Page 18 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)
Villains, victory and valedictory.
“—and then I babbled on, telling him all the reasons I should never marry, but it was quite all right as Mama had left me a little nest egg and Papa had also made provision. As if he cared a fig about my plans. Honestly, Clara, I wanted to walk into the sea I was that horrified but I could not make myself stop,” Clementine said in exasperation, feeling hot all over as she explained about her run-in with Lord Beaumarsh.
Clara regarded her over the rim of her teacup, clearly fascinated by her description.
“I’m sure it is not half so bad as you make out.”
“He came upon me talking to seagulls,” Clementine repeated.
“Well, yes, I can see how that might have been somewhat mortifying,” Clara admitted, struggling not to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” Clementine grumbled, though she could see very well why it was amusing to anyone who had not been at the centre of it.
“No. No, indeed.” Clara made a heroic effort to rearrange her expression into something sympathetic, and Clementine was about to tell her she was a shocking friend when a strident voice sliced through the convivial atmosphere.
“Clara! Clara! Who is that you are talking to? I won’t have visitors, girl. Have I not told you that you are not to spend my meagre savings on entertaining your friends? How selfish you are! Are you drinking my best tea? You had better not have used the best china!”
“No, Aunt,” Clara called back, which was a blatant lie, for the pretty rose-patterned tea set was right before them, not that Clementine was about to mention the fact.
“It is Miss Honeywell. Her father sent her to ask how you were,” she added, giving Clementine a look that dared her to judge her for the falsehood.
Clementine merely nodded, having no intention of doing so. Miss Edna Holloway would make her niece’s life a misery if Clara allowed her to, and Clementine admired Clara’s minor rebellions and how she found contentment in a life so filled with restrictions.
“Ha! You may tell her I am beset with pain and suffering, and my wicked niece does not care a snap of her fingers about it.”
“Yes, Aunt, I shall. Did you enjoy the crumpets I made for breakfast? There are more, and some more cherry jam if you would like,” Clara replied placidly.
There followed a brief silence during which Clementine imagined Miss Holloway deliberating between the pleasure of refusing outright and giving her niece another scolding, and the pleasure of enjoying more crumpets.
“You may bring me two more crumpets, and another cup of tea, assuming you have not drunk it all,” she said bitterly.
“Certainly, I shall,” Clara replied before turning back to Clementine and lowering her voice. “I’m sorry. You had better go before she works herself up into a pelter.”
Clementine nodded, not wanting to make Clara’s life any more difficult. Her friend followed her to the door and Clementine stepped out, about to bid her a good day, when Clara spoke.
“Don’t you wonder why Lord Beaumarsh makes you act like such a ninny? You are usually so sensible and very much in control. I have always very much admired and envied you your boldness and confidence,” she said thoughtfully, and then smiled as she closed the door.
Clementine laughed as she walked back down the path to the gate, for Clara was not subtle.
Indeed, she had wondered, not that it was a secret.
Lord Beaumarsh was young and handsome and terribly eligible and, despite being eminently sensible and, in some people’s minds, well beyond the age of forming a tendre for a fellow, Clementine was as human as the next girl and not above wishing for such a fine specimen to admire her.
“Foolish beyond permission,” she said on a sigh, and then looked hurriedly around in case anyone else had spied her talking to herself. She’d suffered quite enough embarrassment for one day.
Beau, draped indolently over a well-padded chaise longue, pondered the sight of an endless blue sea that blended with the sky.
Sighing, he lifted a glass of wine to his mouth and sipped.
It was a pleasant spot with a fabulous view, and the wine was excellent, yet he itched to leave.
Where was his ridiculous cousin? Surely the information that Beau was about to turn up his toes would have him careening over the countryside in his eagerness to witness the culmination of his dastardly plan?
It was just like Edwin to be unreliable even in this.
Well, Beau would give him another day, no more.
After that, he was done with Little Valentine.
He was bored out of his mind, and he needed something to do, needed entertainment and more sophisticated company than could be found in this rural backwater.
If he stayed here any longer, he might do something reprehensible just to break the tedium.
Despite promising himself he would not, his mind immediately turned to what kind of reprehensible thing he might do.
Not that his wretched imagination needed much prodding.
The sight of Miss Honeywell in her demure nightgown had burned itself into his mind and would not shift.
There was something about that excess of prim white cotton that did terrible things to his equilibrium.
The thought of putting his hands on it, of rumpling and tugging up all that smoothly ironed snowy fabric and feeling the warm body beneath it, made his libido surge.
Usually, the ladies he dallied with wore little scraps of silk and lace. Often the silk was damped down to cling, leaving far more on display than was hidden. Miss Honeywell was something new, something untried. Oh, yes. Untried. As in not to be tried by the likes of you, Beaumarsh, you devil.
Reviling himself more than usual, Beau took a larger swallow of wine and cursed his cousin anew. He was just contemplating opening another bottle and getting thoroughly foxed when Kirby burst into the room.
“Quick!” he exclaimed, puffing as if he’d just outrun the dogs of hell.
Beau sat up, alarmed. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Edwin!” Kirby wheezed, bending double. “Just s-saw the blighter. Carriage will be here any moment.”
“About bloody time!” Beau said with feeling. “Well, don’t just stand there, help me out of these clothes. I can’t enact a deathbed scene dressed like this.”
Kirby wiped his face with his handkerchief and hurried over, still breathing hard. “I sent word to the reverend, and to Mr Chivers.”
“Chivers?” Beau queried.
“The local justice of the peace. Honeywell said he’d arranged it, but we’ll need to keep Edwin out of the way until they’re here.”
Beau flung his waistcoat to one side and began stripping off his shirt. “Well, I leave that to you, old man, but I reckon Mrs Adamson will play along if you ask her nicely.”
“Reckon so,” Kirby agreed, pulling a clean nightshirt out of the wardrobe and flinging it at his master.
Beau, not ready for the assault, glowered as it hit him in the face, before shaking it out and tugging it over his head. “Where’s that rice powder you bought?”
“I’ll fetch it,” Kirby said, drawing the curtains so the room was plunged into gloom. “Best keep it dark, though, you look a damn sight too healthy now and the rice powder won’t make you look overly sickly.”
Beau nodded, but took the powder and covered his face with the stuff before giving an almighty sneeze.
Kirby rolled his eyes but drew back the bedcovers. “Hop in then. I’ll send Honeywell and Mr Chivers up the back stairs once they’re here. In the meantime, I’ll tell Edwin you’re sleeping, and you’ve had a dreadful night, so I won’t wake you yet. He’ll just have to kick his heels.”
“Right you are,” Beau said, eager for this farce to be over so he could get back to his life.
Climbing into the bed, he lay down with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling, trying to arrange himself in the pose of a man about to breathe his last. Uncertain what that might be, he figured it probably wasn’t much different from a fellow passed out dead drunk, and he could pull that off without much difficulty.
Clementine glanced up from riddle she was working on just as her father rushed past the open door to the study. He looked to be in a terrible hurry.
“Papa?” she called, wondering if someone was dying, for that was the only thing that usually sent him out with such haste.
“Beaumarsh’s cousin has arrived!” he called as he tugged the front door open.
“Oh! Wait for me,” Clementine exclaimed, abandoning the word game without a second thought.
Snatching her bonnet from hall stand where she had left it, she unhooked her spencer from the peg and ran after her father.
Sticking the bonnet haphazardly on her head and shoving one arm into the coat as she ran, she turned to her father.
“You can’t be thinking of leaving me out of this. It was my plan!”
“Fine, fine, but we must make haste,” the reverend said, moving with remarkable speed for a man of his years and generous girth.
By the time they reached The Mermaid’s Tale, even Clementine was pink-cheeked as the afternoon sun made such strenuous effort hard work. Happily, Mr Kirby awaited them at the side entrance.
“Figured you’d be here too,” he said sagely, not arguing about Clementine’s presence and merely ushering them up the back stairs and into Beau’s bedroom.
Clementine made haste at Kirby’s urging but came to a grinding halt just inside the room as she got her first glimpse of the death-bed scene.