Page 12 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)

Kirby looked somewhat mollified by these words and shrugged.

“S’alright,” he said gruffly. “You’re out of sorts, anyone can see that.

Look, I tell you what, I’ll stop nagging you about drinking the water if you’ll get some air.

It’s lovely down by the seafront. How about I find a blanket and a quiet corner, and you can get a bit of peace?

I’ll even give you the local paper to read.

That’s bound to keep you entertained,” he added with a grin.

Kirby looked so hopeful at this offer, Beau did not have the heart to reject it.

The idea of bestirring himself from the chaise longue on which he was currently reclining did not appeal.

Yet he remembered trips to the beach as a lad with his mother and they had been wonderful, with picnics and sea bathing and the building of sandcastles.

Not that he was about to indulge in such childish pursuits, but it might be pleasant to sit and listen to the sea.

Still, it would not do for Kirby to think he had capitulated too easily, so he grumbled and protested some more before finally giving in.

Clementine stared down at the obstinate word square game and sighed.

There were only two words and clues left to fit in to complete it, but her brain was refusing to cooperate.

She sat in the garden, having come outside hoping that the fresh air might help, but her mind refused to settle and instead she watched her sisters playing with Caspar.

Izzy was trying to teach him the rudiments of cricket and Bea was supposed to be helping but was laughing too hard at Caspar’s antics to be much use.

They persevered for another twenty minutes, with Caspar getting the hang of holding the bat, which was almost as big as he was, before he grew bored.

“I’m going to play with the kittens!” he announced, running off and abandoning the bat where it fell.

“Oh, me too! I’ll get there first,” Bea exclaimed, picking up her skirts and pretending to chase the little boy across the lawn.

They ran inside, Caspar squealing with laughter as he went. Izzy picked up the bat and hunted around in the shrubbery for the cricket ball, giving a little shout of triumph when she found it. She sauntered back to Clementine, the bat under her arm and her sunhat at a rakish angle.

“Any joy?” she asked, plonking herself down into the chair beside Clementine.

“No. My grey matter has shrivelled up and died,” she said with a sigh. “I really must finish this one. You know how tetchy I get if I fall behind in my schedule.”

“Well, why not go for a walk along the beach? That always clears your head.”

Clementine perked up at the idea. She had not managed a walk since she had crossed swords with Lord Beaumarsh. “Yes, I shall do that. Will you come too?”

Izzy pulled a face. “Oh, no. Sorry, love. I’m too hot now.

Besides, I’ve almost unpicked all the ribbon on my yellow muslin so Bea can put the lace on.

She’s been nagging me about it for days.

You know how I detest sewing and furbishing but she insists it will give it a whole new lease of life,” she added, rolling her eyes.

“Suit yourself.”

Clementine gathered up her papers and put them away before fetching her bonnet and striding out of the house.

As she had the morning she had met Mr Kirby, she took the winding footpath that led through the woods and went all the way to the beach.

Well-hidden unless you knew to look for it, the path was rumoured to be used by smugglers at night, and only the locals were aware of it.

Finding herself alone, she sat on the sand to take off her shoes and stockings.

It was warm, even for June, and the idea of paddling in the cool water was too delicious to deny indulging herself.

As always, the mere sight of the sea soothed Clementine.

No matter the time of year, no matter whether it was a placid blue or a seething riot of tossing grey waves, she felt better able to think, to breathe, when she was near it.

Standing on the sand, the cool water frothing about her toes, and turning her face up to the sun, she felt entirely at peace.

A short-lived situation as a drawling voice hailed her.

“Miss Honeywell, good afternoon to you.”

Turning in surprise, Clementine started as she saw Lord Beaumarsh.

He was lying on a rug, his long limbs arranged in their usual indolent sprawl that put her in mind of stories she had read of pampered pashas in their harems. As he was lounging in the shade of the trees that edged the beach, she had not noticed his presence.

Now she wondered how she had missed him, for even in the shade his hair shone as bright as a newly minted guinea.

“Lord Beaumarsh,” she replied stiffly, cursing herself for having removed her shoes and stockings and realising in horror he must have seen her do so. “You might have revealed your presence a little sooner,” she remarked tartly, hoping she had not given him an indecent show.

“Sadly, I was dozing and did not notice you arrive. Nor did I see you remove your shoes and stockings, or I should have announced myself earlier. Do not tease yourself, though, for I do not expect you to believe that. Please, do go ahead and scold me for my disgusting behaviour.” He waved a hand at her, as if encouraging her to get on with it.

Clementine looked at him with interest. There was such a scathing edge to the words, and something else too.

Frustration? Though what he was frustrated about, she could not fathom.

Perhaps being stuck in a place he obviously thought of as a rural backwater.

Still, her instincts told her he was telling the truth and had not seen her arrive.

“If you did not know I was here, I cannot blame you for having said nothing,” she said, her tone conciliatory.

“Thank you,” he replied, then his eyes glittered, and she just knew he was going to make some off-colour remark.

“Don’t,” she warned, narrowing her eyes at him. “Don’t spoil it.”

He pressed his lips together, amusement in his expression, before giving her a slight nod. “I beg your pardon.”

Despite herself, Clementine’s lips twitched, and she wondered what he’d meant to say.

“Did you write to your cousin?” she asked instead, steering the conversation to safer ground, though she knew she ought to leave.

Standing here chatting with such a man with her legs and feet bare, even if they were mostly hidden from view, was quite shockingly improper of her.

“I did. Kirby would never have let me hear the end of it if I hadn’t.”

“I can believe that,” Clementine replied, appreciating now that Mr Kirby was a most unlikely-looking valet. “He is a… a forceful character,” she said diplomatically, realising he looked forceful enough to break a neck if he so chose.

The earl chuckled at this observation, and the sound was warm and inviting, disconcertingly so when she had felt so ill at ease in his company on the two previous occasions they had met.

“That’s one way of putting it,” he said mildly.

“And yes, he is a rather unconventional manservant, for you are apparently quite desperate to ask me about him, but Kirby’s secrets are his own.

I will say that he is an excellent valet, if horribly bossy, and utterly devoted for reasons I cannot fathom.

Though I suppose I do pay well,” he added with a cynical curl of his lip.

Clementine digested this information with far more fascination than was good for her, but it revealed such a lot about the two men. More, perhaps, than his lordship intended to show her. Curious now, she could not help but delve a little deeper.

“He has been with you a long time.”

It wasn’t a question, for the rather disrespectful way Kirby spoke to his master illustrated something deeper than merely servant and employer.

Why else would Beaumarsh put up with such treatment?

Either they had been together since childhood days or were tied together by some shared experience that had formed a bond.

Or perhaps they simply liked each other, she admitted, telling herself to stop trying to solve riddles where there were none.

“He has,” Lord Beaumarsh agreed blandly, but offered no further information.

Understanding that the subject was off limits, Clementine nodded. She was a curious devil, it was true, but she had no desire to pry. Deciding she really must go before anyone saw them, she was about to bid him a good day when he asked,

“How long have you been setting the word games in the paper?”

Clementine froze and gaped at him, too astonished to deny it, or to react at all. Five years. For five years she had been setting the puzzle, and no one had ever figured out who the mysterious Mr Benedict Civil was. No one could have had told the earl, which meant he had figured it out.

Lord Beaumarsh grinned at her, a pleased, self-satisfied smile that lit up his face, making his eyes sparkle bluer and brighter than the sea at her back.

“Ah, not such a bottle-headed fribble after all,” he murmured, delighted at having astounded her.

Adjusting his position so he was lying on his side, his head supported on one arm, he said, “The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.”

Despite herself, Clementine found she too was delighted by his cleverness, and, strangely, just as much by the smug satisfaction he took in showing her he was clever.

Why it mattered to him that his deduction impressed her she could not fathom, but it did, and she was, and so she laughed.

Beatrice’s clever pun in Much Ado About Nothing compared Count John to a Seville orange, bitter and sour.

From Mr Civil to Mr Seville, it was not such a leap to Clementine.

“Go on, admit it, you’re impressed,” he said, grinning now.