Bath Scandal (21 page)

“I expect you are having coffee, Bea?” Southam said. “I’ll join you in that.”

Deborah’s nostrils pinched, but she was still sufficiently cowed from her lecture that she did not object. “Nothing for me, thank you,” she said, and went to join Miss Pittfield and Gillie.

The butler brought in coffee, and Bea poured. She said, “Should my ears be burning, or did Deborah reserve her wrath for
you?
No, don’t answer that. I am not permitted to complain of a guest in my house, and a fiancé must never find his lady anything but perfect. I shall ask instead how you managed to get your letter written when you had company with you.”

“It was accomplished by poor manners. I told her to hush, for I could not think what I was writing when she was nattering at me.”

Bea shook her head ruefully. “The same result might have been achieved by a compliment. You should have told her you were too distracted by her charming presence to concentrate. You will make a very unsatisfactory husband, Southam. There is no romance in you.”

“Then it is only fair of me to show my true colors before marriage.”

“No, it would be better to change them. I want you to take your cup and join Deborah. Be nice to her, Southam, for I suspect you were rather nasty in the study. Run along now,” she said, shooing him away with a flutter of her fingers. Her smile was warm and charming. He had not the least desire to leave, but he knew he ought to, and he did.

“Coffee after dinner, Southam?” Deborah chided, when he sat at her side. “No wonder your temper is so uneven. I have noticed you are edgy lately. You have not been sleeping properly.”

Deborah’s stiff demeanor was like a dash of cold water after Bea’s charm and humor. “I have been sleeping marvelously,” he lied, and took a long drink. “My nightcap from now on will be coffee.”

“We shall see about
that,”
she replied blandly. “Not in my house,” her expression said.

Southam found it impossible to say anything nice. It took all his control not to say something nasty, so he left very soon and returned to his hotel. He felt like a trout, caught on the hook, wiggling futilely to free himself. She’d
never
call the engagement off. She knew, she must have sensed by now, that he didn’t care for her. Her response was to rush the wedding forward. That was why she was courting Lady Sappington and pretending to find Tannie witty. She had decreed that Gillie must be out of the house before they married. But even forbidding Gillie’s match wouldn’t be enough to do it. She was beginning to soften her position on that matter.

In his mind he was back in Bea’s study with a suitably penitent Deborah. “You’re angry with me, Southam. I own I am just a little jealous of Beatrice. Those flashy women have a superficial charm that men find attractive at first.” Her white hands, cold as ice, clung around his neck, drawing his head down.

“I find her attractive,” he had admitted.

“It is our long engagement that makes you impatient. If we were married, you would be happier, more settled. How long do you think it will take the duke—”

“I am not rushing Gillie. I would like her to remain at home another year, then make her bows in London.”

“Beatrice’s idea?” Icicles hung from her voice.

“My idea.”

“In that case we shall have our banns read as soon as we go home.” She must have seen the look of horror on his face. She was as sharp as a needle. “I know it is what you want, Southam, and I submit to your wishes. I shall just have to learn to rub along with Gillie. She is more manageable since coming to Bath and more polished. I notice an improvement. Quite possibly Stuyvesant will offer when he gets a look at her new style.”

“I must write this letter,” he said, and strode to the desk. She was behind him, peering over his shoulder. “I cannot concentrate with you hanging over my shoulder,” he had said brusquely.

“Then I shall just take a magazine and wait in the corner, quiet as a little mouse. You won’t even know I’m there.”

Oh, but he knew. He could feel her steely eyes staring at his back. He could imagine she was slipping up behind him, putting a noose around his neck. How could he get out of this marriage that had become a nightmare to him? His fingers were writing the words that would cancel the duel—his last hope of salvation. He crumpled the page and threw it in the wastebasket. He drew out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote a different note.

Chapter Eighteen

“Going for a drive so early, Beatrice?” Miss Swann said the next morning at breakfast. “Southam will not be here for hours yet. Perhaps I shall go with you.”

“It is not a social visit,” Bea said, to be rid of her.

“Charity work? What is it, visiting an orphanage?”

Bea feared it must be a more unpleasant visit than that and said, “I am taking a few orphans to the tooth drawer. If you would care to come along, another woman would not go amiss. They do scream and bawl so, and of course one of them is bound to run away.”

“Why do you not go with Beatrice, Miss Pittfield?” Deborah said. “I would go myself, but I really should answer the princess’s letter. I shall tell what the duke said of Sir Richard Croft.”

Miss Pittfield explained that she was accompanying Gillie and a friend, Miss Cardiff, on a visit to Sydney Gardens. After inquiring into the antecedents of Miss Cardiff, Deborah decided to stay home. “I shall set your servants to polishing the silver, Bea, for I noticed it is getting black. You are too good-natured. You do not scold your servants as you ought.”

“I am fortunate to have you here to do it for me,” Bea said, with a semblance of good humor.

As Bea was adjusting her bonnet at the mirror by the front door, Deborah joined her. “I noticed Southam’s letter is missing from the salver, Beatrice. You wouldn’t know what happened to it?”

The letter rested securely in Bea’s reticule. Three or four other letters were on the tray, so she could not claim that Southam’s had been put in the post. “He must have decided to post it himself,” she said.

“I’ll ask him,” Deborah said, frowning.

As Bea was driven down the Old Roman Road toward Lord Horatio’s place, she took no notice of the newly-leafed trees and the beauty of springtime swelling all around her. She was deep in her own thoughts, wondering how Deborah had come to notice the letter was missing. Was she checking the address to see it was, in fact, to Elmdale that Southam was writing? Surely she had not planned to read it! Really, the woman was impossible! How did Southam stand her? She knew her own life would be incomplete when he left. Her old flirts had ceased to amuse. She wanted more than that from life. She wanted another husband, and no one she had met since Leonard’s death suited her so well as Southam.

At least she would not be saddled with Deborah Swann. She was in no doubt that Southam had fallen out of love with his fiancée, if he had ever been in love. His behavior was so far removed from loverlike that it seemed impossible he had ever cared for her. Was there anything that could un-glue Deborah from Southam? Only the duel, and if it went forward, there was no saying what the results would be, but one result would certainly be the ruin of her own reputation. Quite possibly Southam would be dead, and even if he lived, the Cleremonts would not let the duke offer for Gillie. Horatio was an excellent shot; he could kill Southam, but he was not vengeful. He would be careful to miss the heart.

The carriage drew in at the gates of Horatio’s estate. The house was slowly perishing into ruins. Its crumbling stone, heavily overgrown with vines, suggested a Gothic heap. The duke’s stately carriage standing on the broken cobblestoned drive only increased awareness of the squalor surrounding it. The groom hopped down and assisted Bea from the carriage. When she was shown in, she found Horatio and Tannie in the saloon.

They rose to greet her. “G’day, lass,” Horatio said. “Tannie tells me Southam means to apologize. I own I am relieved. I dislike to be brawling at my age. It lacks dignity.”

“Indeed it does. I have brought Southam’s letter of apology. He sent his apologies through his second earlier, but it seems they never reached you.”

“Not so much as an echo. Some misunderstanding between our seconds, no doubt.”

“You must not fight him, Horatio. It is too ridiculous and too much trouble.”

She handed him Southam’s letter. Horatio set it aside. “I’ll glance at it later. The thing is over, so far as I am concerned. The proper way to handle it is for me to notify Runciman that I withdraw my challenge. He must speak to young McIvor, who will carry the word to Lord Southam. But
entre nous,
it is over. Shall we have a glass of wine to celebrate?”

After his stable Sir Horatio’s wine cellar was his second pride. He produced an excellent claret and they drank a toast to a successful conclusion to the affair of the duel.

“I am glad you are reasonable, Uncle, for if you had killed Southam, I daresay it would have busted up two romances,” the duke said. “Mine with Gillie, and Lord Southam’s with the lady he is marrying. Gillie tells me she is a high stickler. Wouldn’t stand still for anything rackety. A friend of the royal princesses, which just goes to show you. A dashed queer nabs, Southam. Striking you, marrying a woman I couldn’t stand for a minute.”

Evendon listened, frowning. “I took the notion he was sweet on you, Bea. Why else did he try to knock me down?”

She blushed and tried to pass it off. “He has a quick temper. He was out of reason cross with me, but he could hardly strike a lady, you must know. He is not quite that farouche. So he struck you instead and has regretted it a thousand times since. He is one of those gentlemen who flares up, but soon settles down again and is ashamed of himself.”

Evendon refilled their glasses and kept her talking. “He sounds a thoroughly uncomfortable sort of gent. I am not at all sure Miss Swann is getting the better of the match.”

“Wouldn’t say so if you knew her,” Tannie said, wiggling his fingers and grimacing.

“Miss Swann doesn’t know how to handle him,” Bea said. “He can be very good company. Really he has the patience of a saint to put up with her. I ought not to gossip, but we are old friends, Horatio. I do not hesitate to tell you I pity him.”

Horatio examined her wistful face and felt he had figured out the score. Young Bea was head over ears in love with this young Southam hothead. Southam, he already knew, was in love with her. No one was fool enough to strike a man over a lady he wasn’t in love with.

As he already knew what he wished to know, he spoke of other things. “Is it to be a match between you and Bea’s cousin, then, Tannie?”

“I meant to ask Southam’s permission before the duel, in case you killed him. I shall do it very soon. I don’t want Gillie to have to go and live with Miss Swann—that is, after she becomes Lady Southam. No one deserves a fate like that.”

They talked a little longer, finishing the bottle of wine. “There is no hurry for me to return,” Bea explained. “I am taking some orphans to the tooth drawer this morning.”

“Poor devils,” Horatio said.

“No, no, you misunderstand. That is the excuse I gave Miss Swann. She had some idea of accompanying me.”

When the wine was finished, she left. Bea was in a languorous mood as she was driven home. Her conscience was easy. She had done the right, the only proper thing to prevent the duel, yet a corner of her heart regretted that she had smoothed the path for Deborah’s marriage. She took what satisfaction she could from knowing that Gillie would have her duke if she wanted him. Since the duke had acquired his sprained arm, Gillie seemed in a more romantic frame of mind.

Of course she would accept. Deborah would see that the wedding was rushed forward. All the visitors, the wanted and the unwanted, would leave Bath, and she would turn her mind to the London Season. Perhaps this year she would make a match. Although she had had offers in the past, she had held out for love. She had never imagined she would find anyone to replace Leonard, but she had found him now and lost him, so she would settle for companionship and security.

* * * *

“What had Southam to say?” Tannie asked idly, after Beatrice left.

Sir Horatio tore open the letter and glanced at it. His wiry brows drew together in consternation. “If this is an apology, I fear it is couched in terms I cannot accept! Have a listen to this. ‘In the opinion of a lady whose respect I cherish, I did wrong to strike you. The lady feels I ought to apologize, and indeed I never had any intention of shooting to kill. If you wish to withdraw your challenge, I shall understand and not consider it pusillanimous behavior in a gentleman of advanced years.’ It is signed Southam. Upon my word, he has added to the offenses with this studied piece of impertinence. Gentleman of advanced years indeed! I am only fifty-five. I could take his nose off at a hundred paces. I have a good mind to do it.”

“I smell the hand of Miss Swann in this letter,” Tannie said, snatching it and glancing it over. “That is odd, for Mrs. Searle told me Miss Swann knew nothing about the duel. She was particular that I not mention it to her. I wonder if Gillie—but she don’t know about it, either.”

“I wish I had read this before I gave Bea my assurance the duel is off. I wonder ...”

“Mrs. Searle would never have allowed him to write such a thing, Uncle. She is down as a nail. A regular right one.”

“Of course she is. She believed she was delivering a proper apology. Well, by God, this puts me in a fine pickle. I hardly know what to do.”

“Have Runciman speak to Duncan. See what Southam means by this queer note.”

“Runciman and Duncan are as much use as a bucket with a hole in the bottom. Bea tells me Southam apologized verbally long ago, but I was told nothing of it. I should like to speak to Southam myself, but I am afraid I’d knock him down if I saw him again. Tannie, perhaps you would speak to him? Feel him out and see if he is only stupid, or if he meant to insult me again.”

“He ain’t stupid, Uncle.”

“Then I shall not withdraw the challenge.”

“Well, I’ll speak to him. There must be some mistake.”

“Meanwhile, there is no point disturbing Bea with the details of this letter. Let us hope we get the matter settled without bloodshed. I am going out to the meadow now to practice my shooting. Not that I need the practice!”