Bath Scandal by Joan Smith Page B

dignity. From time to time she takes these freakish notions.”
    “It began the day Deborah asked her whether she was paid,” Gillie explained. “Deborah told her that as she still receives a salary, she should consider herself a servant. In case you hadn’t noticed, Rawl, it is when Deborah dines with us that Miss Pittfield eats with the housekeeper.”
    Southam directed a quelling glare on his sister. “You are obviously mistaken. Deborah is not with us this evening.”
    Beatrice would like to have heard more of this. A hostess’s job was to maintain a pleasant atmosphere, however, and she dutifully changed the subject. “If you want to have a word with Miss Pittfield later, you will find her in the housekeeper’s parlor, chirping merry over this unexpected holiday.”
    “I trust her eyebrows did not rise, either, when you told her of it?” Southam asked.
    “She thought it an excellent idea. Do you a world of good, she said.”
    A few subtle hints let Southam know he was not to linger long after dinner. Phrases like “an early night before traveling” and “still a few things to pack” left him in no doubt. He took only one glass of port after dinner and planned to leave within a half hour of joining the ladies. He wanted a few moments alone with Bea before leaving, telling himself they had planning to do to hasten Gillie’s romance. Yet some deeper well of truth in him admitted that he also wanted a little flirtation. No harm in it. Mrs. Searle was an engaging lady. Why, a married man would do no less.
    When he went to the saloon, he was surprised and not at all pleased to see Sir Harold Whitehead ensconced in a chair, with Mr. Reynolds on the sofa beside Beatrice. Southam had made their acquaintance at the Upper Rooms, and said good-evening.
    “I was just telling Beatrice,” Mr. Reynolds said, “that I heard of her little trip—no thanks to Sir Harold. You should have told me, sly dog! I came to say farewell and urge her to return as soon as possible.” He turned to Bea. “No need to tell you, madam, that the town will be a desert without you.”
    “How did you hear of it, if not from Sir Harold or his mama?” she asked.
    “I daresay Sir Harold’s mama told her crones. Word is buzzing along the grapevine: hang up the knocker in crape, don your mourning bands. Mrs. Searle is leaving us.”
    Southam noticed that Bea smiled at this absurdity. How could she tolerate these old fools? He saw a box of bonbons sitting on the sofa table and a bouquet of flowers—farewell tributes from her swains. All this had the aroma of romance,
    “Next time I shall tell Mama to hold her tongue,” Sir Harold said, with a jealous eye at Reynolds.
    Reynolds, not to be outdone, began to pester Bea. “You have been to Brighton with Sir Harold; you are off to Bournemouth with Lord Southam; when am I to have the honor of making a trip with you, Beatrice?”
    “Why, as soon as you acquire a mama, or maiden aunt, or sister to chaperon us, sir. You cannot expect me to traipse off alone with a gentleman!”
    “Quite so, but that is not to say we could not take a dart to the coast, to Portishead or Avonmouth, some day and be home by evening.”
    “Portishead!” Sir Harold said disparagingly. “Is that your idea of an outing? I am surprised you don’t suggest touring the slums. What we ought to do is make up a party and go to visit the Lake District.”
    “An excellent notion!” Reynolds said. “You and your mama, Mrs. Searle and myself.”
    “And Mrs. Searle’s chaperon!” Bea added, laughing. “You are shocking Lord Southam, gentlemen. He will expect me to reach down and tie my garter in public, the way you natter on.”
    She gave them a cup of tea. As soon as this was taken, she summarily dismissed them. Southam was the last to go. Between Deborah’s letter and Bea’s beaux, he was in a vile humor and did very little to conceal it.
    “Where has Gillie taken herself off to?” he asked curtly.
    “She is having