The Wedding Game

by Jane Feather

  “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.

  The orchestra struck up the opening chords and he leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and settled into the music.

  Chastity, in a prime seat, nibbled the sugared almonds supplied by her host. She was feeling much more relaxed, warmed by a bowl of rich onion soup and cheered by the bubbles of a vintage champagne. The music was sublime and she had completely recovered from her strange mood of earlier by the time the violinist drew his bow across his instrument in finale and the musical chords faded into the grand expanse of the Hall. The applause was, as always, conventionally discreet but nonetheless heartfelt. The musicians took their bows and left the stage.

  “That was wonderful,” Chastity said. “Thank you so much, Roddie.”

  “My pleasure, my pleasure,” he said, beaming. “Not really my thing, though, this concert business. Prefer a good old singsong m'self, but a bit of culture never did any harm, did it?”

  “Oh, Roddie, you're a lost cause,” she said, laughing. “You're not nearly the Philistine you pretend to be.” They slid out of the row, exchanging comments with the rest of the party. In the lobby, the women made their way to the cloakroom to refresh themselves and retrieve their cloaks. When they returned, Chastity gazed dumbstruck at the sight of Douglas Farrell chatting casually with Roddie and the men of his party.

  “Wonderful musician, Toselli, don't you think, Miss Duncan?” Douglas commented as she came up. “A real privilege to have heard him.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly. Was he stalking her? It was an absurd idea and she dismissed it on the instant. “What a coincidence,” she said. “You being at the Albert Hall tonight. Perhaps you thought to find your missing card case here?”

  His eyes sharpened. There was no mistaking the sardonic edge to her voice, or the challenge in the hazel eyes. Mind you, he could hardly blame her, there was something more than a little suspicious about his repeated appearances this evening. He didn't fully understand it himself. He managed a bland smile. “I hardly think so, Miss Duncan. And I hardly think it's that much of a coincidence. Toselli is only playing for this one night. What lover of his playing would miss the opportunity to hear him?”

  “And you are a music lover, of course.”

  “A passionate one.”

  “Ah.” She turned aside as if to dismiss him and said to one of her companions, a young lady sporting a diamond tiara, “Did you notice the gown Elizabeth Armitage was wearing, Elinor? Definitely Worth, don't you think?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “Say, Farrell, why don't you join us? We're just going on to the Piazza for supper. Plenty of room for another.” Roddie issued the invitation with customary good nature, and Chastity ground her teeth. It was not an invitation for her to rescind. She kept her shoulder resolutely turned to Douglas and heard him accept the invitation.

  “Why, that's very kind of you. I should be delighted.”

  “New to London, are you?” Roddie asked as they moved towards the open doors to the street. “Haven't seen you around.”

  Douglas lowered his head to be more on a level with his companion as he answered him. Chastity heard strands of their conversation as it drifted back. Edinburgh . . . doctor . . . Harley Street . . .

  “He's a welcome addition to the scene,” Polly confided in an undertone as they stepped into Roddie's barouche. “Oh, Roddie, there's no room for you in here,” she cried as he attempted to follow them in. “Elinor is coming with us, aren't you, dear?”

  “I suppose you want to gossip.” Roddie stepped back with a resigned bow and handed the third lady into his carriage. “We'll follow in a hackney.”

  “So, tell us about this doctor, Chas. Where did you meet him?” Polly leaned forward across the narrow space that separated them as the carriage started forward.

  “Oh, he came to the At Home this afternoon. He was looking for someone . . . I can't quite remember who,” Chastity said vaguely. “I don't know anything about him, except that he's new to London and he's starting a medical practice.”

  “Oh, well, I shall definitely go to him,” Elinor declared. “Large men seem to inspire such confidence.” She dabbed at her cheeks with a papier poudre. “Anyone else need a touch-up?” She offered her companions the tiny book of paper impregnated with peach-colored face powder.

  Chastity shook her head, though Polly availed herself of the offer. Chastity was still feeling somewhat stunned, as if she were caught up in a whirlwind. Was it more than coincidence that had brought Douglas Farrell to the Albert Hall that night, so soon after accosting her at home on an excuse that quite frankly had sounded trumped-up? Why wasn't he calling upon Laura Della Luca as he was supposed to be doing? Just what was going on? He certainly wasn't supposed to be forming part of this supper party. It was thoroughly disconcerting.

  It was just as disconcerting to find herself sitting next to him at the round supper table in the noisy mirrored restaurant on Covent Garden's Piazza. One minute she had been about to sit between Roddie and Elinor's brother and the next she had Douglas Farrell adroitly displacing Roddie and sliding in on her left.

  “This is a cheerful place,” he said, shaking out his napkin.

  “Yes, it specializes in serving the kind of food the costermongers in the market would eat,” she said. “Good Cockney fare.”

  “Appropriate enough for my first opportunity to sample London's nightlife,” he observed.

  “You've been too busy starting up your practice to go out and about much, I daresay,” she responded, accepting that the rules of etiquette now required her to engage her neighbor in small talk. “How does one go about doing that, exactly?”

  She took a sip of water as her eyes roamed over the menu. She was actually interested in his response. As the Go-Between, she knew rather more of his plans than he would ever acknowledge, so it was at least amusing to see what web of fantasy he had spun for social use.

  “I have some contacts from my father,” he replied. “And, of course, some referrals from my previous patients in Edinburgh. It's a beginning. What are you going to eat? Do you recommend anything special?”

  “The r
oast chicken is good,” she said. She leaned forward around her other neighbor. “Excuse me, Peter. Roddie, was it the jugged hare that was so good last time we were here?”

  A lively discussion ensued as to the relative merits of jugged hare or the jarret de veau. No one mentioned the merits of the roast chicken, Douglas noted. When Chastity sat back, he murmured, “Roast chicken seems somewhat pedestrian under the circumstances.”

  “That rather depends on your viewpoint. My brother-in-law, who is an excellent chef and an unashamed gourmand, always eats it here. He says it's the Platonic ideal of roast chicken—a perfect bird, perfectly cooked.”

  “Is that Lady Malvern's husband, or Mrs. Ensor's?”

  “Prudence's husband. Sir Gideon Malvern.” Chastity broke her roll and buttered a piece lavishly.

  “Ah. The barrister.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, then turned to the sommelier, who on Roddie's instructions was offering a choice of wine. “I'll have the red, please. I'm going to have the jarret de veau.”

  Douglas took a glass of the same. He was trying to remember where he'd heard the barrister's name before. Then it came to him. He snapped his fingers. “Wasn't Sir Gideon the barrister who defended The Mayfair Lady? Didn't he defend it in that libel suit?”

  “Yes,” Chastity agreed airily. “And a very fine job he did of it too.”

  Douglas ran the tip of his finger around the lip of his glass. “Forgive me, but wasn't your father involved in some way?” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I read about it in the papers.”

  “I'm amazed the story reached the Scottish newspapers,” she said. “But, yes, my father was a witness for the broadsheet. It was one of the main reasons why Gideon took on the case . . . family, you understand.” The lie was smooth as Jersey cream. It had been perfected in the weeks since the case had concluded, the story being that Gideon and Prudence had been secretly engaged at the time of the libel suit, and when Lord Duncan's possible involvement had come up, the prospective son-in-law had naturally enough stepped into the breach.