The Wedding Game (13 page)

She smiled. “Perhaps we too should dispense with the formalities, Douglas, if we're to enjoy a family Christmas together.”

He bowed his acknowledgment. “Thank you, Chastity. I am honored.”

She thought he looked a little puzzled, a little speculative, and guessed he was wondering what had prompted the invitation. He was not to know that the Go-Between was at work. If Laura kept the good doctor busy, as she was intended to do, and as, it was clear, she had every intention of doing, then Lord Duncan could devote his attentions to the contessa without being put off by the daughter.

Chastity mentally rubbed her hands in satisfaction. The Go-Between's twofold task over Christmas would be to ensure that the doctor continued to see the advantages in a union with Laura Della Luca, while the sisters encouraged Lord Duncan's pursuit of the mother. A matter of two birds with one stone. And the three Duncan sisters were enough of a force to get them both.

Chapter 7

D
ouglas took his leave of the Della Lucas while the Duncans remained to discuss Christmas travel plans. Laura had insisted he give her the address of his consulting rooms and had promised him with a warm handclasp that she would call upon him that very afternoon with some of her ideas for the appropriate furnishings for a Harley Street practice.

He had no idea how he was going to steer clear of her more florid ideas. He found himself grinning as he thought of Chastity's reaction to the idea of giving ornate Florentine touches to what should be all leather, brass, thick carpets, reassuring shelves of medical texts, and inoffensive pictures on plain cream walls. Now, if Chastity would undertake the task . . .

He shook his head. It didn't seem like the kind of thing she would volunteer for. And on further reflection, he couldn't see the Honorable Miss Duncan volunteering to interfere in anyone's life. She seemed to be a very hands-off kind of woman, quite unlike the members of the female sex who had hitherto peopled his life. It was that, perhaps, that made her refreshing. That and a very sharp wit that had an almost masculine edge to it. Interesting contrast with her appearance, he caught himself thinking. She was a little person, softly rounded. He remembered being struck by the curve of her forearm in that wonderful red dress the previous evening . . . the curve of her forearm and the creamy swell of her breasts. Very feminine. He had enjoyed the minute when he had held her waist as he'd lifted her into the hackney, the feel of her warm flesh beneath the thin silk. No corset, he remembered. That was what had so surprised him. Her shape was most unfashionably her own. With all her own curves and natural indentations.

As a doctor he could only applaud the refusal of any woman to torture her body with whalebone and laces, but women in general were slow to follow medical advice. Vanity was a harsh taskmaster, as Marianne had taught him. His mouth took the rather bitter twist that thoughts of his ex-fiancée always produced, even after seven years. Marianne's vanity had been outraged at the prospect of being married to a charity physician. The twist to his mouth grew more pronounced as he remembered how she had recoiled physically from him when he'd confided his mission to found a practice in the Edinburgh slums. She'd reacted as if he'd brought typhoid fever and fleas into her mother's drawing room. Her withdrawal from the engagement had followed so swiftly and decisively, he'd had no choice but to accept that what he had thought was her genuine affection for him had been based entirely on his social eligibility as a husband. His bitterness and disappointment had been mitigated to some small extent by the knowledge that he'd discovered the truth in time.

He had no intention of coming anywhere close to that danger again. He needed a wife, a good, mutually convenient relationship with no emotional entanglements. He certainly found Chastity Duncan, who clearly scorned the rules of vanity, appealing, but there was something about her that set warning bells ringing. He had a feeling she was a little too complicated a character for the kind of wife he had in mind.

So, what about the Go-Between's suggestion? Signorina Della Luca. His professional eye had detected in her posture and movements the rigidity of a tightly corseted frame, although she seemed thin enough to do without such artificial reining in. But her rather prim and dowdy choice of dress didn't imply vanity, at least not of the physical variety. She was certainly opinionated and, like so many opinionated people, rather less than accurate in the facts and views she shouted from the rooftops. And she was undoubtedly a managing woman. But she was wealthy and those character flaws could be turned to advantage. He had the impression that once she took the bit between her teeth she would pursue any course with utter dedication, and helping her husband establish a successful Society medical practice would be a course that would lend itself to the bit.

Chastity Duncan, on the other hand, would be unlikely to take a bit of any description.

He turned onto Harley Street and walked towards the building that housed his new consulting rooms. It seemed he had made up his mind. The attraction he felt for the Honorable Miss Duncan notwithstanding, she would not make him the kind of wife he needed. Laura Della Luca . . . perhaps . . . and he didn't think the lady herself would be averse.

He inserted his key in the lock of the outside door, picked up from the table in the hallway the few pieces of post that had been delivered for him, and noticed that the other practitioners in the house all had significant piles of post. But give it time. He went up the carpeted stairs. A janitor kept them swept, the gilded banister highly polished. As he reached the first-floor landing, a door opened and a middle-aged woman with a pince-nez, her hair in a severe bun, emerged from the office behind.

“Good morning,” she said. “It's Dr. Farrell, isn't it?”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“I'm Dr. Talgarth's receptionist,” she said, indicating the door behind her. “He was wondering if you'd stop in for a drink before you go home this evening . . . around five o'clock. He wanted to welcome you to the building.”

“How very kind.” Douglas smiled. “I should be delighted.” He gave a slight nodding bow and continued up to the next floor. He would need a receptionist himself. Doughty Mrs. Broadbent had taken care of his Edinburgh practice as she'd taken care of his father's, but she could never be persuaded to abandon her legion of grandchildren to come to the city of sin. A true Calvinist was Mrs. Broadbent.

He opened the door onto the suite of rooms he had leased and looked around. They were sparsely furnished, the walls painted a dull green, the trim peeling in places. The windows needed washing, the carpet needed replacing. The furniture was scratched, the leather on the waiting room chairs cracked. He needed to throw everything out and start anew. An expensive proposition and beyond his present means, but he'd already arranged the bank loan that would get things started.

He walked through the waiting room and into the consulting room beyond. The practitioner who had had the suite before him had favored dark paneling and heavy mahogany furniture. It was enough to depress a patient who was fit as a flea, Douglas reflected, not to mention one who was riddled with gout or suffered intractable headaches. Light wood and paintwork and a warm thick-piled carpet were the answer. Then he thought of the blue and gilt and shuddered. Renaissance orgies were not the image he intended to present.

He looked at his watch. It was close to noon. He would have a surgery of desperate patients awaiting him at St. Mary Abbot's, he was ravenous, and Laura Della Luca was coming to rearrange his decor at four o'clock. He pushed his hands through his short curls in a familiar gesture of distraction and left Harley Street at close to a run.

Chastity and Lord Duncan left the contessa and her daughter shortly after the doctor.

“I can't possibly keep the book, Lord Duncan,” the contessa protested as her visitor set the volume on the sofa table.

“Peruse it at your leisure, dear lady,” he said, taking one of her plump hands with its heavily beringed fingers between both of his. “It gives me great pleasure that a book that delighted my late wife delights you.”

The contessa's smile was both sympathetic and pleased. “Thank you, my dear Lord Duncan.”

He patted the hand he held, then relinquished it to its owner and turned courteously to Laura. “Miss Della Luca, I look forward to furthering our acquaintance at Christmas.”

“Yes, indeed, my lord,” she said. “I shall be most interested to see how English festivities differ from the Italian.”

Lord Duncan blinked. “Well, they're Catholic, aren't they? The Italians? Don't have any of that nonsense in a good English parish, Miss Della Luca.”

“St. Jude's is high church, though, Father,” Chastity interceded gently. “We do have incense and the Eucharist, Laura. I hope you won't find it too strange.”

“I was thinking more of the secular celebrations,” Laura said. “They are bound to be different.”

“Oh, yes,” Chastity said cheerfully. “We do have the Boar's Head procession on Christmas Day, although actually we eat goose. And we have the caroling and the Boxing Day hunt. I'm sure it will all be quite a revelation for you.”

“And for Dr. Farrell,” Laura said. “I doubt the Scottish manner of celebrating Christmas is quite the same either.”

“I'll look forward to Dr. Farrell explaining his country's customs,” Chastity said sweetly. “Good morning, Contessa . . . Laura.”

The operatic footman saw them out and when they reached the pavement Lord Duncan turned to look up at the house. “Peculiar woman, that,” he observed somewhat obliquely.

Chastity made a stab. “Laura?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Not her mother . . . charming woman . . . quite charming.”

“Yes,” agreed Chastity. “I like her too.”

“Not so sure about the daughter, though,” Lord Duncan muttered, setting off up Park Lane towards Marble Arch. “Could be tiresome.”

“I imagine she'll find a husband soon enough,” Chastity said, half running to catch up with her father's suddenly energetic stride.

“Hmm,” he commented. “Why'd you invite that Farrell fellow for Christmas?”

“As a possible husband for Laura,” Chastity said coolly.

Lord Duncan stopped dead on the street. “Good God,” he said. And then again, “Good God,” before he started off again.

Chastity chuckled as she hurried to catch up. Her father knew nothing about the Go-Between. He knew only the secrets of
The Mayfair Lady.

Douglas was back at Harley Street to welcome his interior decorator at four o'clock that afternoon. He was feeling rather worn and conscious that his Mayfair clothes of the morning could have acquired some stains during his time at St. Mary Abbot's. His patients were not always immaculately groomed. However, he straightened his collar, buttoned his coat, and installed himself behind his desk in the consulting room. When his visitor arrived, he opened the door to her and gestured with a wide-flung hand at the waiting room.

“So, Laura, tell me what I should do here.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, walking around, her handbag tucked tightly under her arm. “Oh, yes. I see exactly what should be done. We need pastels . . . chintz at the windows . . . nice, well-stuffed chintzy armchairs and comfortable sofas . . . we need flowers on the wall . . . flower paintings. So cheerful, so inviting.” She turned to Douglas, her hands clasped fervently. “You must put yourself in my hands,
Dottore.
I know exactly how to make your patients feel welcome. I can see it all.”

How to make his patients feel welcome.
Now, that was definitely part of the program. Douglas looked around doubtfully, trying to envisage pastel colors. Anything would be better than the dull green . . . well, he amended, anything other than ornate gold. No reason why sober practical reassurance should be dark brown. Flowers
were
cheerful. Cushions
were
comfortable. He was a little unsure about the chintz, however. The country cottage atmosphere wasn't quite what he'd had in mind. He regarded his visitor thoughtfully.

“Maybe not pastel colors, exactly,” he said. “I was thinking a plain cream.”

She laughed. “You are not to give it a second thought,
Dottore
—oh, Douglas. In Italy we are always so formal in matters of address. I find these London ways so strange.”

“Address me in whatever manner you wish,” he told her.

“And you will leave this in my hands?” She was opening the door into the consulting room as she spoke.

Douglas gave a mental shrug. He didn't have the time to do it himself. What did he have to lose? “I would be most grateful,” he said, suppressing a sudden flash of anxiety at an even more vivid memory of the Della Luca mansion on Park Lane. “I had in mind something very solidly comfortable, very much in keeping with London surroundings,” he suggested.

She turned back to him, holding out her hands. “
Dottore,
you may have complete confidence. I will be so happy to do this for you. I can never bear to be idle, you know, and this will be a project after my heart.”

He took her hands. “Thank you,” he said. And he was, he thought, truly grateful. It would be extremely unreasonable not to be. This was what he had asked the Go-Between to find for him. A woman who would participate actively in his Harley Street practice. Laura Della Luca seemed more than willing to take on that duty.

She let her hands lie in his until he took the initiative and gently but decisively released them. He escorted her through the encroaching dusk and hailed a hackney for her.

“I look forward to our association, Douglas,” she said, pressing his fingers meaningfully when he gave her his hand to assist her into the hackney. And as he handed her in he was powerfully reminded of performing the same service for Chastity Duncan the previous evening. Or not quite the same service. He realized that he had not the slightest desire to lift Laura Della Luca into the cab. A thought to be quickly dismissed.