Page 1 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

The beginning is always today.

“There’s fewer than I hoped,” Miss Isabelle Honeywell observed, a small frown furrowing her brow.

Mrs Anne Adamson nodded, having been thinking the same thing herself. She had given over the dining room of her hotel, The Mermaid’s Tale, to the very first gathering of The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine, and it was far from full.

“It’s early days.” Izzy’s sister, Miss Beatrice Honeywell, smiled placidly, her blue eyes twinkling. “Honestly, you two have no patience. You cannot run before you can walk. This is the perfect first meeting.”

“Hmmm,” Izzy replied, apparently unconvinced.

“Well, come along. Let us mingle and get people talking, or the whole thing will be for naught,” Anne said briskly, pasting a smile to her face.

She knew very well why many of the ladies of the town had not come.

In the first place, there were those who would be appalled at joining a club that admitted shopkeepers and cooks and maids to its ranks. In the second, it was because of her.

In the eyes of many of the inhabitants of Little Valentine, Mrs Anne Adamson was a thorn in the side of their lovely town.

Her history, whilst unknown to most, was rumoured to be scandalous, and a breath of rumour was all it took to ruin a reputation.

That much she knew better than most. Not that she was going to let those inhabitants, or anyone else, dictate how she ought to live her life.

Once upon a time, she had been weak enough to expect a man to rescue her from circumstances beyond her control.

That would not happen again. If there was any rescuing to be done, she’d do it herself.

“Miss Marwick, isn’t it?”

The young woman stood at the very edge of the room, teacup in hand, looking as though she very much wanted to sneak out of the door. Anne was not about to let her escape when their numbers were so poor already.

Miss Marwick jumped a little at being addressed but turned to face Anne.

“That’s right.”

She was a new arrival to the town, her brother having recently bought Ocean View Villa.

Her voice was pleasant, softly spoken and obviously educated, but there was a measuring look in her hazel eyes that made Anne wonder if Miss Marwick had heard the rumours already and was judging her unkindly. Not that she cared… much.

“Do come and meet Miss Halfpenny,” Anne said, giving the woman a bright smile and taking her firmly by the arm.

Poor Clara Halfpenny was so shy she’d not speak to anyone given the opportunity, but Miss Marwick did not look terribly threatening and would likely appreciate meeting such a well-bred young lady.

As she had expected, Anne found Miss Halfpenny trying to disappear behind a large potted fern. “There you are, dear. Poor Miss Marwick is new in town and doesn’t know a soul. I just know you will take pity on her and tell her a little about our lovely home.”

“O-Oh,” Clara blinked, colour flooding her cheeks. “Umm.”

To her relief, Miss Marwick instantly recognised the wide-eyed terror of the socially inept and leapt to the rescue.

“Why, Miss Halfpenny, how kind of you. I’m afraid Mrs Adamson is quite right.

I do not know a soul in town, save my brother.

I would not have come at all if Miss Isabelle had not swept me up on her way here.

I was just going for a walk and before I knew it, I had a cup of tea in my hand.

I’m afraid I’m not very sociable,” she added with an apologetic smile.

Anne let out a breath and sent Miss Marwick a grateful smile. Whether true or not, it had been the perfect thing to say.

“Izzy is rather str-strong willed,” Clara replied hesitantly. “But lovely!” she exclaimed, glancing between Anne and Miss Marwick with horror in her eyes at the idea they might believe she were being critical.

“She is lovely,” Anne said soothingly. “And impossible to say no to. As are the wonderful cakes Mrs Fairway has made for us,” she said, speaking loudly enough that her cook overheard the remark.

Mrs Fairway, dressed in her Sunday best and looking very ill at ease, turned pink at the compliment as Anne swept up a plate of queen cakes and offered them to Clara and Miss Marwick. “Do try them.”

The young women accepted, and both gave a sigh of pleasure as they chewed.

“Divine,” Miss Marwick said, eyes still closed.

“Heavenly,” Clara managed, before taking another hasty bite to avoid having to speak again.

“Well, thank you,” Mrs Fairway said, unbending enough to come a little closer.

“I’ve tried and tried to make queen cakes, but mine are like lead,” Miss Marwick said sadly.

“Air in the flour, that’s the trick. You must sieve it from on high,” Mrs Fairway said confidingly.

“Oh?”

“But before that, when you cream the butter, it must change colour before you add the sugar,” Mrs Fairway continued, confidence growing as she noticed the rapt expression on Miss Marwick’s face. Even Clara looked interested. “If you’d like to learn—”

Anne smiled, hoping their conversation was now on a firm footing, and looked around for her next victim. Movement out of the corner of her eye caught Anne’s attention, and she glanced toward the windows. A face peered through the glass, and just as quickly turned away.

“Drat it,” Anne muttered, and hurried out of the room, through the entrance hall, and tugged open the door. “Mrs Jenner!” she called, waving as the woman glanced back at her.

Mrs Jenner shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, looking around as if she feared someone might have spotted her. Without another word, she fled, hurrying away from the hotel.

“Oh, dear.”

Anne turned to see Beatrice Honeywell standing in the open doorway.

With the sunlight glinting on her blonde hair, she was quite the loveliest woman Anne had ever seen.

More than half the young men in the town were head over ears in love with her, yet she seemed totally unaffected and utterly oblivious to their devotion.

Bea was also kind to a fault, and the look in her eyes as she watched Mrs Jenner’s retreat reflected Anne’s own regret.

“Quite,” she replied with a sigh.

“I’ll take her some cakes and tell her about the meeting once we’ve finished,” Bea said, her beautiful face determined.

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Anne said cautiously.

Bea’s father, Reverend Honeywell, was a very open-minded and rather too easy-going papa, in Anne’s opinion, but surely he would not approve of his lovely daughter visiting Mrs Jenner.

Not when her brute of a husband might find out and object.

The reverend had narrowly avoided getting his own nose broken when Mr Jenner accused him of interfering in his marriage.

Not that it had stopped him, but as help from the outside world often rebounded on Mrs Jenner, much care had to be taken.

“Nonsense,” Bea said, a surprisingly mutinous look appearing on her face. “Mr Jenner works in the gardens at the Hall during the day, now that the duchess is back in residence. It will be quite safe.”

With that, she turned and went back inside.

“Oh, if I were a man,” Anne said under her breath, and not for the first time in her life.

She thought the Mr Jenners of the world were no better than a disease, a nasty infection that people hid from shame and fear of judgement when what they needed was curing. He was a gangrenous limb that ought to be cut off before he did any more damage.

“She is most élégante ,” Madame Auguste said with a nod as she watched Mrs Adamson move around the room. She lifted her teacup to her lips and took a delicate sip. “I adore creating for her, as she has such style, and she does not care what people say about her. I admire this.”

Beatrice frowned a little as she offered the equally stylish Frenchwoman a sugar biscuit. “What they say about her?”

Madame shrugged. “People talk,” she said with a nonchalant wave of the sugar biscuit, as if she were not one of those people herself. “I ’ear things.”

“Well, I think people are most unkind in that case, and such talk ought not to be repeated.” Bea met Madame’s eyes, refusing to regret her rather disapproving tone.

Madame Auguste smiled, pleased and feline, as she regarded Bea .

“Oh, the little mouse has sharp teeth. I am so glad. I feared the ton would eat you up when you leave us for your season. Per’aps you will survive, after all.

” She grinned and snapped her pearly white teeth together.

“But truly, I do not know why you English get so excited about une petite affaire. So, she had a liaison with a man. So what?”

Bea stiffened, increasingly vexed by the conversation.

It was not in her nature to lose her temper, but if her friends or family were criticised, she had discovered she could come out fighting when the need arose.

“In the first place, I will not have a season,” she said with a smile to soften the blow, knowing that this would take the wind out of Madame’s sails, for the woman had probably assumed all her new gowns would come from her shop.

“In the second, Mrs Adamson is a respectable widow, and no one has any proof that she is anything else. Unless you hear such talk from her own lips, I think it would be best if you did not repeat it. In France, such little affairs might be acceptable, in England. they are ruinous, and I should hate to see someone I care about hurt by idle chatter.”

Madame Auguste stared at her, aghast. “Not have a season?” she repeated, having immediately lost interest in Mrs Adamson. “But… But… why not? Your brother-in-law is an earl, surely—”

“Lord Beaumarsh is most generous and would indeed pay for me to have as many seasons as I desire. However, I do not wish for one, so I shall not go. If you would excuse me.”

Bea left Madame Auguste with her mouth hanging open and let out a breath as she went to the refreshments table and poured a cup of tea.

“Very nice tea.”