by Jane Feather
“Families have their uses,” Douglas said with a somewhat ironic smile.
“Yes, they do. Did you just say that your father had medical connections in London?” The ironic smile puzzled her.
“Yes, he was a prominent physician in Edinburgh. I followed in his footsteps, although he died when I was very young. His partners in the practice took me under their wing.” The smile didn't waver. “I've found that the name of Sir Malcolm Farrell can open quite a few doors for his son.”
“You sound as if you disapprove.”
He shrugged. “I believe a person should succeed on his own merits, so it rather goes against the grain to capitalize on my father's reputation. But needs must.” He returned to his menu with an air that clearly indicated the subject was closed.
Now, just how did succeeding on one's own merits jibe with marrying for money, Chastity wondered. That was certainly ironic.
“What do you recommend to start . . . or should I ask, what would your brother-in-law recommend?” Douglas asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“Oxtail soup,” she said promptly. She saw his look. “Oh, don't you like oxtail?”
Douglas's abused taste buds were reliving his landlady's braised oxtail that had appeared on the supper table a few nights back. It had been barely edible. “Not greatly,” he said.
“Jellied eels?” she suggested. “They're a house speciality.”
“Are you serious?” He turned to look at her and saw a dimple twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You're not,” he said flatly.
“But they're very authentic,” she protested. “Straight from Billingsgate. They're a Cockney delicacy, you must know that.”
“I don't happen to be a Cockney,” he said dryly, taking a sip of wine. “I think I'll stick to the kipper pâté. Kippers I understand.”
“Don't they come from the Orkneys?”
“Among other places.”
“It seems rather feeble to eat only what you're used to,” she said. “I'd have thought you'd want to assimilate yourself to your new environment.”
“Very well,” he said, closing his menu. “Jellied eels it shall be, Miss Duncan, on condition that you eat them with me.”
Hung by her own petard, Chastity acknowledged ruefully. But there was something in his tone that made it impossible for her to refuse the challenge. “A deal, Dr. Farrell.”
“A deal.” He offered his hand and she shook it, once again oddly fascinated by the way her own disappeared so completely within his.
“What are you two settling?” Roddie called from across the table.
“The issue of jellied eels,” Douglas returned. “Miss Duncan has challenged me to sample a local delicacy. I've challenged her to sample it with me.”
There was applause at this. The wine was circulating freely and in the noisy informality of the restaurant the usual strict rules of dining etiquette had gone by the board.
“Five guineas on Chastity,” someone said. “She'll eat every last mouthful.”
“Oh, I don't think so,” someone else said, sizing up Dr. Farrell. “I think the good doctor here can see off a plate of jellied eels without even noticing. Six guineas on Farrell.”
It went on, the bets mounting until the plates of jellied eels were served to the contestants. Chastity surveyed the pale shivering length on her plate and controlled a shudder. She glanced sideways at Douglas, who was regarding his own plate with all the resolve of Caesar about to cross the Rubicon. All eyes were on them, even those from other tables who had been drawn into the bidding. Waiters seemed to appear from nowhere, drawing closer to their table in their long white aprons, flipping dishcloths at tables that needed no cleaning, rearranging cruet sets and place settings.
“Oh, well,” Chastity said, “they are a local delicacy for those whose budget doesn't run to jarret de veau. Who are we to despise what others enjoy?” She stuck her fork in the quivering fish.
Douglas, for a moment struck by the matter-of-fact comment that he would never have expected from such a creature of privilege as the Honorable Chastity Duncan, hesitated, then plunged in his own fork. They ate stolidly, stoically, fork after fork. Chastity concentrated on swallowing. She made no attempt to chew, merely gulped and forked, and gulped and forked. Every now and again she glanced sideways at her neighbor's plate. He seemed to be following exactly the same technique, but his mouth was bigger, so the contents of the plate diminished rather more rapidly than did hers. When he set down his fork in triumph, she still had at least three forkfuls to go.
Chastity did not look up. She cut, forked, swallowed. Cut, forked, closed her eyes, and swallowed, and with her eyes still tight shut, dealt with the last mouthful, then reached for her wineglass and drained it amid the laughing applause.
“A draw,” Roddie, who'd been keeping the book, announced. “There were no bets on who would finish first.”
“Considering how much smaller Chas is, she should have had a handicap,” someone observed judiciously.
“Not established beforehand,” Roddie said briskly. “I declare a draw.”
“How are you feeling?” Douglas asked softly, seeing that Chastity's eyes were still closed.
“What do you prescribe for nausea, Doctor?” she murmured, reaching blindly for her refilled wineglass.
“Wine,” he said cheerfully, following suit with his own. “In truth, they weren't that disgusting. It was the texture, not the taste.”
“As my brother-in-law will tell you, the two are inseparable,” Chastity returned with a mock groan. “Oh, pass me another roll, please.”
Douglas reached for a roll in the basket in front of him, broke it, buttered a piece generously, and laid it on her plate. “That should take the taste away.” He proceeded to butter the rest of the bread, his long fingers performing the task with the delicacy that had surprised her before.
Chastity blinked at the offering on her plate. She would have expected such an intimate gesture from a friend, Roddie, for instance, but Douglas Farrell was a stranger. But he was so matter-of-fact about it . . . obviously didn't think twice about it. Maybe as a doctor he was merely prescribing the correct medicine. With a mental shrug, she ate the bread.
He seemed to be sitting very close to her. She hadn't noticed his proximity before—the tables were all cramped and everyone sat cheek by jowl—but now, eating the bread newly delivered from those large hands, she became powerfully aware of his body. She remembered how Constance had commented on the man's sheer physical presence.
His forearm rested on the table and when he reached for his wineglass she noticed how the muscles of his upper arm pressed against the silky material of his coat. She glanced covertly at his profile. The long thin jaw gave his cheeks a hollowed-out, sculptured appearance, the whole dominated by the nose with its prominent bump on the bridge. Definitely a Roman nose, she thought. He had what she and her sisters had always referred to as a brainy brow, very broad, his hair springing back strongly from a pronounced widow's peak. There was, she thought, a certain ascetism to his uneven features that somehow didn't sit right with the force of his physical presence.
She dropped her eyes hastily when he turned suddenly towards her, a slightly quizzical look in his eye. The waiter's appearance to remove the empty plates was a welcome diversion. “Thank God for that,” she murmured as the residue of eels was removed. She took another buttered bite of crusty roll and waited for the fishy taste and slimy feel on her tongue to go away, hoping all the while that he had not noticed her inspection.
“I'm in the mood for dancing,” Elinor announced. “Who's for going on afterwards?”
“The Marrakech?” asked Roddie.
“Either there or Cleopatra's.”
There was a lively discussion as to the differing merits of the two dance clubs as the main courses were served. Chastity took no part in the debate. She had no wish to go dancing tonight but if the whole group was in favor it was going to be difficult to extricate herself. Roddie, having invited her
this evening, would feel obliged to take her home.
“Your brother-in-law was right about the chicken,” Douglas commented, looking up from his platter of golden brown chicken and roast potatoes. “I don't think I've tasted anything as good as this since my childhood Christmases.”
“Did you have chicken for Christmas? We always have goose,” Chastity said. This was as safe and inane a topic of conversation as she could wish for.
“Chicken at Christmas, haggis at New Year,” he said.
“Are you going home to Edinburgh this year?” she asked without much interest in the answer as she took a forkful of mashed potatoes.
He shook his head. “No, I'd have to go for at least two weeks to make the journey worthwhile and I have too much to do here.”
“Oh. Work, you mean?”
“Work . . . and setting up house.” He speared a baby turnip.
“Where are you living, Farrell?” Roddie asked, catching the end of this conversation.
“Wimpole Street,” Douglas said. “Convenient for Harley Street.”
“Oh, did you buy a house?” Elinor inquired. “Those Wimpole Street houses are magnificent.”
“Actually, I've taken a lease on a flat for the time being,” Douglas said. “It comes furnished and complete with a cook/housekeeper. Ideal for a working bachelor.” He laughed lightly.
“Then setting up house can hardly be a major chore,” Chastity observed somewhat tartly, leaning back for the waiter to refill her glass. “Not major enough to keep you away from your family at Christmastime, surely.”
He looked at her and said with a hint of mockery at her sharp comment, “You don't let anything slip by, do you, Miss Duncan?”
Chastity had the grace to blush, even as Roddie said with a chuckle, “Oh, Chastity's quite benign when compared with her sisters. Can't make a careless remark around them without being called on it.”
“We take after our mother,” Chastity offered with an apologetic smile. “We were taught that accuracy is vital. One should only say exactly what one means.”
“She sounds like a formidable woman,” Douglas said.
“She was,” Chastity agreed. “She died a few years ago.”
“I'm sorry,” he said, and his hand fleetingly brushed over hers where it rested on the table. There was so much natural empathy in the quiet, simple statement, in the light warmth of his fingers, that Chastity was oddly comforted. She began to wonder if her earlier negative assessment of Dr. Farrell's bedside manner had been rather harsh.
He was explaining his situation cheerfully now to the table at large. “I'm not entirely happy with my landlord's choice of furnishings. And I have some things of my own that require arranging. Books, for the most part. I am very particular about categorizing my library. It's likely to take me at least a week.”
“That must be some library,” said Elinor's brother with undisguised awe. “It takes me a year to read one book.”
“That, Peter, my boy, is because you have the concentration of a gnat,” Roddie said to general amusement. “Have we decided where we're going afterwards?”
“I get the impression you're not too keen on continuing the evening,” Douglas said softly under cover of the renewed debate.
“Why? I haven't said anything,” she responded with a frown.
“Exactly.” He sat back as the table was cleared.
“Chas? What's it to be? Cleopatra's or the Marrakech?” Roddie asked.
“To tell you the truth, I'm rather tired,” she said. “It's been a lovely evening, but would you mind terribly, Roddie, if I took a hackney home?”
“No, no, you can't do that,” he protested. “I'll see you home. Of course I will.”
“It's not necessary, Roddie.”
“Indeed it is.” And in Viscount Brigham's book it was. He had collected his guest from her house and he would return her from whence she came.
“If Miss Duncan is agreeable, I would be happy to see her home,” Douglas said, twirling the stem of his wineglass between his fingers. “I'm not much of a one for dancing myself.”
“What, no Gay Gordons, Dr. Farrell?” Elinor said. “No Eightsome Reels?”
He smiled. “Scottish reels, Lady Elinor, are in a rather different category. At those I excel. But I'm rather assuming they won't be on the dance program at the clubs tonight.”
“True enough,” Elinor conceded. “Do you wear a kilt when you dance reels, Douglas? I may call you Douglas?”
“I hope you will,” he said. “And yes, I wear a kilt on the appropriate occasions.”
Chastity reflected that Douglas Farrell was a master at putting paid to a conversation he didn't care for. He was never rude exactly, just very definite and to the point. He had turned back to her now and was saying pleasantly, “Would you give me the pleasure of seeing you home, Miss Duncan?”
And what could she say? Wimpole Street was but a half mile from Manchester Square. To refuse such a convenient escort would be bewilderingly discourteous to everyone but herself, and would require Roddie to miss his dancing. Chastity smiled and murmured her thanks.
Chapter 6
The party stood outside amid the swirling detritus of Covent Garden market. Roddie was efficiently summoning hackney cabs to take those would-be dancers who couldn't fit into his own carriage on to the Marrakech. He turned to Chastity and Douglas. “We're dividing the supper bill among us, Farrell. If you give me your card, I'll send you a note when I've worked out your share of the damage,” he said easily.
“Dr. Farrell has mislaid his card case,” Chastity said with a sweet smile, shooting him a rather pointed sidelong glance.
“Nevertheless, I do have a couple on me,” Douglas said with a smile as smooth as her own. He reached into his pocket and took out a billfold from which he extracted a business card. “Both addresses are on there.”
He handed the card to the viscount, who took it with a nod and offered his own in exchange. This led to a flurry of card exchanges between Douglas and the rest of the party.
“Are you sure you won't come and dance?” Roddie asked Chastity rather mournfully as this was going on. “I was looking forward to a quickstep with you.”
“I'm sorry, Roddie, but I'm really tired,” she said. “I've also got all those jellied eels swishing around inside me.”
“What a revolting image,” he said.
“It was a revolting experience,” she returned with a laugh. “But other than that, it was a lovely evening. Thank you.”
“Yes, and I thank you for including me,” Douglas said, extending his hand. “A delightful introduction to London.”
“Oh, my pleasure, dear fellow, my pleasure,” Roddie declared, reaching up to clap the other man on the shoulder. “Tell me, if it's not an impertinence, did you get that nose in the ring?”
Douglas shook his head. “I could have quite easily since I was a heavyweight at school and went a good many rounds in my time, but it was actually on the rugby field.”
“That is such a violent game,” Polly said with a ladylike shudder.
“It has its moments,” Douglas agreed, touching the bump on his nose reflectively.
“Oh, women don't understand the character-building value of sports,” Elinor's brother said with a scornfully dismissive gesture. “If it's not a gentle pat-ball over a tennis net, they want nothing to do with it.”
“That's not true,” Chastity said. “Women play cricket and hockey, as well as tennis. They bicycle, they play golf and go mountain walking.”
“But not what one might call contact sports,” Douglas observed.
“If by that you mean we choose not to engage in physical wrestling with our opponents, then I suppose you have a point,” Chastity responded. “But breaking limbs, not to mention heads and noses, strikes me as a thoroughly unintelligent way to win anything.”
“A lost cause, I told you, Farrell,” Elinor's brother said, shaking his head. Douglas merely smiled his agreement, deciding that the subject was best
dropped. The Honorable Miss Duncan didn't pull any punches when it came to verbal sparring, whatever her opinion of physical sport.
The group piled into their various conveyances amid a chorus of good nights, leaving Douglas and Chastity still on the street.
Douglas looked around for a free hackney. “I think Brigham took them all,” he commented.
“It's a busy time of night for hackneys,” Chastity pointed out, turning up the collar of her evening cloak.
“There's one.” Douglas put his fingers to his lips and emitted a piercing whistle that would not have shamed a barrow boy. The hackney was going the wrong way but at the whistle the cabbie turned his horses.
“Oh, well done,” Chastity approved. “That was some whistle. You must show me how you do it. If he'd got to the far corner we would have lost him. There's a whole crowd waiting over there.”
Douglas opened the carriage door for her. “Allow me,” he said, taking her lightly by the waist and lifting her into the interior before climbing in after her, slamming the door shut.
Chastity regarded him with a dangerous glint in her eye. “Clearly you belong to that group of men who believe that women find something charming about being made to feel like china dolls. I have to tell you, Dr. Farrell, that that is a thoroughly mistaken assumption. Women do not, in general, appreciate being scooped up willy-nilly by giants.”
He looked surprised. “My sisters have never objected.”
“Surely you can see the difference between family and complete strangers,” Chastity demanded.
“Not complete strangers,” he protested mildly. “We've eaten jellied eels together.”
Chastity turned her head towards the window so that he wouldn't see the flickering smile she couldn't prevent.
After a minute he said in his usual tone, “When did Brigham settle that supper bill? I didn't see a piece of paper change hands.”
“Roddie has an account there,” she replied. “He has them all over town. He never carries money . . . he considers it vulgar. Probably because he has so much of it, he never has to give it a second thought.”