Bath Scandal (18 page)

Horatio shook his head in wonder. “I’ve been called a blackamoor in my time, but what the deuce is a paramour? Sounds like a dashed insult.”

“You must apologize for that, Lord Southam,” Bea said, rising haughtily from her chair.

“I’ll be demmed if I’ll apologize to either of you.”

“You will apologize to the lady if you are a gentleman,” Horatio said, bristling up at this highhanded young buck.

Southam just reached out his hand and grasped Bea’s fingers. “I am taking you back to the hotel.”

She wrenched her hand away. “You are taking me nowhere, sir!” she stated firmly. Her Irish temper soared at his high-handed tactics. “I shall leave when I am ready. I’m not your sister, or your fiancée, that you can tell me what I may and may not do.”

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and said through clenched teeth, “Beatrice, come with me— now!”

“The lady said no,” Horatio pointed out.

“Shut your face, you old fool.”

“Now see here, laddie, you want to show a little respect for your elders.”

“Southam!” Beatrice said, glaring at him. “You will apologize at once, and stop making a fool of yourself.”

“Apologize be demmed. I’d blacken his daylights if I weren’t too much of a gentleman to strike an old man.”

“Don’t let that stop you!” Horatio said, bristling.

“Just as you wish,” Southam replied, and struck the man a blow across the cheek. It was not hard enough to hurt, yet too hard to be ignored.

Lord Horatio was a gentleman, whatever his looks or financial condition; he took the only course open to a gentleman who has received such an insult. “Name your second, sir. My man will call on you at the earliest opportunity.”

“Horatio! Not a duel, for God’s sake!” Bea howled.

“He struck me in the face. You saw it.” He turned back to Southam. “Name your second, sir.”

“The Duke of Cleremont,” Southam said.

Horatio stared to hear his nephew’s name. “Mr. Runciman will call on him,” he said.

“I never heard such foolishness in my life,” Beatrice said, and marched out the door, confident that no duel would take place when the duke was flat on his back and likely to be
hors de
combat
for some time.

In the carriage she sat like a stone during the first few blocks. Southam, too, kept a sullen silence. He was by now thoroughly ashamed of himself and also highly curious to learn what Beatrice had been doing with that old man who called her his darling girl and kissed her.

Curiosity finally got the better of him and he said, “I think you owe me an explanation, Cousin.”

“I owe you a good thrashing. What were you thinking of, to involve Tannie, who is sick as a dog, in a duel with his uncle.”

“His uncle!”

“Of course, Lord Horatio is his uncle. I was taking him the thousand pounds I borrowed from you, since Tannie was unable to do it.”

“Good God, you might have told me so!”

“You might have waited for an explanation before you started beating up an old man.”

“I did not beat him up. I tapped him on the cheek. He is the one who started this business of a duel.”

“What did you expect, when you slapped him?”

“I expected him to apologize.”

“For what? For sitting innocently in his own room? It is all your own fault, and you know it perfectly well. You must apologize and withdraw the challenge.”

“I did not make the challenge; therefore I cannot withdraw it. It is for Lord Horatio to pull in his horns and admit he is in the wrong.”

“He is
not
in the wrong. You apologize, and I shall see to it that he withdraws the challenge.”

“You have that sort of influence with the old bleater, do you?”

“He owes me a thousand pounds. He’ll do as I say.”

“He owes
me
a thousand pounds.”

“No,
I
owe you a thousand pounds, and that does not mean I shall do as you say.”

“What’s sauce for the goose ...”

“I don’t want you to mention this to Tannie. He is not well enough to be bothered with this foolishness. In fact, you had best turn this carriage around, or Horatio will have sent Mr. Runciman off to see the duke. Why on earth did you say Tannie, of all people?”

“I don’t know anyone else in Bournemouth!” he shouted.

“This is a fine pickle. What will Lady Sappington say when she hears of this? What will Deborah say?” She pinned him with a wicked eye. “I shouldn’t blame her in the least if she turns you off.”

Southam heard the magic words and felt strongly inclined to go on with the duel. “I’ll have Tannie suggest someone else to take his place as my second,” he said.

Beatrice sniffed and turned her head aside to look out the window. It was all a tempest in a teapot. Horatio and Southam would meet at Tannie’s hotel this evening and straighten the misunderstanding out between them. Neither one, she felt sure, really wanted to fight. As they went into the hotel, she said, “It would be scandalous for you to have a duel with a man so much older than yourself. It would alienate the duke’s family, and prevent Gillie from making the match.”

He held the door as she sailed into the hotel. “She is too young to marry,” he said. “I have not agreed to the match. In fact, I told you earlier that I plan to take Gillie home for a year.”

“You know perfectly well you’d leap at it if she expressed any real interest. And furthermore, it will not do my reputation any good to be involved in this imbroglio.”

“There is no need for your name to arise. The altercation was over a gambling debt.”

“I can see Tannie keeping that under his hat. He’ll let it out the first time he opens his mouth.”

“You should choose your male friends with more care, Cousin.”

“I did not choose the friend who has caused this fracas. He just happens to be my late husband’s cousin,” she snapped, and swept past him to run upstairs.

Southam went into the taproom to drown his sorrows in ale. He had made a fine botch of things. Deborah was waiting for him at Bath, while he was mired in a duel in Bournemouth with the uncle of the best catch his sister was ever likely to make. A duke of vast wealth and prestige. Deborah would kill him if he botched that match. She very likely
would
turn him off, he thought hopefully. But then, Beatrice would not have him, either. He was demmed if he did, and demmed if he didn’t. He ordered another ale, and found it gave him a thumping headache. He wished he had never come to Bournemouth.

Chapter Fifteen

Beatrice feared that if she had to face Southam over the dinner table that evening, she would strike him. For that reason, she claimed fatigue and ate in her room. When Miss Pittfield visited her after dinner, she knew from Bea’s air of distraction that something was amiss. After a few prevarications, Bea told her the story of Southam’s duel.

Miss Pittfield sat stunned by the news. “Southam involved in a duel! Surely you jest, Mrs. Searle.”

“I assure you that is not my idea of a joke, ma’am.”

“So that is why he didn’t eat his dinner,” Miss Pittfield said. “He sat like a man in a daze, pushing his food around his plate like a child. He’s gone mad, that’s what it is. We must talk him out of it.”

“Of course, but that is only half the problem. We shall also have to talk Lord Horatio out of it, for it was he who issued the challenge, and you know how foolishly gentlemen behave when their honor is involved.”

“Yes, when they start prating of honor, you know they are about to do something ridiculous and indefensible so far as common sense goes. Honor has caused more mischief among men than any other thing—except perhaps women.”

“I fear the duel will give Miss Swann a disgust of him,” Bea said, looking from the corner of her eye. She knew she was not imagining that light of hope that gleamed on her caller’s face. “I daresay the best thing would be to get it all sewed up here tomorrow before we return to Bath.”

Miss Pittfield listened, fell silent a moment, then spoke. “Much better to do it in Bath.” To give this suggestion an air of innocence, she added, “There is no saying. It might all blow over, and it would be a shame to rush them into a duel if a breathing spell might prevent it.”

“Perhaps you are right. We’ll encourage Southam to return to Bath tomorrow morning as planned and delay the duel until Lord Horatio brings the duke back to his aunt.”

“How long do you figure that will take?”

“A week, perhaps. That should be enough to cool tempers.”

“Meanwhile there will be gossip of a duel,” Miss Pittfield said, not quite smiling.

“It will mean that Miss Swann stays with us for that week,” Bea said, and drew a discontented sigh.

“It will be worth it, if it means we do not have to live with her for the rest of our lives,” Miss Pittfield said, and laughed at her daring.

The truth was out now, and the two ladies could get down to some decent gossip and planning, with no
honor
to disturb their enjoyment.

After dinner Southam took Gillie to visit Tannie. He trusted the duke would not discuss the duel in front of Gillie, nor did he. He had written the duke a note before dinner. His servant had brought back a reply announcing Tannie’s willingness to help. He had suggested Duncan McIvor as a replacement for himself.

It was a relief to see that Tannie was in good spirits and not suffering unduly. He spoke of returning to Bath in two or three days.

Lord Horatio bowed stiffly when they entered, and immediately excused himself. When the guests were leaving, Tannie said in a meaningful voice, “Mr. McIvor will drop around at your hotel this evening if it is convenient, Lord Southam. There is something he would like to discuss with you. I suggested nine-thirty in the taproom of the Royal Bath,”

“I’ll be there,” Southam replied.

Gillie proceeded to the door, and Tannie said quietly, “I say, Lord Southam, you won’t kill Uncle, I hope? Mama would dislike it very much. So would I, for that matter.”

“I have no intention of shooting to kill. Indeed, I do not wish for this duel. It was your uncle who issued the challenge.”

“That is odd! Uncle will usually walk a mile to avoid a duel. Since he killed Lord Peter Almquist ten years ago, he has never fought a duel. Mind you, he keeps his shooting up, just in case. A dead shot. He can take the eye out of a pigeon from a hundred yards.”

Southam swallowed in astonishment and left, his eagerness for the duel greatly diminished. He was a fair shot himself, but he doubted whether he would have the sangfroid to aim his gun at a fellow human being. He would have to apologize. There was nothing else for it. He could not risk getting himself killed for no reason. He had his three sisters to look after. He’d ask Mr. McIvor this evening to deliver his apologies, and hope that Lord Horatio’s blood lust would not insist on the match.

At nine-thirty Southam was waiting in the taproom. He had seen McIvor with the duke and recognized him when he came in. He was a tall, slender gentleman who fancied himself a Corinthian. His blond curls and blue eyes had earned him the reputation of being handsome, though Southam thought him a green boy.

McIvor was thrilled with the dashing role thrust upon him. In his set, however, no air of passion was ever allowed to betray itself. Even Miss Whitcombe, the lady with whom he was utterly infatuated, was only allowed to be “tolerable.” He wore a face of ennui when he accosted Lord Southam. “Dashed nuisance, this duel,” he said, drawing out a chair. “Still, when old Evendon feels the killing fit come on him, we must all hop to his command.”

Southam’s blood ran cold at the thoughtless remark. It was easy to believe the worst of that ramshackle old gent who had been kissing Beatrice—and she allowing it! Still, he must at least make an effort to patch up the difference. “I fear I thrust this duel on him,” he said. “As the duke and my sister are friends, I wish to tender an apology for striking him.”

McIvor was not at all happy to see all his glory wither away to dust. “What, apologize to old Evendon? Dear boy, not to be thought of. Wouldn’t accept it, not for a minute. Only make a cake of yourself.”

“He is an old man. It doesn’t seem right.”

Duncan stuck the knob of his cane under his chin and stared at Southam. “Bad shot, are you?”

“Certainly not!”

“Gun-shy?”

“No!”

“Then why apologize?”

“Because I say so, Mr. McIvor.”

“Right. I’ll speak to Runciman then, Evendon’s second, and see if we can patch it up. I’ll do it now, and be back within an hour. Runciman is always to be found in the card room at the Carlton.”

The hour of uncertainty seemed very long to Southam. Long enough for the trip to the dueling ground, the twelve paces, the fatal shot, even the funeral, where the chief mourner was not his fiancée but Beatrice, with a lace-edged hankie held to her moist eyes. “All my fault!” she moaned, inconsolable in her grief. She had not shed such a shower of tears for Leonard.

He judged from McIvor’s jaunty air when he returned that the interview had gone well, that the duel was off. “What did he say?” Southam demanded eagerly.

“All a waste of time. He says you struck Evendon. No gentleman in his right mind will accept an apology for that. You cannot grovel! I mean to say, you don’t want to look like a lily-livered coward! I did manage to get you a few days grace to practice up your shooting. Duel will take place Saturday in Bath. West bank of the Avon, just above Walcot Cemetery, six-thirty a.m. Will you be wanting your own doctor?”

“I should think so,” Southam replied in a hollow voice. “A very good one. I leave the choice to you, as I am not familiar with the local sawbones in Bath.”

“Leave everything to me, Lord Southam. I have a copy of the
Code Duello.
I’ll swat up on it. Pity you could not dash up to London for a few lessons at Manton’s Shooting Gallery, but there is a chap at the north end of Marlboro Lane in Bath who will teach you to culp a wafer right enough.”

“I know how to shoot, Mr. McIvor.” His tone implied that if he had his pistols with him, one of them would die on the spot.

“Carry your dueling pistols with you?”