by Jane Feather
He'd met plenty of women in such situations in his father's practice in Edinburgh, and he supposed that once he had established himself on Harley Street he would meet the English variety. But it would be unusual for a woman in such a subordinate position, little more than an upper servant, really, to be hosting the At Home. Passing the cakes, yes, fetching and carrying, yes, but hostess, unlikely.
Well, he wasn't going to find out by circling the square, Douglas decided. He glanced at his fob watch. It was just after three-thirty. Time to go in and meet his fate.
He ascended the steps to the front door and banged the highly polished lion's head door knocker. The door opened while the clang was still resounding in the air. A stately, white-haired butler greeted him with a bow. “Good afternoon, sir.”
Douglas handed him his visiting card. “Dr. Farrell,” he said. “I need to talk with Lord Buckingham, who, I understand, is visiting Miss Duncan this afternoon.”
“Ah, yes, of course, sir. His lordship has not arrived as yet, but if you'd care to come in, I'll inform Miss Duncan.” Jenkins's scrutiny was sufficiently covert for Douglas to be unaware of it. The butler could find no fault with the visitor's appearance or demeanor. He was dressed in conventional black frock coat, gray waistcoat, black tie, striped trousers.
“May I take your hat, sir?” Jenkins held out his hand for Douglas's bowler hat and silver-knobbed cane and placed them on the table with several others. The card, he held in his hand as he invited the visitor to follow him into the drawing room.
Douglas had missed the butler's scrutiny mainly because he was observing his surroundings. The faded elegance of old money, he decided. Aubusson rugs, a little threadbare but still charming, scattered casually over the parquet floor, a Sheraton table, and two Chippendale chairs. A collection of carnations in single-bud vases intrigued him, until he was shown into the drawing room and saw that every woman there had a flower pinned to her lapel.
Jenkins read from the card. “Dr. Douglas Farrell, Miss Duncan.”
Chastity turned swiftly from the sideboard where she was pouring tea. Her first thought, quite unbidden, was that Douglas Farrell was a remarkably attractive man. How had she failed to notice that the first time? But she had noticed it the very first time she'd seen him at Mrs. Beedle's. It was the second time, when they'd actually met, that she had failed to register anything appealing about him.
She came forward, her hand outstretched, her expression composed, a slightly interrogative smile on her lips. “Dr. Farrell . . . I don't believe we've met.”
Definitely not some elderly spinster. And definitely not some charity-case poor relation. He took her hand. “No. Forgive me for intruding.”
Chastity looked down at her hand, registering with some surprise how completely it disappeared within the large palm enclosing it. It was a very firm, warm, and dry clasp and it seemed to last a fraction longer than necessary as he continued, “I was told I might meet Lord Buckingham here this afternoon. I need to speak with him and I keep missing him at my club.” He smiled and at last released her hand.
Those charcoal eyes seemed to be dancing, Chastity thought, as if they were full of little sprites of humor. His wide mouth had parted in a crooked smile that absurdly produced a dimple in his chin. She realized she hadn't seen him smile before.
“Lord Buckingham usually comes to visit on Wednesdays,” she said, trying to sound neutral. “But he's not here as yet. Let me give you some tea.” She turned back to the sideboard.
“Dr. Farrell, I'm Miss Duncan's sister Constance Ensor . . . and this is my other sister, Lady Malvern.”
Douglas turned his head to confront a tall, very elegant woman who, like the more angular lady at her side, bore a distinct family resemblance to Miss Duncan. Hair a slightly less vivid shade of red, eyes more green than Miss Duncan's hazel. But definitely the same family.
He shook hands and explained his need to speak with Lord Buckingham, an explanation that they took with the same unquestioning ease as had their sister, who now reappeared at his side with a cup of tea.
“Sandwich, Dr. Farrell? Or would you prefer a tea cake?”
“Neither, thank you,” he said. “I really am sorry to intrude.”
“I am At Home this afternoon, Dr. Farrell,” she said with a cool smile. “At home to any who care to visit. You are perhaps not from London.”
“No, from Edinburgh,” he responded.
“Ah.” She nodded. “I'm sure they don't have the same social traditions up there.”
For all the world as if he'd said he was from the islands of Samoa, Douglas thought with a prickle of annoyance. For some reason he could sense little shards of antagonism coming from the Honorable Miss Duncan, but for the life of him he couldn't understand why.
“The Contessa Della Luca, Miss Della Luca,” announced Jenkins.
“Excuse me,” Chastity said, and flitted from the doctor's side. “Contessa, signorina, how delightful you could come. Do have some tea and let me introduce you. Are you acquainted with Lady Bainbridge?” She drew the two women into a circle of ladies all balancing teacups on their laps. “My sisters, Constance and Prudence, you know, of course. And this is Lady Winthrop and her daughter, Hester. Hester is to be married in a couple of weeks.”
A genteel chorus of greetings answered the introductions. Laura sat down beside Hester, fixed her rather protruding gaze on her, and said, “Where are you going on your honeymoon, Miss Winthrop? You should definitely go to Italy. No one's education is complete without a visit to Firenze and Roma.”
“Isn't it a little cold at Christmas?” Hester ventured, somewhat intimidated by the authoritarian tone and the unmoving stare.
“No, no, not at all. Firenze is in the south,” Laura declared with a wave of her mittened hand and a blithe disregard for the realities of geography.
“Naples or Sorrento are perhaps more southern,” ventured Prudence with a gleam in her eye.
“Oh, there's nothing there to see,” Laura said.
“Pompeii,” murmured Chastity. “I was under the impression that Pompeii was definitely worth visiting.”
“It would be even more so if they would allow women to see the erotic frescos,” Constance said. “When we were there some years ago with our mother, we were not permitted to see them, while the men were welcomed with open arms and prurient winks.”
“I hardly think such sights are suitable for a woman's eye,” Laura announced, primly dabbing her lips with her handkerchief. “I would shudder to see them.”
“I really think Michelangelo's David should be covered with a loincloth,” Chastity suggested in a tone as sweet as chocolate as she handed the lady a teacup. “I had to avert my eyes.” She turned to the doctor, who had approached the conversational circle, his eyes on the white carnation on Miss Della Luca's lapel. “What do you think, Dr. Farrell? Should women be permitted to view male anatomy as part of a work of art?”
He had the unmistakable sense that he was stepping into a trap. If he disagreed with the lady wearing the white carnation, then he could be ruining his chances with a prospective bride, but if he agreed with her, he would be exposing himself to the ridicule of this somewhat intimidating trio of sisters. He had not been fooled by Miss Duncan's sweet-voiced suggestion. It had been so heavily larded with irony, only the most obtuse ear could miss it.
He opted for diplomacy. “I think it's a matter of personal preference, Miss Duncan. I gather you know Italy well, Miss Della Luca?”
“It is my home, Dottore. The true home of my heart.” The lady launched into her favorite subject, and the sisters moved away with silent sighs of relief.
“That was accomplished simply enough,” Constance murmured, picking up a plate of sandwiches. “Now all we want is Father.”
Her wish was answered as it was spoken. Lord Duncan, dapper as always, his luxuriant white hair carefully brushed back from his broad forehead, entered the drawing room with a practiced smile. He greeted his daughter's guests with impec
cable courtesy, kissing female hands and cheeks according to his degree of familiarity, clapping the men on the shoulder, exchanging a jovial remark. His daughters, watching, had difficulty reconciling this social ease with the recluse he had become.
“I suppose it's like riding a bicycle,” Chastity whispered. “Once learned, never forgotten.” She stepped forward. “Father, I'd like to introduce you to Contessa Della Luca.”
“Delighted, my dear,” he said, smiling, bowing to the lady. “New faces are always welcome, madam. I trust there are some compensations for London in dreary December.”
“I find it quite delightful,” the lady responded robustly. “I wonder, could you explain to me the history of that painting over the cabinet? I've been looking at it and wondering ever since I arrived. It is not a Fragonard, by any chance?”
Lord Duncan beamed. “Why, well spotted, madam. Indeed it is. But not his usual style. So few people recognize it. Come and take a closer look.” He offered his arm. “I have another rather similar in the library. My late wife had a very good eye.” He bore the contessa off on his arm.
“Do you have a practice in London, Dottore?” Laura asked, turning her full attention to the man sitting on a gilt chair at her side.
Chastity found herself concerned for the chair; it seemed too fragile to bear the size of its occupant. But she noticed how deft and delicate were his hand movements, how his fingers on the dainty teacup were long and elegant even though his hands were so big. He was a doctor, she reminded herself. He probably performed surgery in some cases, or he certainly would have done during his training. It wasn't surprising that his hands were so sure.
“In Harley Street, Miss Della Luca,” he responded.
“Oh, and do you specialize, Dottore?” She leaned forward, clasping her mittened hands in her taffeta lap, her tongue rolling around the Italian pronunciation as lovingly as if it were sampling the finest beluga.
“I treat all complaints,” he responded. “But I specialize in diseases of the heart.”
“Oh, how splendid,” she cooed. “And how very important. You have a successful practice, of course.”
“It's newly established,” he demurred. Not for the first time his eyes were drawn to Miss Duncan, who was sitting in conversation with Lady Winthrop opposite, and he wondered why his attention kept wandering from the lady with the white carnation. He turned back to Miss Della Luca and gave her the warmly attentive, practiced smile that always reassured patients of his interest and sympathy. “I've only recently arrived in London from Edinburgh, where I had a flourishing practice. Of course, I hope to replicate that on Harley Street.”
“I'm sure you will,” Laura said. “Such a noble profession, the Hippocratic one. I salute you, Dottore.” She patted his hand. “One could wish for nothing better than to help one's fellow man. So essential for those of us who have been blessed by fortune.”
Douglas consented with a smile that was now a little forced. The sentiment was his own. So, why did he find the manner of its expression repellent? But then he reminded himself that that was not at issue. He knew better now than to expect in a wife a woman who combined wealth and social position with a true sympathetic understanding of his own calling. A rich woman who could at the very least voice the correct sentiments, even if it was only for effect, would suit his purposes very well. His smile became warmer.
The lady was not unattractive. One would not have to spend a great deal of time trying to converse with her. She would have all the right social connections. And he had a feeling she would be very persuasive when it came to advancing her husband's career and, not coincidentally, her own social position.
After half an hour, he rose to make his farewells. “I hope I may call upon you, Miss Della Luca.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Mama and I would be delighted. Twenty-six Park Lane. A delightful house. Not quite as commodious as our villa outside Firenze, but very pleasant . . . overlooking Hyde Park, you know.” She let her hand lie limply in his. “But don't let us take you away from your patients, Dottore. They have much greater need of you than we do.” A coy little laugh accompanied the instruction.
“I don't work all hours of the day,” Douglas lied, raising the limp fingers to his lips.
The doctor had address, Chastity thought, watching this byplay with well-concealed scorn. It seemed he was willing to pursue the introduction, though, and the signorina didn't appear averse, quite the opposite. Her mother was still absent from the drawing room, presumably in the company of Lord Duncan, examining the more unusual works of art scattered around the house.
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?”