by Joan Smith
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?”
“No.”
“I’ll borrow Tannie’s. Get ‘em oiled up. I’ll call on you in Bath the day after tomorrow to put the final polish on the affair. Pleasure serving you, Lord Southam.” He rose, eager to dart off and boast of the affair to his chums. “I must run now.”
After a largely sleepless night, Southam was in no mood for chatter when the party met for breakfast in the morning. He arrived late and left early, after doing no more than sipping half a cup of coffee. “I must go up to my room and have a look to see I haven’t forgotten anything,” he said.
Beatrice wanted to speak to him in private and left before the others. She went directly to Southam’s room and knocked on the door.
“Have you spoken to Mr. McIvor yet?” she asked, when he admitted her.
“I had him deliver an apology. It was not accepted. The duel is still on.”
“Horatio did not accept an apology? I can’t believe it!”
His glare soon convinced her. “You neglected to mention he is a crack shot. Killed the last man he went up against.”
“That was eons ago.”
“He’s kept in practice, McIvor tells me.”
“Shooting birds, not men! Are you a good shot, Southam?”
“Fairly good. I hunt. The duel is to be held Saturday morning in Bath.”
“Excellent!” His eyes widened in surprised dismay. “That it is to be delayed, I mean. It will give me time....”
“To arrange my funeral?” he sneered.
“Don’t worry. I shan’t let him kill you.”
“I am not hiding behind a lady’s skirts!” he said angrily. “If he means to shoot to kill, I shall brush up on my shooting, and we’ll see which of us topples over.”
She left, not frowning, but not smiling, either. She was surprised that Horatio had not accepted an apology. It must have been a very haughty sort of apology. Horatio had his pride, too, but she felt secure that she could get around him. No hurry.
Chapter Sixteen
A drizzling rain made the trip to Bath thoroughly miserable. Southam sat with his chin hunched into his collar in one corner of the carriage, Gillie stared out at the rain in another. The only conversation that occurred was between Bea and Miss Pittfield. With two witnesses they could not have the sort of talk they wished, so they were mostly silent as well. Yet, with all this monotony and discomfort, no one really looked forward to the termination of the journey, knowing what awaited them in Bath.
The Honorable Miss Swann sat in state by the fire in Mrs. Searle’s saloon when they arrived. The reflection from dancing flames lent some liveliness to her pale charms. Sensing trouble in her romance, Miss Swann had made a careful toilet and wore a smile of welcome. She had seen, in Beatrice’s bedroom, a recent portrait of her old school chum and realized that time had been kind to her. Her callers, many of them gentlemen, revealed that Beatrice was popular. Idle comments also revealed that Southam had been dancing with Mrs. Searle. This was not the moment to be on her high horse. That could wait till she got Southam back home.
She rushed forward and threw herself into Southam’s arms the moment he was in the door. “Southam! How delightful to see you again. I missed you so much that I decided to join you. I hope you are not displeased with my impetuosity!” she added with an air of stately archness.
“I am delighted that you came, Deborah,” he said, amazed at this new warmth in her. “I only wish you had let me know, and I would have been here to meet you.”
“That was horrid of me.” She turned to Bea, smiling fondly. “And such an imposition. But then, Beatrice and I have been friends forever. We shall have a long chat later and get caught up on all our school friends.”
“Hello, Miss Swann,” Gillie said, drawing off her pelisse.
“Gillian! How I have missed this dear child. I have a dozen messages for you from your sisters. Let us all go in by the fire, for I see you are sodden.” She was not sorry to see Beatrice with her moist hair drooping most unattractively around her ears. She helped Southam off with his coat, a thing she had never done before in her life, to remind Beatrice that she was Southam’s fiancée.
“Come in by the fire and tell me all about Gillie’s duke, and his driving accident,” she continued. “Your letter barely skimmed the surface, Southam. I was happy to see you stayed over with him. The proper thing to do—you knew I would insist upon it. I did not at all mind being alone here, in Beatrice’s charming little house. Quite like a doll’s house, so cozy.”
As they took their places by the fire, Deborah noticed that Southam had changed his hairstyle and was wearing more modish cravats. What had brought about this change? She had
soon fingered Beatrice as the culprit.
Beatrice excused herself to freshen up. In her mind she had turned Deborah into a conniving hussy, but seeing her in the flesh made her think again. Deborah seemed genuinely fond of Southam. In fact, she seemed to be in love with him. She was prettier than Bea remembered—not a beauty precisely, but she had countenance and an air of elegance. Time had improved her. Her major fault as a girl had been her matronly manner, but now that she was older, the manner was less galling.
It had all been a daydream. She was not going to see Deborah turn Southam off. Indeed, it would be horrid even to try anything in that line. Some attraction had sprung up between Southam and herself, but it was just the charm of novelty. He had been engaged to Deborah for six months, whereas he had not seen her in years. Being together a good deal, some intimacy had developed. Now that Deborah was here, it was over.
Bea tidied herself but did not try to set up as competition. She drew her moist hair back severely from her face and took no particular care for her gown. Her old green crepe was good enough. She usually wore her pearls with it, but she set them aside and chose a simple golden locket on a chain instead. Examining herself in the mirror, she thought she looked a little like a nun.
When she returned below stairs, she found Southam and Deborah alone, chatting by the fire. It was a cozy scene, suggesting marital intimacy. He had not bothered to change. Could he not bear to leave her side? Bea entered, smiling politely.
“Are you telling Deborah of our adventures in Bournemouth, Southam?” she asked. She poured herself a glass of wine, as they were having some.
Southam looked up in alarm. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Why, the hurdle races, and Tannie’s accident, and the lovely drives around the cliffs. They are very interesting, Deborah. One may drive along the top, or drive down through ravines, catching glimpses of the sea from time to time. Beautiful gardens. Very unusual.”
Southam relaxed visibly. “We took Gillie to a play,” he told Deborah. “Something about a mop girl. A foolish thing.”
“Of more interest to me is that you have found Gillian a ducal parti,” Deborah said. “I have been to call on Lady Sappington.”
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with her,” Southam said, surprised.
“Papa knows Lord Sappington. When I discovered that the boy you casually called Tannie is the Duke of Cleremont, I went to introduce myself. I wanted her to know that although Gillian was staying with Bea—no offense, Beatrice—she has influential friends. Lady Sappington is charming.”
Beatrice blinked to hear that Lady Gillian required the sponsorship of Miss Swann, to say nothing of the implied indignity of Deborah’s staying in her home. This was the Deborah she remembered. Officious, interfering, lording it over the world.
“You have had several callers, Beatrice,” she continued. “But then, you always were one to have a large circle of admirers,” she added condescendingly. Something in her voice suggested the circle was not so discriminating as one could wish. She continued to make it quite clear. “A Mr. Baker came by. Some sort of retired merchant, I believe?”
“He is not retired,” Beatrice said coolly. “He is the proprietor of the Baker Art Gallery in Bath.”
“No need to apologize. One meets counter-jumpers in the best homes nowadays,” she replied, immune to a snub.
“I was not apologizing. Mr. Baker is also our member of Parliament.”
“Odd he did not say so. One would think he would have recognized my name, as Papa is so prominent in politics. Perhaps he only knows my father by his title. I should have thought even he would know the family name of the house of Norland is Swann. Princess Sophia and I looked into the origins of the Norlands. We suspected we were related, and of course we were. One of my aunts, several generations ago, was married to one of her uncles. I must answer dear Sophia’s letter.”
Deborah then turned her attention to her fiancé. “Run along to the inn and change for dinner, Southam. You will take a chill, sitting in that damp jacket. Do you not have a decent cravat? That one you are wearing looks so very odd, as if it were made up from a serviette. And your hair!”
“This Brutus-do is all the crack,” Southam defended.
“Only in Bath,” Deborah said with a tolerant shake of her head. She turned to Beatrice. “He would turn out like a scarecrow if I didn’t hound him into elegance.”
“I see a fiancée has her hands full,” Beatrice said blandly.
“I’ll leave you ladies now and return after dinner,” Southam said, rising to take his leave.
“Why, you’ll be joining us for dinner, I hope!” Deborah said.
Beatrice felt her gorge rise at the impertinence. She leveled a cool look at Southam and said, “If it is an invitation from the hostess you are waiting for, Southam, then let me add, I shall be very happy if you would join us.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, suppressing his anger with Deborah. “In that case I shan’t bother going to the hotel to change if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, really, Southam!” Deborah said. “You cannot come to the table looking like that.”
“Why don’t you use your usual room to freshen up, Southam,” Beatrice suggested. She knew Deborah would dislike that air of intimacy and could not have cared less. The woman was insufferable, inviting a guest to her table!
Deborah’s eyes snapped. “That sounds so cozy,” she said, smiling determinedly. “As though you run quite tame here, Southam.”
Beatrice replied in the same smiling way. “As you and I are such old chums, Deborah, I did not stand on my dignity with your fiancé.”
“I should hope not. Very well, then, Southam. You run along to your usual room, while Beatrice and I have a good coze, and I find out what you have been doing here in Bath.”
He made good his escape, fearful of what might be going forth before the grate. The conversation was not as frightening as he feared.
“Tell me all about the Duke of Cleremont, Beatrice,” Deborah said.
“He is not so very handsome. His passion is horses, which suits Gillie very well, of course.”
“What of his fortune, his estates?”
Beatrice gave a brief outline. “This is based only on gossip,” she said, “for I have not personally quizzed Tannie on the matter.”
“Of course not. We must be more subtle than that. I shall have Papa look into it. You have done very well,” Deborah congratulated. “I despaired of ever getting Gillie bounced off. She failed to attach an excellent parti at home, you must know.”
“She is only seventeen! There is no rush.”
“The sooner we can wrap it up, the better. We do not want to let a duke slip through our fingers. Quite an ornament to hang on the family tree.”
As Beatrice approved of the match, she did not bother to say all the disagreeable things she wanted to. They chatted without coming to cuffs until the others came downstairs and dinner was announced. The conversation was lively, with tales of their visit to Bournemouth and Deborah’s news from home.
In the evening Sir Harold Whitehead, who had seen Southam’s carriage enter town, came to call. After some general conversation, he said, “Do you know, I heard the most extraordinary thing. Upon my soul, I could scarcely believe it. There is a rumor afoot that old Evendon has got himself involved in a duel over a lady. Who would be fool enough to challenge him? He has got a notch or two on his pistol. Killed his man last time.”
Southam and Bea exchanged a guilty look. “Really!” Bea said in a weak voice. “Where did you hear this, Harold?”
“Why the story came from Bournemouth. My cousin was at the hurdle races. I was hoping you might be able to give me the details. I am eager to hear what lady Horatio has in his eye.”
“Lady!” Beatrice exclaimed in horror.
“Shocking, eh?” Sir Harold said. “One would have thought it would have to do with horses. Did you not hear it discussed there?”
“We heard no
thing about it,” Southam said firmly.
Deborah pokered up. “Disgusting! Dueling ought to be outlawed. Papa is working on a bill to present to Parliament. I know it will have the Prince Regent’s support, for he has often expressed himself against that barbarous custom. I trust the duke was not hurt in a duel? You could not allow Gillie to marry him if he is that rackety sort of creature, Southam.”
“I wrote the details to you. He had an accident in his curricle,” Southam said.
“Dueling is bad enough,” Deborah continued, “but for grown men to be killing each other over a woman! I shall not say lady, for no lady would let herself fall into such a compromising position.”
“You are hard on ladies, Deborah,” Bea said. “She may have had no say in the matter.”
“I repeat, no lady would let herself fall into a compromising position.”
This categorical statement terminated the discussion. Tea was served, and when Sir Harold took his leave, Miss Pittfield took Gillian up to bed.
Beatrice soon excused herself. “You won’t mind if I leave you alone with Southam, Deborah? You are engaged after all.”
“I shan’t be long,” Deborah replied.
As soon as she was alone with Southam, she turned a steely eye on him. “How soon can we wrap up Gillie’s match and go home, Southam?”
“We can hardly do so before the duke returns from Bournemouth.”
“Pity.”
“There is no reason you must stay, if—”
She laughed gaily, to conceal her annoyance. “Nonsense! I will not desert you. When do you expect him?”
“He mentioned a day or two.”
“That will give me time to pay a few more calls on Lady Sappington. Perhaps we can take in a dance at the Upper Rooms, as you are so fond of going there,” she said. Her tone was a rebuke.
He recognized that tone as one that required explanation. “Beatrice and I took Gillie,” he said.
“That is well enough, I daresay, but why did you go to Bournemouth?”
