Page 6 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)

One cannot help but wonder who will drop dead first?

“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.

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. 2 nd 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.”

“How could it be worse than daydreaming about a man of that ilk?” Clementine demanded, startled.

Hands on her hips, Izzy glared at her accusingly. “You’re thinking up ways of thwarting his dastardly cousin.”

Clementine opened her mouth to object and closed it again. “I was not thinking anything of the sort.”

Izzy made a disbelieving sound and picked up the basket they were supposed to be filling, returning her attention to the raspberries. “If you are going to tell me fibs, I shan’t talk to you,” she said loftily.

“It’s not a fib! I wasn’t thinking of ways to thwart him. I was only thinking he ought to be thwarted. It’s different,” Clementine replied, scowling as Izzy rolled her eyes. “It is!”

“Clementine Honeywell, you love puzzles and rearranging people’s lives for the better, and despite making out you cannot bear gossip, you delight in a bit of intrigue.

On top of that, ever since you figured out Jem Smith was the one stealing our eggs, you’ve fancied yourself some manner of lady Bow Street Runner,” Izzy said, shaking her head.

“That is a horrid thing to say and quite untrue,” Clementine replied, irritated, not least because it was a little bit true.

“I just cannot believe the man can be so lost to reason that he would allow his cousin to make another attempt. You cannot turn your back upon wickedness and pretend it away, or you allow it to flourish. Don’t you remember that mangy dog that Joseph Bagot was beating for hanging around the butcher’s shop? What did I do about that?”

“Snatched Captain Dearborn’s whip from his gig where he’d left it and drove the fellow down the high street, asking how he liked it,” Izzy replied, grinning at the memory.

“I’ve never heard a man scream quite like he did.

Still, old Mr Drury is so happy with his canine companion now.

I must admit, you chose the perfect home for him once we’d fed the poor creature up a bit. ”