Page 7 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)

“Quite so, and you seem astonished that I would react differently when a man’s life is at stake and not a dog’s?

It matters not whether he is a good man or a reprobate.

No one may destroy a life. You saw Lord Beaumarsh, Izzy.

He looked dreadful, so pale and hollow-eyed.

His valet said himself he’d feared he might die. ”

“Hmm,” Izzy replied with a sigh, affecting a nonchalant tone Clementine did not believe for a moment as she hurled raspberries into the basket.

“Yes, he did. But such eyes he had, didn’t he, Clem?

I’ve never seen such a dark shade of blue.

Would you call that azure or cobalt? And that hair, gold as a field of ripe barley.

And those big shoulders clad in all that luxurious silk—”

“Izzy!” Clementine said, shocked by her sister’s flight of fancy. “You cannot be serious! Do you know me so little as to think the sight of a pretty face should take me in and make lose my wits?”

“No, of course not! I know he’s not at all the type to make you act the fool, but you’ve just admitted you are considering meddling in his affairs, and that is bound to cause talk, if not trouble of the kind I tremble to consider.

Can you imagine if it got about that you were entangled with the Earl of Beaumarsh?

Beau Beaumarsh. Excitement of that kind would have half the population of the town drop dead with shock.

They’re just not used to it. This is a quiet place where nothing ever happens.

Whilst that might be an appalling prospect, I’d rather it were not you who sets the cat among the pigeons. ”

“No, you’d rather do it yourself,” Clementine said with a snort.

Izzy shrugged, unperturbed by the accusation.

“When one spends such a lot of time reading about adventures and exotic travel, one cannot help but feel the desire to experience such things. However, I do know the difference between reality and fantasy, and I do not wish to see you ruined. I will not return to that hotel with you, Clem, and if you go alone, I shall never speak to you again.”

“Oh, Izzy, don’t be daft, as if I would,” Clementine said with a sigh, immediately wondering how she might get word to his lordship when she figured out a workable plan.

His valet was her best option, for he was bound to go out and about the town on errands for his employer, or perhaps just to do a bit of exploring.

Mrs Adamson, discreet as she was, had admitted they had come specifically to drink the waters, as most visitors did, though one would need to be determined or desperate for a cure to do so in Clementine’s opinion, for they tasted utterly vile.

That was if you could overcome the smell for long enough to swallow the horrid stuff.

Still, people seemed to believe the worse something tasted the better it was for them, a principle Clementine was not about to challenge, even if she would never swallow the stuff herself.

She lifted her hand distractedly, about to eat another raspberry, but sensing her sister’s gaze, stilled and, with a smile, made a great show of placing the berry carefully in the basket and picking another.

Izzy scowled, and Clementine reflected that she would have to be careful and sly to thwart her sister’s interest.

“You wish for me to ask you to come to the tea shop with me?”

Clementine gave Miss Clara Halfpenny a sheepish smile and nodded. “Yes, please.”

Happily, Clara did not look at her as if she’d lost her wits, nor ask why on earth she was being manoeuvred. She simply nodded.

“Very well. Clementine, would you accompany me to the tea shop, please? Should we go at once?” Clara added in an undertone. “Is the alibi I am providing time sensitive? Or is there a specific hour when I should issue the demand?”

“Now would be perfect,” Clementine admitted. “Providing your aunt won’t notice your absence?” Clara’s aunt was a mean-spirited virago of a woman and the last thing Clementine wished for was to get her into trouble with her relative.

“She’s napping,” Clara said, shaking her head. “Now suits me perfectly, so long as we are not away for more than an hour.”

“No, an hour will do nicely, thank you, but aren’t you going to ask me why I want you to ask me to go?” Clementine regarded Clara, wondering at her lack of curiosity.

“No, why should I?” Clara asked, getting to her feet. “It must be important, or you would not ask it of me, and I am too glad to have company for a while and to take tea with you to ask awkward questions.”

Clementine felt a surge of guilt at this guileless answer and wished she had called upon Clara a bit more often.

Not that she did not wish to, but calling too often could get Clara into trouble.

Sometimes Clara would see her coming and come to the door, shaking her head and waving her away.

Not for the first time, Clementine wished there was something she could do for Clara, who depended upon her aunt’s miserly version of charity for her very existence.

“Does your aunt always nap at this hour?” Clementine asked quietly as they gathered their bonnets and spencers. Perhaps if the woman had a schedule now, she could time her visits to coincide.

Clara put a finger to her lips, and they tiptoed outside.

Clementine thought perhaps Clara held her breath until she had successfully closed the front door and listened for her aunt’s strident voice demanding to know where she was going.

As all was silent, Clara let out a breath, and they hurried down the winding path to the front gate.

“She does often take a nap in the afternoons these days,” Clara said, glancing over her shoulder as they opened the garden gate, still looking as if she believed her aunt would thwart the excursion.

“Her health is not what it was, and she tires easily.

But you cannot depend upon it, sadly. Just when one thinks she has a routine, she changes it and catches one sitting with one's feet up and reading a book she has expressly forbidden one from reading,” she said with a rueful smile.

Clementine sent Clara a look of sincere concern, but Clara only smiled.

“Don’t look so horrified. It is not so bad, I assure you.

I am grateful for my position here. The house is comfortable, and I do not go hungry.

I enjoy the garden and walking and now and again my friend asks me to provide an alibi for her so she may get up to something nefarious,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Clementine snorted. “It’s not nefarious. Well, not exactly.”

“Well, I am entirely reassured now,” Clara said, darting her a look of mingled concern and interest.

“You’ve heard about the earl, I suppose?” Clementine asked, linking her arm through Clara’s as they walked to the village.”

“The earl?” Clara repeated.

Clementine looked at her in surprise before remembering how painfully shy Clara was when out in the world.

Her visits to the shops were for necessities only and not society.

She did not make friends easily, conversing with anyone was a trial to her, and her aunt crushed any attempt she made to create a life for herself.

Many of the residents of Little Valentine, who heartily disliked her aunt, largely ignored Clara, and viewed her situation as a poor relation with indifferent contempt.

Gaining anyone’s attention for any reason was anathema to Clara and so she did nothing to change her position, despite Clementine’s urging.

The only reason they were friends at all was because of Reverend Honeywell.

He had pitied Clara’s miserable situation and had insisted her help in the church was not only indispensable but her Christian duty, something even her aunt could not gainsay, though she had tried.

It had given Clara a small measure of freedom.

So, Clementine told Clara all about the earl’s arrival in the town and their rather inauspicious meeting.

To her delight, Clara crowed with laughter over the scene, which Clementine deliberately embellished to entertain her.

Her laughter faded, however, when Clementine explained about the murderous cousin.

“The poor man,” Clara said, her unremarkable features filled with pity. “How awful to know a member of your own family wishes you dead.”

“I wouldn’t pity him too much,” Clementine remarked. “From all I know of him, he’s a spoilt dandy with more hair than wit. Still, I think he ought to bestir himself to thwart his cousin and not just sit about looking decorative and waiting for him to make another attempt.”

“Is he decorative?” Clara asked, interest shining in her eyes.

Clementine slanted her a look, startled by the question.

“I suppose so, if you like that sort of thing,” she said dismissively.

Though the image of Lord Beaumarsh reclining in his silk banyan like some pampered pasha returned to her with some force, much to her consternation.

He had looked like he was waiting for one of his wives, or many mistresses, to peel him a grape.

Sinfully handsome and cynical to the core, it was no surprise he was the darling of the beau monde .

She pushed the image away, disturbed by the odd frisson of awareness it sent prickling beneath her skin.

“What sort of thing?” Clara pressed, giving an impish grin at the look on Clementine’s face.

“Oh, come on, Clementine. I have very little excitement in my life and suddenly you’ve introduced this remarkable story, with murder and a handsome aristocrat.

Give me some details, can’t you? It’s better than a Mrs Radcliffe so far, but I’m lacking vital information. ”