The Wedding Game (9 page)

All in all, in terms of beginnings it could be counted a successful afternoon for the Go-Between.

“I must make my farewells, Miss Duncan.”

She turned at the doctor's lilting voice. “Oh, but you haven't seen Lord Buckingham. I'm sure he'll come in the next half an hour.”

“Unfortunately, I have patients to see,” he said smoothly.

“Oh, what a pity. Should I tell him that you were here looking for him? Is there an address I can give him where he could find you later?” she asked, for some reason delighting in making mischief. How was he going to extricate himself from this one? The doctor believed there was a true Lord Buckingham who was well known to his hostess, who was now calling him on his manufactured excuse.

“No, don't trouble, please. I'll probably find him later at my club,” he said.

“Is that White's?” she asked sweetly.

“No, Crocker's,” he responded. “A gambling club, Miss Duncan. Lord Buckingham and I have a penchant for
vingt-et-un
.”

Oh, nice.
Chastity gave a mental bow in acknowledgment of the deft rejoinder. “Good afternoon, Dr. Farrell. I hope your practice prospers.”

“Thank you.” He bowed over her hand and left.

Outside on the pavement he looked up at the house. Signorina Della Luca—rich enough, eager enough, unless he was much mistaken. But he was under no obligation to pursue the Go-Between's introduction to the exclusion of all other prospects.

The Honorable Chastity Duncan? Rich enough, judging by her surroundings. Aristocratic enough, without a doubt. All the right social connections. And without doubt a much more interesting prospect than the one the Go-Between had presented. But he would have to get to the root of her strange but unmistakable antagonism. She'd met him for the first time that afternoon, so what had he done or said to put her back up?

Well, he'd always liked a challenge. With a little nod of his head, Douglas Farrell did a jaunty sword pass with his cane and strolled away towards Harley Street and the rooms he had just rented for his Society practice.

Chapter 5

I
rather liked your Dr. Farrell, Chas,” remarked Constance when the last visitor had left and the clock had struck five, signaling the conventional end of visiting hours.

“He's not
mine,
” Chastity protested, gathering up plates from the sofa tables. “I'm hoping he's going to be Laura Della Luca's.”

“He's attractive,” Prudence said, handing a tower of teacups to the parlor maid. “Do you think he was a boxer at university? He has the physique for it.”

“And the broken nose,” Constance said. “There's certainly something very physical about him.” She was watching Chastity as she said this and noticed just a hint of pink on her cheekbones. “Don't you think, Chas?”

Chastity shrugged. “He's just huge, that's all.”

“Huge,”
exclaimed Prudence. “You make him sound like a fat grizzly bear, or a man mountain. He's just rather tall and very broad and muscular.”

“Does it matter?” Chastity asked, shaking out sofa cushions with some vigor. “We've done our job. The question is, do we need to do more to promote the match, or can we leave them to it?”

“We can't leave them to it at this early stage,” Prudence stated. “Anything—or anyone—could distract him. Constance had better have a dinner party.”

“Unless Father could be persuaded to host one with the contessa as guest of honor?” Constance suggested. “Since that awful day in court, I haven't seen him as animated as he was this afternoon.”

“Ten minutes certainly stretched close to an hour,” Chastity agreed, relieved for some reason that the subject of Douglas Farrell had been dropped for the moment. “What puzzles me is how such a pleasant and civilized woman could have such a tiresome daughter.”

“A lady of little brain and even less education,” said Constance acidly. “Add to that an inflated sense of one's own worth and opinions, and you get tiresome.”

“Where the contessa goes, so also goes the daughter, so we'd better get used to her if we're to stick to our plans,” Prudence pointed out.

“However, the sooner we get the daughter off the mother's hands, the better. If Father has to spend too much time in Laura's company, he'll rapidly lose interest in her mother.” Chastity shook her head. “Quite frankly, I don't know how I can endure the prospect of her as a stepsister, married or not. Do you think we've bitten off more than we can chew this time?”

“Oh, faint heart,” chided Constance as she gathered up her handbag. “We have never yet been defeated. We'll find a way to curb the obnoxious signorina. It's three against one, after all.”

Chastity still looked doubtful. “I know that, but this is the first time we've involved Father,” she said. “These are not just random prospects we're putting together. We can't risk Father getting hurt.”

“No, of course not,” Prudence said, giving her a hug. “But this was your idea, love, remember? And it's a brilliant one. It'll all work out, don't worry.”

Chastity was not totally reassured but she smiled anyway. “Yes, I'm sure you're right. I'll drop the idea of a dinner party into Father's ear, see if it finds fertile ground. Of course, he's bound to say we can't afford it,” she added.

“And then he'll start fretting about the condition of his wine cellar and whether he has anything worth offering to guests,” Prudence said with a knowing chuckle. “I don't think we can leave you to deal with this alone, Chas. We'll bring it up together. How about we come over for supper tomorrow evening? Are you free, Con?”

“Tomorrow, yes,” her elder sister answered, drawing on her gloves. “But I have to go now. We're going to the theater this evening and meeting people for dinner first. Max gets all wrinkled up if we're late.”

“Are you doing anything tonight, Chas?” Prudence asked, gathering up her own belongings.

“Roddie Brigham's put together a party for a concert at the Albert Hall. I believe it's that Italian virtuoso, Enrico Toselli,” Chastity answered. “There's a supper party at Covent Garden afterwards.”

“Sounds amusing,” Prudence said.

“But you don't sound too enthusiastic, Chas,” Constance observed.

Chastity shook her head. “Of course I am. I'm just feeling a little tired for some reason. Making small talk all afternoon will do it. I'll be right as rain once I've had a bath.”

“Well, we'll leave you to it.” Constance kissed her. “Supper here tomorrow evening, then?”

“Yes, that'll be lovely.”

“On our way out, we'll tell Father we'll be here.” Prudence went to the drawing room door. “Have a nice evening, Chas.”

“You too.” Chastity raised a hand in farewell as her sisters went out together. Alone, she wandered over to the French windows that opened onto the terrace at the rear of the house. It was full dark outside, the garden invisible. She opened the door and stepped out onto the terrace. A bitter wind sliced through her thin crepe de chine blouse and pressed the poplin skirt against her thighs. But she stayed where she was for a few minutes despite the discomfort. Something was the matter with her. It was as if she was sickening for something. She felt confused and restless and dissatisfied. Ordinarily the prospect of the evening ahead would have pleased her. She liked Roddie and she liked the members of the party he had put together. But at the moment the prospect seemed about as enticing as a bowl of vanilla pudding.

A particularly sharp gust of wind sent her back inside. She shut the doors and drew the curtains across. Madge, the parlor maid, had lit the gas lamps and was now building up the fire, and for a moment Chastity contemplated sending her excuses to Roddie and spending the evening alone, curled up with a book in front of the fire.

But that, she decided, was pathetic. If she was feeling depressed, the only thing to do was to shake herself out of the mood. It was strange, though. She had no reason to be depressed. But maybe she was still getting used to being without her sisters' constant company. That was an explanation she could understand. Feeling a little more positive, she poured herself a glass of sherry and took it upstairs to sip in a leisurely bath.

She lay back in the curling steam, her hair secured in a towel, and closed her eyes. She opened them again abruptly when her internal vision was entirely taken up with the image of Douglas Farrell. The mind was a very perverse thing, Chastity decided, and got out of the bath. She flung open the armoire and took out the most dramatic gown she possessed, a dark red silk creation with red velvet puff sleeves and a low, off-the-shoulder neckline that accentuated her well-rounded bosom. She twisted her hair ruthlessly into a braided chignon and fastened it on top of her head, inserting a silver and diamond ornament in the shape of a plume in the middle. Then she subjected the whole to a critical appraisal in front of the full-length mirror as she drew on long white gloves. She could find no fault.

The door knocker sounded as she left her bedroom. Roddie had said he would come for her just before seven. They would meet the rest of the party at a café for champagne and hors d'oeuvres before going to the concert. She had reached the head of the stairs, her evening cloak over her arm, when she heard the unmistakable Scottish lilt. Douglas Farrell was talking to Jenkins.

She half turned to return to her room and then stopped, wondering what on earth she thought she was doing. She went downstairs. “Dr. Farrell, what a surprise,” she said as she reached the bottom step, eyebrows lifted in faint interrogation.

“Dr. Farrell has mislaid his card case, Miss Chas,” Jenkins explained. “He wondered if he had left it here this afternoon.”

Douglas stepped adroitly around Jenkins and offered Chastity a winning smile. “Forgive me for intruding, Miss Duncan, I seem always to be doing it,” he said. “You're on your way out, I see. Don't let me hold you up.” He made no attempt to conceal his admiration. She was stunning. He had thought her attractive that afternoon, but the evening version was utterly breathtaking. A dramatic vision of perfectly matched shades of red.

Chastity couldn't fail to notice the admiration in his arrested charcoal gaze, or the change in his smile, from the practiced social version to one of genuine pleasure. A very female sense of satisfaction warmed her. However much she disliked the man, she was woman enough to enjoy having such an effect upon him. Her voice, however, was quite cool, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming. “I'm afraid I haven't seen a card case,” she said. “Did anything turn up in the drawing room when Madge tidied up, Jenkins?”

“No, Miss Chas. Nothing was found.”

“I'm so sorry, Dr. Farrell. Perhaps you left it somewhere else.”

“I suppose I must have done,” he said, just as there was another knock on the front door behind him.

Jenkins opened it. “Good evening, my lord.” He stepped back to allow Viscount Brigham admittance.

“Good evening, Jenkins . . . Chas. Are you ready? My, don't you look stunning,” Roddie said cheerily, revealing evening dress beneath an opera cloak. He looked a pleasant question at Douglas. “Brigham,” he said, extending his hand.

“Douglas Farrell.” Douglas shook the hand and explained his presence. “I mislaid something this afternoon and wondered if I'd left it here at Miss Duncan's At Home this afternoon. I just dropped by on the off chance.”

“Oh, I see.” Roddie nodded. “Easy enough to do, of course. I'm always losing things . . . half my possessions are scattered over town.” He laughed his easy laugh. “Well, if you're ready, Chas, we should be going. The others are waiting for us at Blue Moon.”

“I'm quite ready.” She held out her hand to Douglas. “Good evening, Dr. Farrell. I hope you find your card case. Don't wait up for me, Jenkins. I have my key.” She went out on the viscount's arm.

Douglas looked after her. A covered barouche waited at the curb, a pair of very fine chestnuts in the traces. He was a good judge of horseflesh and guessed that the pair had cost their owner several thousand guineas. Enough to equip a small hospital ward. He realized that Jenkins was waiting patiently beside the door, gazing into the middle distance, and hastily gathered himself together.

“What's Blue Moon?” he asked the butler.

“A café, sir. Rather select . . . situated in the Brompton Road. It is a favorite of the young people for early-evening gatherings,” Jenkins informed him. “Viscount Brigham's party are going on to the Albert Hall afterwards, I believe.”

“Ah.” Douglas nodded. “Thank you.” He left and walked briskly around the square. His visit to Manchester Square had been made on impulse, which in itself was unusual. He was not a man given to impulse. But he had had the thought that a surprise call on Miss Duncan might have interesting consequences. Maybe she would have agreed to an impromptu dinner invitation, or at least have invited him in for a drink.

He hailed a hackney. The cabbie leaned down from his box. “Where to, guv?”

To Douglas's astonishment, he heard himself say, “Albert Hall, please.” He climbed in and sat in the dark as the cab clattered away. What the hell was he doing? While it was possible that there were spare tickets for the concert this evening and it was not beyond the realm of coincidence that he and Miss Duncan should find themselves at the same musical event, this spur-of-the-moment pursuit struck him as somewhat lunatic in its impulsiveness.

Roddie observed within the gloom of the barouche, “I didn't bring the motor because I thought it would be too cold for you tonight. There's a bitter wind.”

“Yes,” Chastity said rather vaguely, tucking her gloved hands beneath the lap rug.

“I hear this musician chappie is excellent,” Roddie said.

“Yes,” Chastity agreed. “I'm looking forward to hearing him.”

“I'm looking forward to Guinness and oysters,” Roddie said, rubbing his hands together. “Just the ticket on a night like this.”

Chastity made no reply. He peered at her in the gloom. “You seem very thoughtful, Chas.”

“Oh, do I?” She smiled at him. “It's probably the cold, it's numbing my brain.”

“Oh, we'll soon take care of that.” He slipped a hand beneath the lap rug and took one of hers. “You shall have onion soup, dear girl.”

Chastity let her hand lie in his. Roddie had been pursuing a mild flirtation for so long, it was second nature to them both. He asked her to marry him on a fairly regular basis, but she was convinced he'd be shocked if she ever accepted him. He was as easy and comfortable to be around as wearing a pair of bedroom slippers. Not that she'd ever let him know that.

The only trouble was that tonight she seemed to want not bedroom slippers but a pair of impossibly high-heeled, very sexy buttoned boots.

Douglas left the Albert Hall ticket office in possession of a standing-room ticket. The prospect of standing didn't trouble him unduly, and it had the added bonus of only costing him a shilling. He was a music lover and particularly fond of the violin, so regardless of what lay behind this impulse, he was going to enjoy the evening.

He found a pub that offered steak-and-kidney pies and Guinness, and after he'd eaten he returned to the Albert Hall just before eight-thirty. He merged with the throng on the pavement, not too easy to do when one stood head and shoulders above the majority of one's fellow man, and glanced casually around. He saw Chastity's red dress immediately amid a lively, chattering group of elegantly dressed young people going into the Hall ahead of him, and followed at a distance to take up his humble standing position at the rear of the final tier of seats.