Page 4 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

To most people, using her aunt’s best china when she had been told in no uncertain terms she might not, was probably not the most thrilling crime of the past century.

To Clara, however, it was a break for freedom.

So, whilst she knew it was in her own best interests to go directly home and enjoy her minor victory in peace, the sight of the sunshine glittering on a bright blue sea was too much to resist, and instead she walked down to the beach.

It was a glorious summer day. Whilst a little too hot for walking along the narrow lanes of the town, here on the beach, with the cool touch of sea spray kissing her cheeks and a delightful breeze tugging at her bonnet, it was perfection.

Clara inhaled deeply, considering her somewhat one-sided conversation with Miss Marwick.

At first glance, she had not expected the young woman to be kind, which she now realised was unfair.

Miss Marwick was a stranger and therefore bound to be somewhat diffident, yet she had drawn Clara out little by little, and whilst it could not have been considered a scintillating conversation, it had been pleasant.

Rather to her surprise, she believed Miss Marwick had thought so too.

Perhaps the club the Honeywell sisters had begun with Mrs Adamson was not such an ill-conceived notion.

Clara had not wished to go to the meeting at all and had only done so because she had faithfully promised the eldest Miss Honeywell she would.

Except she was no longer Miss Honeywell…

Clementine was now the Countess of Beaumarsh and living an altogether different life with her husband in Kent.

It was not so very far, and Clementine had promised to visit, and to invite Clara to stay, a prospect Clara found utterly terrifying.

Yet Clara missed her friend. Perhaps Miss Marwick would be a new friend, though, if she could endure the looming shadow of Aunt Edna.

Sighing, Clara counselled herself not to borrow trouble. She had enjoyed a splendid afternoon—with cake—and a walk on the beach. Life was not so bad.

Indeed, as she walked farther along the shore, she smiled as she noticed a little dog, yapping and running back and forth, barking at the waves.

“Here, boy!” Clara called, delighted when the little fellow left his game to scramble over to her. He was only a puppy, and Clara looked about, wondering where he had come from.

There was no one around, and the puppy looked up at her expectantly.

“Well, don’t look at me like that,” she said, frowning at him. Well, drat. What was she to do now? She couldn’t just abandon him.

“I’m sure your owner or your mama must be near,” she said reassuringly. “Goodbye, now.”

With that, she turned and walked along the beach, only to glance down and see the dog trotting merrily beside her.

He was a scruffy little darling, mostly white with patches of grey, though some of that might have been dirt.

Clara thought he looked rather bedraggled and on the skinny side and her heart went out to him.

“Oh, dear,” she said, staring at the pup in consternation. “Aunt will not approve of you. Not one little—”

A smile curved her lips, and she bent down, scooping the little dog into her arms. The puppy wriggled and squirmed with delight, his whole body wagging along with his tail as he tried to lick Clara’s face.

“Yes, yes, I am delighted to meet you too, sir. I am Miss Halfpenny, and who might you be? We must be properly introduced, you understand,” she said, speaking gravely to the little dog.

As if quite understanding her meaning, the puppy yapped.

“Hmmm, she said, remembering the butler at her parents’ house.

He had heartily disliked small children and animals and had been a dreadful snob.

Clara had been terrified of him. Whatever devil, or perhaps maggot, that had got into her brain of late, decided that this was the perfect name for this small, rather unkempt little dog. “Mr Bennet, how do you do?”

As she spoke, she shook the puppy’s paw. He yapped again, apparently approving her choice.

“Excellent. I hope you will excuse me if we forgo formality in private. I shall call you Benny, and you may call me Clara,” she said, and then burst out laughing at her own insanity. She set the puppy back on the sand. “Well, what a fine pair we shall make. Come, Benny. Shall we go home?”

He yapped once more and trotted merrily after her. Though she kept turning around, certain that the dog would lose interest, or find something more enticing to do, Benny kept following, only delaying from time to time when an exciting smell took his fancy.

Clara made her way back up the stairs to the high street, down the small lane that ran to the left of Madame Auguste’s and took the safer, if longer, route home through the meadows over Summer Hill.

The lane would have been quicker, but it led past the Dog and Duck, an inn that was not entirely respectable, and even during the day was sometimes frequented by men who were more than a little worse for wear.

According to the gossip, half the smugglers in Sussex drank there, and whilst Clara was willing to believe this an exaggeration, she had no wish to meet one smuggler, let alone a gang of them.

Benny gambolled behind her, making her heart lift each time she turned and saw him.

How she was going to keep him a secret from her aunt, she simply could not fathom, she only knew that she would.

As they approached the crest of the hill, Clara turned to discover Benny had sat down, tongue lolling and as she watched, he sprawled in the long grass, panting.

“Oh, dear,” she said, smothering a laugh. “It must be more like Summer Mountain with such short little legs. Poor darling,” she cooed, bending down and reaching for the dog.

Perhaps if she had not been feeling quite so happy and at peace with the world, the sound and vibration of thundering hooves might have reached her sooner, but as it was, she stood and discovered a huge black stallion bearing down upon her.

There was time enough to throw herself clear, but Clara stood frozen to the core, speechless as the horse reared, quite as terrified by her sudden appearance as she was by his.

Massive hooves flailed, flicking mud hither and yon and Clara had a brief glimpse of the rider, of furious blue eyes, as an obscene curse rent the air before he was unceremoniously unseated and thrown to the ground.

There was a heavy thud, and she registered a grunt of pain while the horse danced about her, appearing to consider the merits of bolting for good measure.

Too shocked to speak, let alone move, Clara stood clutching Benny, who was trembling as hard as she was.

She had once heard it said that at the moment before death, your entire life flashed before your eyes.

Clara could not say if that were true, but she knew one thing: she had almost gone to her fate without a whimper, without a scream or a shout or a word of protest. It was the most depressing realisation of her entire life.

“Well, for God’s sake, don’t just stand there, grab his reins!”

She started, jolted out of her immobility by the imperious, and not to mention, irate voice.

There was such command behind the instruction that she did not hesitate, despite being afraid of horses, and hurried to grab at the trailing reins of the enormous beast that was still huffing and stamping, as if he might eat Clara in one bite.

A second rider appeared suddenly, giving a whoop of delight at the scene before him. He cantered around them, grinning irrepressibly.

“Haha! Well, well, never thought I’d see the day you lost your seat, old man. Pride comes before a fall, I reckon. I’ll have my winnings in hand this evening then, eh, Al?”

With another shout of laughter, he sprang his horse and galloped off.

The man sprawled on the floor, cursed anew and leapt to his feet.

He was an impressive sight, despite the rip in his coat sleeve and being covered in dust. His dark auburn hair glinted in the sunshine, his face rigid with fury as he turned to glare at her.

“Are you entirely witless, madam?” he said, reaching down to snatch up his hat from the long grass. “What in the name of everything holy were you thinking, leaping out in front of me like that? Did you mean to kill me?”

“No, sir,” Clara retorted, meeting the man’s eyes and thrusting the reins of his horse out for him to take.

“I had merely bent to pick up my dog, who was fatigued by the climb, and the next moment a big brute, with as little sense as he has manners, tried to mow me down. Not that I should expect an apology for such vile treatment from a man who is clearly no gentleman.”

The man, who very clearly was a gentleman, and a fine one at that, gazed at her with appalled astonishment, but it was nothing compared to what Clara herself was feeling.

Her legs trembled with fear, and she did not know how she was still standing, or from whose mouth those vitriolic words had issued, for surely it had not been hers.

Too afraid of what she might say next, Clara clamped her mouth shut.

“I beg your pardon, madam, for any inconvenience I might have caused you,” the man said, though the words were gritted out and the look in his eyes made Clara heartily wish to take several steps back.

She did not, in part because she feared she might fall down, but also because she refused to let the devil cow her. She had spent too much of her life being bullied and she was damned if this ill-mannered lout was going to do it too.

Clara merely watched as the man took back the reins, steadied his horse, and climbed into the saddle with such athletic grace she could not help but notice. It was not until he had cantered off and was out of sight that she let out an unsteady breath and looked down at Benny.