Bath Scandal

by Joan Smith

  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 ough
t 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!”

  Tannie looked at the letter again and left. He drove to Southam’s hotel and found him just about to leave. “I have come from Lord Horatio,” Tannie said apologetically. “About that note you wrote him, Lord Southam.”

  “Let us go to my room,” Southam suggested. “This is not a matter to be discussed in public.”

  Tannie followed Southam to his room. “The thing is,” the duke said, “it don’t sound much like an apology, Lord Southam, if you don’t mind my saying so. I mean to say, it’s like saying if you did anything to cause offense, you’re willing to be forgiven, which ain’t— And you did—cause offense, I mean. Twice.”

  “I said that I never intended to shoot to kill.”

  “That is all well and good, but Uncle is this minute in his meadow shooting the wicks off of candles. You ought to make it a little clearer that you are apologizing, if you know what I mean, Lord Southam.”

  “Oh, dear,” Southam said mildly. “The not-shooting-to-kill bit didn’t do the trick. I was suggesting, not very clearly apparently, that we should both delope.”

  “Then why bother having the duel at all? Why not just say you’re sorry and have done with it?”

  Southam tossed up his hands helplessly.

  “It is Miss Swann, ain’t it?” the duke said. “That note sounds like her notion of an apology. Mrs. Searle would not have let you write such fustian. How did Miss Swann find out about the duel?”

  “This has nothing to do with Miss Swann. It is between your uncle and myself. I have apologized twice. He has not seen fit to accept my apologies.”

  The duke frowned. “So you will go through with it. You don’t want to send a little clearer apology?” he asked hopefully.

  “I do not grovel. You might tell your uncle, however, that I shall not shoot to kill.”

  “Yes, well, when Uncle’s dander is up, there is no saying he will be so obliging. You ought not to have called him an old man.”

  “He is an old man.”

  Tannie shook his head. “The thing to do is for me to replace Duncan as your second. I am recovered sufficiently now.” His hope was to heal the breach before the duel, or failing that—and really Southam was being a perfect mule—he thought he might disable the dueling pistols in some manner. Pity old Runciman was mixed up in it, but Uncle must have a second. “Six-thirty tomorrow, then, on the banks of the Avon.”

  “Just north of Walcot Cemetery. You’ll let me know what your uncle has to say?”

  “Oh, certainly you will be hearing from me. I am your second now, Lord Southam.”

  “You can find me at Mrs. Searle’s house this evening. And about my message to your uncle, Duke, I would prefer a written reply, just to insure that the message is perfectly clear.”

  “Sure I can’t deliver an apology for you?” Tannie asked once more, ever hopeful.

  “Tell him that I shall not shoot to kill.”

  “Hardly seems worth the trip, but I’ll nip back out to Horatio’s place and have a word with him.”

  Miss Swann remarked twice that evening that Southam seemed fidgety. After her second complaint, he said, “I am expecting a call from the duke this evening.”

  Deborah’s thin lips parted in a smile. “Excellent! You will give our permission, of course.”

  “I did not say he was coming to ask for Gillie’s hand!”

  “Why else would he be calling to see you? You said you were expecting a call. We must ask Lady Sappington to dinner tomorrow.”

  “You forget, Deborah, you are only a guest in Beatrice’s house.”

  “She will be thrilled to have such a tonish caller.”

  They both looked across the room to where Beatrice sat playing jackstraws with Gillie. Deborah had noticed that her hostess was also on the fidgets this evening. Bea had ruled against a game of whist, when they had a perfect table, with Miss Pittfield to make up the fourth. Deborah had thought Beatrice was waiting for one of her rackety beaux to call, but if that was the case, she was disappointed. No one came.

  Deborah had also noticed some unsettling glances exchanged between her hostess and her fiancé. It was hard to pin down the mood in the room. Expectant, waiting, was the closest she could come to it. When the duke was announced, the Argus-eyed Miss Swann observed that Southam leapt an inch from his chair. He hardly allowed the duke to bow to Gillie, before he hustled him off to Bea’s study for their private coze.

  As Gillie was now practically a duchess, Deborah went to her and began complimenting her on her skill with the jackstraws. “I can only marvel at your steady hand, when the duke is this very minute speaking to your brother,” she said. Deborah noticed that Beatrice’s hand was far from steady. One would think she were the one awaiting a proposal.

  “I shouldn’t think the meeting has anything to do with me,” Gillie said offhandedly. Yet, despite her denials, she wore a triumphant smile.

  “We shall soon know,” Deborah said. “Any minute now, Southam will join us and ask you to go to the duke. Let us go upstairs and tidy your hair for the great moment, Gillie.” Gillie spurned this idea.

  The absence of Southam and the duke lasted for five minutes, which seemed the right interval for Southam to have made a few perfunctory inquiries about the duke’s financial state and to outline Gillie’s dowry. After that time the two gentlemen joined the ladies.

  Gillie braced herself for the request to join the duke. Tannie sauntered casually to the games table and sat down to join the ladies. “By jingo, you made a botch of that straw, Gillie,” he said. “I could have done better myself, and I have my arm in a sling.”

  Gillie looked surprised at this unromantic speech. “Hullo, Tannie,” she said.

  “Will you not take my place, Tannie?” Beatrice offered at once.

  She withdrew in Southam’s direction, with Deborah hard on her heels. It was Deborah who demanded the reason for the duke’s call. “Was it not an offer after all?” she demanded.

  “No, he was merely delivering me a letter,” Southam replied.

  “What letter?” she asked.

  His eyes went to Beatrice. “A note from his u
ncle,” he said vaguely. Beatrice had to bite her lips to refrain from demanding an explanation.

  Deborah noticed that look they exchanged. She felt in her bones that some impropriety was adrift in the room and meant to get to the bottom of it. “Excuse us, Beatrice,” she said, putting a hand on Southam’s elbow. “I must have a private word with my fiancé.”

  They went to the study. “You must explain this mystery to me, Southam,” she said.

  His eyes flew guiltily to the desk, where his open note lay, face up. Deborah followed his glance, and pounced on the note. She read it silently, and as she read, the blood drained from her face.

  Lord Southam: I do not consider your note an apology but an aggravation of the original offense. If you are a gentleman, you will be at the dueling grounds at six-thirty tomorrow morning. Horatio Evendon.

  “A duel?” she asked on a high, incredulous note. “You cannot mean you are engaged in a duel with the duke’s uncle! The duke will never offer for Gillie if you wound his uncle. Southam, I forbid it!”

  “That is your main concern, Deborah? Lord Horatio is a dead shot.”

  “All the more reason to call it off.”

  “I am flattered at your concern for my safety. I have already apologized. As you see, Evendon has not accepted. I must meet him.”

  “What is this duel all about? Good God!” She stood silent a moment, staring. “This is the duel the whole town is prating about! Lord Horatio—Bournemouth.” She clenched her lips, and her breathing became rapid. “I need not inquire for the identity of the alleged lady in the case. It is Mrs. Searle, of course.”

  “Beatrice is innocently involved—a misunderstanding.”

  “Innocent ladies do not cause duels, Southam. I cannot allow this foolish duel to occur. You forget my position. What will the princesses say? And Papa! You know he is working on a bill to forbid dueling.”

  “It is not illegal yet.”

  “But it is immoral. You will destroy Gillie’s chances for winning the duke, after all my hard work.”