Bath Scandal by Joan Smith

wouldn’t object when she learned the reason. Deborah was all for advancing the family in the traditional ways, such as advantageous matches. She would be delighted to be related to a duke, and even more so to get Gillie bounced off.
    “What are we doing this afternoon?” he inquired.
    “Gillie and I will be preparing for this holiday.”
    “It won’t take long to throw a few gowns into a trunk.”
    “I see you have never traveled with a lady of fashion before, Southam,” she replied with another of those flirtatious glances that always sent his blood racing. “Your education is sorely inadequate. Gowns must be selected, pressed, packed in silver paper. Accessories must be chosen, probably new silk stockings purchased, for those that match one’s favorite gown are bound to have sprung a hole. Why, you will be fortunate if we are ready to leave by morning.”
    “Surely you are joking!”
    “Indeed I am not. You gentlemen who have only to pull on your blue jacket and run a brush through your hair have no notion how difficult it is for a lady to turn out in style.”
    “Such intensive efforts will leave you hungry. You must be planning to eat dinner at least. Let us go out for dinner.”
    “There is no point,” she said. “Tannie is dining with the McIvor’s. You are welcome to dine here if you are at loose ends.”
    “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
    “I did not wish to cramp your style, or I would have suggested it sooner.” Again those laughing green eyes studied him. “I thought you might have more interesting company.”
    “Now you are putting ideas in my head, Cousin.”
    “Ah, well, in that case you had best dine here, where Gillie and I can keep an eye on you. I would not want to be responsible for your going astray so close to your wedding.”
    “Sevenish?” he asked.
    “I usually dine at eight, but as you are still making the transfer from country hours, let us compromise and say seven-thirty.”
    “I look forward to it.”
    His bow, when he left, was less countrified than before. Or perhaps it was just his anticipatory smile that made it seem better.
    When she sat alone after his departure, Bea felt that if she had six weeks with Southam, as she was having with his sister, she could whip him into shape, too. But then, why should she go to so much bother for Deborah Swann?
     

Chapter Seven
     
    “Rawl, you’ve got a new hairstyle!” Gillie exclaimed, when her brother entered that evening. His hair was clipped short and brushed forward.
    “My hair needed cutting. This is the way barbers do it in Bath,” he said. His eyes flew warily to Bea, who was examining him with interest.
    “The Brutus suits you,” she said. Her feminine intuition sensed his lack of ease and his unconscious turning to her for approval.
    “And you’re wearing a more stylish cravat,” Gillie added.
    “Scrumm bought it for me this afternoon. Trying to smarten me up. I daresay he is ashamed of me in my provincial garb. Next he will be sticking wadding in my shoulders and buying me top boots with a white edge.”
    “It looks nice. Does he not look nice, Aunt Bea?”
    “Very handsome,” she conceded. “Deborah will not recognize you when you return. And speaking of Deborah, there is a letter for you in the evening post. She sent it in my care, as she was unsure what inn you were putting up at.”
    When a servant brought the letter, she was surprised to see Southam stick it in his pocket unread. “It might be important, Southam,” she said.
    He took it out and read it. His countenance did not assume any air of excitement but only a certain rigidity about the jaws. Deborah wrote that she was sorry to upset him, but it had been necessary to dismiss one of his footmen. She had caught Tolliver stealing a bottle of Southam’s best sherry. He had tried to bam her that it was for Cook; Cook had supported him in this patent untruth. As Southam knew very well, Cook was not allowed to use the family