Page 9 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)

An assignation and a provoking peacock.

Clementine padded silently down the stairs in stockinged feet, her oldest boots held in her hand.

No one was awake yet, and the household was quiet except for the sonorous snoring from her father’s room.

Clementine spared a thought for her sister Isabelle, whose room was closer to her father’s than her own, and wondered how the poor girl got any sleep.

Avoiding the third step from the bottom, which always creaked, Clementine made it downstairs without incident, stopped to put on her boots, and hurried outside, grabbing her bonnet with one hand and an apple in the other.

Shoving the bonnet on her head, she did not bother to tie the ribbons and took a healthy bite of the apple, chewing contentedly as she strode across the garden and out into the lane.

Avoiding the village, for there were plenty of early risers, she instead cut across and took the path through Winsham Woods.

It was a little eerie at this early hour, for the woods was famous for being haunted, though Clementine set little store by such outlandish tales.

But her father insisted ghosts were real, and he had far more experience with such things than she did.

Instead of walking past The Mermaid’s Tale, she headed directly down to the beach, which was deserted at this early hour.

Farther along the coast, the fishermen would likely be busy, but here it was peaceful.

Feeling too conspicuous on the empty beach, Clementine walked to a rocky promontory that jutted out into the sea.

The tide was a long way out at present and rockpools were plentiful around the big smooth rocks.

It had been a favourite place for her and her sisters when they were children.

They had spent many happy hours catching tiny crabs and darting shrimps.

Clementine had to admit the place still held a certain fascination for her as she stared down into the pools of water that seemed to contain entire worlds all of their own.

She felt less visible with the rocks at her back, though, and she selected one that was smooth and dry and relatively free of seaweed before taking a perch and waiting for Mr Kirby to appear.

Beau had slept fitfully again, likely because he had done little else but sleep since he had arrived in this godforsaken backwater. He felt as shaky as a lamb, though, an image that made him smile despite himself. Him, a lamb? Hardly.

Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling and contemplated his life.

Would anyone really notice any difference if Edwin had succeeded?

Kirby would be bereft, that was certainly true.

He seemed to view Beau as something between a recalcitrant pupil who wouldn’t heed sensible advice and a saviour who could do no wrong.

It was a somewhat confusing stance for them both, but they seemed to rub along merrily enough.

His mother, of course, would mourn him. The poor dear had harboured such hopes of her only son, doing everything in her power to ensure he did not turn out like his benighted father.

When his sire had died, with Beau barely out of leading strings, she had been delighted with the turn of events, for it meant she could mould her son into exactly the kind of man she wanted him to be.

So, as well as the obligatory classical education, Beau had been schooled in the art of looking beautiful, being a leader of fashion, and gaining the admiration of the entire ton.

She had done a marvellous job too, doting on her only child and spoiling him beyond anything reasonable.

Anything Beau wanted, Beau had been given. It had all been terribly easy.

And here he was, at the top of the tree. A leader of the fashionable world with everyone lower down the rungs of the ladder desperate to gain his attention, to ape his style and mannerisms. God, it was dull.

Of late he had harboured an intense desire to present himself to the ton wearing some outrageous costume, perhaps pink pantaloons festooned with embroidered giraffes and a purple-and-green spotted coat with a yellow waistcoat.

Anything to break the monotony. Yet his innate sense of style would not allow him to do something so egregious.

Knowing his luck, the style would catch on, and he would be forced to endure the sight of his peers decked out in such ludicrous getups. A horrifying thought.

So that was him. The Beau. The beautiful Earl of Beaumarsh.

A fashionable fribble. No wonder his cousin wanted to kill him.

Beau didn’t blame him. Though the poor fool should not waste the effort, for Beau was convinced he’d die of boredom any day now.

Certainly, he’d expire if he stayed in Tiny Sweeting for much longer, or whatever the blasted town was called.

He did not know what Kirby had been thinking, bringing him to such a place.

If he’d wanted to force those disgusting waters down his throat, the least he could have done was take him somewhere fashionable, like Bath.

Glumly, he wondered what his life might have been like if he’d been allowed to join the army as he had wanted to do.

He might even now be preparing to fight Boney again, now that the devil had escaped his prison on Elba.

Yet at the ripe old age of sixteen, when he had told his mother of his plans, she had thrown a hysterical tantrum, swearing that she would do something drastic rather than live the rest of her days waiting for news of her beloved son’s death in some dreadful battle.

Young as he’d been, he had not yet fully comprehended the ways in which she manipulated him and truly believed she might swallow an entire bottle of laudanum rather than endure the stress of not knowing whether he was alive or dead.

All nonsense, of course. He knew better now, for though his mama truly was a kind and doting parent and could not be prouder of her son, she was as spoiled as he was and there was little, she would not do to get her own way.

Still, he had retaliated by getting into some very dodgy situations until sense had prevailed and he’d hired Kirby to keep him alive.

Sighing, Beau wondered what mischief the dowager countess was up to now, and how much it would cost him to extricate her from it. Best not to think about that.

Thumping the pillow, Beau turned onto his side, reminding himself Kirby was unlikely to let him go home until he was properly well, and closed his eyes. Perhaps he could sleep a little longer if he tried.

He was just beginning to believe he could doze off again when the door to the adjoining room creaked.

Ordinarily, Beau would not have stirred.

Kirby often got up and went about his business when Beau was sleeping.

Yet instead of his valet’s usual competent and brisk movements about the room, whoever it was stopped, as though fearing the sound had woken him.

Instincts prickling, Beau instantly wondered if Edwin had tracked him down. A preposterous idea, for who in the name of everything holy would look for him here? Cracking one eye open, this scepticism was borne out as he saw Kirby tiptoeing across the floor, holding his boots in his hand.

Frowning, Beau wondered what on earth the devil was up to, creeping about the place. As he watched, Kirby padded on into the sitting room and Beau heard the door that led to the hotel’s corridor opening and closing.

He sat up, wondering if Kirby had got lucky and found a willing woman to entertain him.

But if that was the case, why was he sneaking out now, when he would be needed in an hour or so, when he might have had close to the entire night with her?

He was up to something, but what? Hurrying from the bed and ignoring the curiously weak feeling in his legs, Beau ran to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

The sitting room had a wonderful view, as the front of the property looked out onto the beach and a vast expanse of blue sea that glittered in the early morning sunlight.

Beau ignored the lovely view, however, in favour of spying on his valet, watching until he appeared and headed out of the hotel, walking directly onto the beach.

His curiosity piqued, Beau did something he had never done in his entire life and dressed himself.

As he needed to move fast if he wanted the slightest chance of finding out what Kirby was up to, he made a hash of it and did not dare look in the mirror.

He did not wish to know what he looked like, unshaven and rumpled as he must be, and he hurried past the looking glass before his courage failed him and the idea of being seen in public in such a state of disarray forced him to remain imprisoned in his hotel suite.

Happily, it was early enough that there were few people out and about yet, and Beau slipped out of the hotel and down to the beach without anyone noticing him.

The beach itself was deserted, though he could see tiny fishing boats bobbing about far out at sea.

He looked right, and then left, and then right and left again, and had almost convinced himself he had lost his chance and should hurry back indoors before anyone saw him, when movement caught his eye.

Staring harder at a long, low line of rocks that appeared as a dark, somewhat malevolent shape, he realised he had discovered his quarry, who was indeed speaking to a woman.