.

Kirby had liked her at once though, that much Beau remembered. He had just not realised how much.

“Devil take you, Kirby, what are you playing at?” Beau exclaimed, darting a look around to see if anyone had noticed the couple, for he knew well enough what kind of stir it would cause if anyone got wind of his valet dangling after a well-bred young lady in a place like this.

If Kirby looked less disreputable, it might not be such a problem, but people tended to take one look at him and assume the worst. That could sometimes be useful, but not right now.

Cursing under his breath, Beau realised he must intervene before either he or the young lady got too involved.

Taking one last look around to be certain he was not observed, Beau hurried across the beach.

Though it was a lovely summer morning, there was still a stiff breeze blowing across the beach, and the sound it made, combined with the distant shushing of the waves farther down the beach, disguised his footfalls until he was almost upon them.

Kirby looked up, startled, as he remarked Beau bearing down upon them.

“My lord!” he exclaimed, surprise turning to horror as he took in the Beau’s rumpled appearance. “My lord! ” he repeated, the appellation heavy with reproach this time.

“Don’t you ‘my lord’ me,” Beau said testily, glaring at his manservant with impatience.

“You’re the one who got me to drag my sorry behind out of my bed and dress in this unsightly fashion.

You’re the one keeping inappropriate assignations with young ladies who ought to know better,” he added, giving Miss Honeywell a pointed look that should have made her blush scarlet.

Indeed, her colour did rise, giving a pleasing pink tinge to her lovely complexion, but far from looking shamed or guilty, the girl only returned his glare with equal force.

“You really are the most ridiculous creature,” she said with a huff. “I feel sure that if Mr Kirby had any romantic notions, he would have suggested we find a rather more intimate and comfortable meeting place than the beach. It is a trifle damp,” she added tartly.

Kirby made a choked sound, and Beau swivelled his head to stare at his valet but, if that had been laughter, there was no evidence of it on his face now. Indeed, the wretch had adopted one of his best hangdog expressions, mingled with a healthy dose of reproach and hurt feelings.

“I’m here for your sake, my lord, and that’s the God’s honest truth,” he said, all dignity and injured pride.

Beau narrowed his eyes at Kirby before regarding Miss Honeywell once more. “It’s quite true,” she said, holding his gaze. “We are here to discuss your continued wellbeing, and for no other reason, which I am certain must be apparent by now.”

Damn, but she was a self-possessed female, so confident and sure of herself.

Most women blushed, fluttered their eyelashes, and looked bashful when he turned his attention upon them.

Well, apart from the knowing ones who were long past fluttering and pretending innocence.

Not that he blamed them for using their charms to try to capture his interest, it was their assigned role, to pretend they had not a brain in their heads, just as it was his to play the indolent nobleman.

This young woman clearly had not read her script with enough attention.

Though, he supposed in such a countrified part of the world, the prescribed roles might not be held to so rigidly.

“My wellbeing,” he repeated, bemused until he remembered her indignation at him letting his cousin off for his murder attempt with no reprisals. “Good Lord, Kirby, you don’t mean to tell me you’ve indulged this foolish girl and allowed her to convince you I’m in mortal peril?”

Miss Honeywell’s blue eyes flashed with a martial light that left him in no doubt of her opinion of him.

“The only foolish person here is you, my lord, if you insist on believing you are in no danger. From what Mr Kirby has told me, it is only thanks to your resilient constitution that you survived this last attempt. If your cousin is as desperate as it appears, he will try again, and soon.”

“My family and their somewhat dysfunctional method of showing their feelings is no one's business but our own,” he said, his tone severe as Miss Honeywell gave a loud snort in answer to his words.

Had she no notion of proper female behaviour?

“I did not ask you to meddle in my affairs and, indeed, I asked you in no uncertain terms to leave them be. This is a private matter and—”

“It’s a splendid idea,” Kirby piped up, before Beau could finish his stinging set down.

Beau hesitated. His brain was still suffering the after-effects of being half dead for several days, and he lost his train of thought as he registered the excitement in his valet’s eyes.

“It’ll work. I know it will. Why not just hear her out, eh? No harm in that, is there?” Kirby wheedled.

“Isn’t there?” Beau said darkly, eyeing Miss Honeywell with misgiving.

“Good heavens, Lord Beaumarsh. I do not see why you are getting so riled up when all I am attempting to do is to solve a problem for you,” Miss Honeywell said, impatient at his apparently wilful refusal to hear her out.

“You must forgive me, my dear,” Beau said, adopting his most condescending tone for the sheer pleasure of riling her. “But in my experience, ladies will do most anything for the chance of becoming the next Lady Beaumarsh. So, no matter what your scheme is, it will not prosper.”

She gasped at that, the blush he had expected earlier staining her cheeks. This time it was not so attractive, a hectic splotch of red that was only outshone by the sheer fury blazing in her eyes.

“Why, you conceited, arrogant, vile—” She broke off, breathing heavily as she struggled to contain her temper.

Having made what looked to be a truly heroic attempt to rein it in, she took a breath, her words measured and spoken with icy contempt.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear, my lord. My father is Reverend Honeywell, and, among other things, he has taught me the story of the Good Samaritan. I am doing this because it is my Christian duty to give help if I can, no matter how ill-deserving the person in question. The idea that I would ever lower my standards sufficiently to marry an idle peacock whose only concern appears to be whether his waistcoat is the precise colour of vibrant blue to match his eyes is an insult to my intelligence. I would not wed you if my life depended upon it, never mind my reputation. I trust I have made my position clear?”

Beau stared at her, admitting himself a little surprised by the attack and the precision with which she struck.

It gave him a rather odd and most uncomfortable feeling to have a woman who ought to be beneath his notice call him out for all the things he despised in himself.

He doubted whether he’d have cared a whit if anyone of his acquaintance had levelled the insult at him, for he would have put it down to jealousy.

Miss Honeywell was not jealous. Oh, no. She was in earnest and meant every word, and he felt the cold sting of them as they pierced his usually elephantine hide.

“Crystal,” he replied with a thin smile.

“Excellent,” she said in return, the word accompanied by a bland expression that gave nothing more away. Having lost her temper once, she had retreated behind a mask of cool civility. He did not blame her and intended to do the exact same thing.

Kirby stood between them like a great ox, dithering. Beau sent him an impatient glare that promised retribution for this morning’s work but held his temper firmly in check.

“Well, which one of you is going to outline this masterful plan? I have a day to idle away, wine to drink, and you might consider my position as a leader of fashion. Those waistcoats won’t choose themselves, will they?

” he said, trying to sound diverted by the idea but unable to keep the scathing tone from his voice.

Kirby glanced at Miss Honeywell, who seemed to have decided she had said enough for one day. Huzzah.

“Well, Miss Honeywell suggests we write to your cousin, telling him you are about to turn up your toes, and to come at once so you might give him details of your estates and financial dealings before you croak. Then, you enact a deathbed scene, where you get him to admit just how he administered the poison, assuring him you hold no hard feelings, and that you’d have done the same thing if your positions were switched. ”

“The devil I would!” Beau said hotly.

“Just to lull him into speaking plain,” Kirby said, looking as though his patience was wearing thin.

“So, you get him to confess, and once he has, Reverend Honeywell and the local justice of the peace come out from behind the curtains and bear witness to his confession. Then, if anything ever happens to you, nefarious-like, he knows he’ll swing for it. ”

Beau opened his mouth to ridicule the plan and then closed it again.

It was rather elegant in its simplicity, and he saw at once why Kirby liked it so much.

It would work. Edwin would break his neck to get here and witness his nemesis’ demise and would enjoy the opportunity to crow over his own cleverness.

Though he wanted nothing more than to tell Miss Honeywell she was a silly chit with cobwebs for brains and bid her a curt goodbye, he could not.

“Fine,” he said, with a less than conciliatory manner, but he was cross and out of sorts and appearing before this woman who seemed to see him far too clearly in anything other than his precise best was making his skin itch. “You win. I’ll write to Edwin.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back to the hotel.