Bath Scandal (6 page)

“Deborah felt you were the very one. Deborah Swann, my fiancée, and an old friend of yours, Mrs. Searle.”

“Old fr—yes, I have known her for eons, though not well. Gillie told me of the betrothal. I must congratulate you.” And more particularly, Deborah, she added to herself. “The only mystery remaining,” she lied affably, “is that Deborah could not smarten Gillie up herself.”

“They don’t rub along, for some reason. Pity.”

“That is strange, for I find Gillie extremely biddable and friendly.”

“And Deborah, of course, usually gets along with everyone. She failed with Gillie, but she is looking after the rest of us at Elmland in excellent fashion.”

“You would be easy work after the royal princesses,” she replied.

Mrs. Carrington joined them and invited Lord Southam to join her party for dinner. Her pleasure at meeting Gillie’s brother and her invitation seemed genuine, so after a polite hesitation, he accepted.

“I shall run along to the inn and change,” he said.

“Breeches and silk stockings,” Mrs. Carrington reminded him. “They are very strict at the Upper Rooms.”

“So my valet told me. He has packed them, I believe.” He made his bows and left.

“A new beau, Bea?” Mrs. Carrington asked archly.

“A connection only, through Leonard. Southam is betrothed to an old school acquaintance of mine, Miss Swann.”

“Pity,” Mrs. Carrington said.

“Yes,” Bea agreed.

“That is always the way, is it not? The best ones are already taken.”

Chapter Five

Although Mrs. Searle was placed at Southam’s right hand for dinner, no meaningful conversation was possible. A dozen young belles and beaux, even if they are well-bred, will always fill the air with merriment when they are anticipating a ball. Bea gave Southam brief histories of the youngsters during those periods when he was not talking to the hostess on his other side. Before leaving the table, she inquired, “Will you be joining the dance, Lord Southam?, or will you go to the card parlor?”

“I’m not much of a hand at dancing,” he replied, yet he resented the suggestion that he was past it. It had been a long time since he had gone dancing with anyone but Deborah. She approved of assemblies for what she called the youngsters, but her own participation in them, and Southam’s, was usually limited to opening the dance, then removing to the card parlor.

“Hand? Surely ‘foot’ is more to the point.” She laughed. He remembered that laugh—light, silvery. What an attractive lady she was, for her age. “Why do you not come with Mrs. Carrington and myself? Give your little sister a chance to show you how popular she is here in Bath. Tannie does not usually attend these dos, but because of this dinner party, he is coming this evening. It will be an opportunity to know him better. He improves on longer acquaintance. One learns to duck and dodge his unintentional assaults.”

“I should like to know him better.” Glancing along the table, he was gratified to see that Gillie was as pretty and lively as any of the other young debs—and as popular. Mrs. Searle had done a remarkable job of trimming her into line. “Yes, I’ll join you.”

Quizzing glasses were raised around the room when Mrs. Searle and Lord Southam led the party of youngsters into the assembly. “You are causing quite a stir, sir,” Beatrice informed him. “This being Bath, within sixty seconds the quizzes will have figured out that you are Gillie’s brother.”

Unaccustomed to so much attention, Southam was uncomfortable with it. He noticed, though, that Mrs. Searle was in her element. She sailed through the room like a frigate in full rig, nodding and smiling to her friends, and with her fingers laid proprietarily on his arm. He was aware of jealous glances from the men and felt a little spurt of pride in his companion’s beauty.

Southam anticipated a dance with Mrs. Searle and perhaps one with his hostess for civility’s sake. He realized, after the party was ensconced at tables in the Upper Rooms, that the older folks in Bath did not take a backseat to the youngsters. Mrs. Searle was whisked away from the table as soon as they arrived.

Mrs. Carrington inclined her head toward him and said, “That is Mr. Reynolds, one of Mrs. Searle’s court. He has retired from London—something to do with the law—and bought a handsome estate north of Bath. Extremely eligible.”

He looked surprised to learn that Mrs. Searle had her circle of admirers. “At her age!” he exclaimed, not well pleased.

“Why, she is only thirty, and so very pretty. Naturally she will not molder into the grave without making another match. Though I have often thought Sir Harold Whitehead has the inner track. A baronet, but not so deep in the pockets as Reynolds. There is no saying with Bea. She never had any hankering for a handle to her name. She has turned down dozens of offers. She is quite a dasher, I promise you.”

As he watched from the sidelines, Mrs. Searle negotiated the steps of the country dance with every evidence of youthful vigor. Neither her small, lithe waist nor her lively performance revealed the least sign of advancing senility. Had he not been familiar with her background, he would have taken her for Gillie’s friend, not her chaperon. This had been an excellent notion of Deborah’s, to send Gillie here. What the girl required was a good-natured lady who enjoyed youthful outings herself. Gillie’s social life had been sorely restricted in Alderton.

He prepared himself to replace Mr. Reynolds at the end of the set, but before Mrs. Searle reached the table, she had been accosted by another gentleman. Fellow looked like a demmed caper merchant, with his oiled hair and greasy smile.

Mrs. Carrington leaned forward and said, “That is Sir Harold Whitehead that I told you about. He is put out that Bea stood up first with Mr. Reynolds this evening. And only see how Miss Tobin is scowling! She wouldn’t say no if Sir Harold asked her to dance—or to marry him, either.”

The place was a regular hotbed of romance. It struck Southam as unseemly for his cousin’s widow to be so popular and gay. Why, she was flirting with Whitehead! Upon my word, he thought, I am not at all sure this lady is any better than she should be.

His anger subsided when she returned to the table at the end of the set and said, “Why are you not dancing, Lord Southam? Can you not see all the ladies languishing for want of a partner? We do not often have the honor of an earl at our little assemblies. I hope you are not too high and mighty to stand up with me?”

“I have already warned you I am not much of a hand at jigging, but if you are willing to take the chance, I will be more than happy to oblige you.”

She gave him her hand with a teasing smile and replied, “I never hesitate to take a chance, Lord Southam. You do not look that dangerous to me.”

“Deborah tells me I have two left feet.”

“Only two? Tannie has four, and I have waltzed with him when one of the girls for the waltzing class failed to attend.”

“I can only offer you two, but I assure you they are both left feet.”

“That attitude is enough to insure failure. I expect you are an excellent dancer.” She smiled and led him to the dance floor, where he acquitted himself without disgrace. Strangely he seemed to dance better than usual. Perhaps it was because Mrs. Searle was such a good dancer herself.

“I was a little surprised to see the youngsters waltzing this afternoon,” he mentioned when the steps of the cotillion permitted them to converse.

She gave him an arch look. “Your surprise was more than evident, Lord Southam. You looked as if you had stumbled into a house of ill repute, only because I was wearing an evening gown.”

“My understanding was that Bath was very strict, even more so than the provinces. I had not thought learning the waltz would be a priority.”

“Why, waltzing is allowed at Almack’s, the strictest club in all of England! We must not be overly rigid.”

“It was not the way in my day.”

“Nor in mine, either, but things change, and we must change with them or become hopelessly outdated. The old-timers are forever telling me that morality has gone to hell in a hand basket, but for myself, I enjoy the greater freedom that prevails now. Especially to a widow. I will admit, however, that in Bath the waltz is only done in private homes. You will not see any waltzing here at the Assembly Rooms.”

“Pity.”

“I joined Gillie up for the dancing class in hopes that you would give her a Season, Lord Southam,” she said, and looked for his reaction.

“As you know, that was not my intention. Now that she has nabbed Cleremont without aid of a Season ...”

They parted, and when the dance permitted, she continued the conversation. “She has not nabbed him. She has caught his interest, but he will be going to London in May.”

“That gives her a few weeks.”

“Unfortunately, it does not. The duke is leaving soon for Newmarket. He has some nags entered in the races and will be going before then to work with his trainer. At this time of year he is darting hither and thither to small meets as well.” Again the demands of the dance took them apart. Southam found this method of conversing difficult, but Mrs. Searle apparently had no trouble with it. When they met again, she continued her persuasions. “He is far from reaching the sticking point. As far as that goes, I am not at all sure Gillie would have him.”

“She’ll have him all right,” he said firmly. Bea just looked at him uncertainly. She disliked that decisive tone. “She mentioned she rides and drives with him daily,” he reminded her.

“Not every day. They are good friends, but Tannie doesn’t realize yet that he is in love with her, you see. As to Gillie, she is in love with his team, which is not precisely the state of affairs that would lead to acceptance if he offered.” She wafted away to the steps of the dance.

When they met again, Southam had his answer ready. “He’s not likely to hand over the team without including himself in the parcel. He ain’t that big a booby.”

Beatrice drew a deep sigh. “Why is it that men, who can run vast estates, cannot understand the simple elements of making a match?”

Southam cocked his head and answered frivolously, “It’s because animals and acres of crop and forest don’t insist on falling in love, I expect. If you ladies were running things, you would insist on only breeding a prime stallion with one mare.”

At the end of the dance the party went to the tearoom, where Bea made sure Southam and the duke were seated at the same table. Southam was at pains to draw the duke out. “I hear you are interested in racing,” he said, smiling.

“My name is up for the Jockey Club.” As this came perilously near to boasting, something the duke abhorred, he added, “Daresay I shan’t be let in for a decade yet.”

“One can only try,” Southam said supportively. “This is an interesting time for you—the five classics.”

“Four in spring. The Saint Leger is run in September.” The duke wanted to make a favorable impression on Gillie’s brother. This, unfortunately, required conversation of more than two or three syllables. Racing was the only area in which he felt competent to discourse rationally, so he rattled on. “One and three-quarters miles.”

“I thought it was one and a half,” Southam said.

“Derby’s one and a half. Oaks is one and a half. Ascot’s two and a half. All ages and sexes. Gold Cup.”

“Just so. Well, I daresay you are looking forward to the Season.”

“I have a sweet filly running in the Oaks. My Firefly took it last year. Three-year-old. Well, has to be, what? Running her sister, Flame, this year.”

“I meant the social Season, in London.”

“Oh, that Season. Mmm.” No comment occurred to the duke on that Season. “Are you going to Bournemouth?” he asked.

Southam frowned in perplexity. “Bournemouth?”

“Hurdle races start this week.”

“No, I shan’t be attending those.”

The duke gave Gillie a commiserating look and turned to speak to her. Southam ran out of ideas, and the conversation lapsed, to the mixed relief and regret of both participants.

Nothing of great interest occurred over the remainder of the evening. At eleven sharp the music stopped, and the guests left. Southam accompanied the ladies to Saint Andrew’s Terrace. He accepted Mrs. Searle’s invitation to join her for a glass of wine, apologizing for the lateness of the hour.

“It is only eleven-thirty!” she said, laughing. “Your carriage does not turn into a pumpkin at midnight, I hope. Good gracious, in London the parties go on till three or four in the morning. Here in Bath we frequently go out for a late supper after an assembly. Of course, when we are chaperoning the young debs, we must curtail our activities.”

“I hope having Gillie is not too great a restraint on your amusements.”

“Not at all. I enjoy her company.” She turned to Gillie. “You had best run up to bed now, dear,” she said.

Gillie came to kiss her good-night. “It was a lovely party, Aunt Bea. Good-night, Rawl.” She stopped before leaving and said to her brother, “I don’t suppose we could go to Bournemouth?”

“Did the duke suggest it?” he asked.

“He asked you if you were going.”

“No, best not. Deborah expects me home Monday.”

Gillie’s face stiffened, and she left without further entreaties.

Southam noticed with chagrin that his sister showed more warmth for this new friend than for himself. “Why does she call you Aunt Bea?” he asked, to conceal his annoyance.

“Because we wanted some friendlier term than Mrs. Searle, after we had become bosom bows. I could not permit her to use my first name without some handle. Such familiar terms between a chaperon and her charge might lead to trouble.”

“You are cousins. She might have called you Cousin.”

Bea shrugged. “We are connections, Lord Southam. I am neither her cousin nor her aunt.”

“Nor mine, either, but I hope, now that we are friendlier, that you will permit me to call you Beatrice.”

“You are old enough to rob it of impropriety,” she answered saucily.

“I notice that here in Bath age is no deterrent to merry-making.”

“No, indeed. I greatly enjoy my maturity. In fact, I am happy to be rid of the burden of youth. Older ladies, especially if they are widows, are not so encumbered with rules as are debs. So long as one heeds the usual proprieties, a widow may do pretty well as she pleases.”