by Jane Feather
He said nothing. He had seen her distaste, the way she had shrunk from the unfortunates in his waiting room. He certainly wasn't going to waste his breath explaining himself to her.
Chastity said suddenly, “I'm getting off at the next stop. I'll take a hackney from there.” She stood up, her face rather white under the flickering streetlights that illuminated the vehicle.
Douglas would have attempted to stop her, attempted an apology even, but he was rather alarmed by her pallor, which was particularly startling against the redness of her hair. She looked about to weep, he thought. “I'll take you—”
“No, you won't,” she interrupted. “Thank you, but no. If you would let me pass, please?”
He stood up and she brushed past him, pushing her way towards the exit. He sat down again, tight-lipped. That had been nothing short of a debacle that threatened to throw all his plans into jeopardy. He had been furious at the position Chastity had put him in, the need to extract a promise from her as if St. Mary Abbot's was something of which he was ashamed. And he had hated her presence in his surgery, as much because he felt he was somehow exposing his patients' miseries to someone who couldn't empathize with them as by the threat she posed to his privacy and his plans.
But none of that was adequate excuse for having been so damnably and disastrously rude to her. In fact, he couldn't understand what had provoked him to such a foolish display of antagonism; he was usually expert at keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself. He knew that he couldn't realistically expect someone from Chastity's social circles and experience to feel anything but the revulsion she had made no attempt to disguise for the wretched inhabitants of the city slums, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise to him. He knew perfectly well that it wasn't realistic to expect any woman who would suit his marital purposes to sympathize with his mission. He had long ago accepted that a simple lack of objection from his spouse would serve his purpose perfectly well.
But now how was he to retrieve the situation? He could hardly spend Christmas as the guest of a woman he had so deeply offended, and if he was to court Laura Della Luca, he needed to have access to her. Christmas under the same roof was the perfect opportunity.
The omnibus lurched to a stop at Oxford Street and Douglas pushed his way to the exit. He stepped down onto the street, which despite the cold was thronged with Christmas shoppers, and strode off towards Wimpole Street debating his next move. He would have to try to make amends to Chastity without delay. Flowers first, a visit of apology afterwards . . . bearing, of course, the answers to her vital hostess questions, always assuming she was still interested in the answers.
Chastity arrived home still feeling emotionally winded. She hurried past Jenkins, who had the door open for her before she could get her key in the lock.
“Everything all right, Miss Chas?”
“Yes . . . yes, thank you, Jenkins. I'm just half-frozen,” she called over her shoulder as she headed up the stairs to the welcome and familiar seclusion of her parlor. Here it was warm, the fire ablaze, the lamps lit. She unpeeled her outer garments and threw them over a chair by the door before dropping into a deep armchair by the fire. She propped her feet on the fender and closed her eyes for a minute.
Jenkins tapped on the door and came in with a tray of tea. “I thought you might like a cup of tea, Miss Chas, to keep out the cold.” He looked at her with concern. “Are you quite well?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Quite well, thank you. And tea would be lovely.”
“There's some of Mrs. Hudson's gingersnaps too,” he said, setting the tray on the small table beside her. “Now, is there anything else I can get you?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I'm just tired because of the cold, I think. It's exhausting trying to keep warm.” She poured tea for herself. “Is Lord Duncan in?”
“He came back about ten minutes ago. He said he wouldn't be in for dinner tonight.”
“Oh?” She sat up, her eyes widening. “Did he say where he was going?”
“Not in so many words,” Jenkins said. “He asked that I have his evening dress pressed and that Cobham should be ready to take him out again at seven-thirty.”
“His club?” Chastity speculated.
“I couldn't say, Miss Chas.”
“But you don't think so,” she observed shrewdly.
“His lordship seemed to be rather more concerned about the arrangements than for an ordinary visit to his club.” Jenkins bowed himself out.
Chastity sipped her tea and thoughtfully broke a gingersnap between finger and thumb. Was he planning an evening with the contessa? That could be promising. She nibbled the biscuit between sips of tea and gradually began to feel a little less shocked by the afternoon's events. Of one thing she was certain, she wanted nothing more to do with either Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde.
She remembered the letters in her coat pocket and set down her teacup before going over to retrieve them. Ordinarily, she and her sisters opened The Mayfair Lady post together and discussed their responses. Since the three of them were meeting tomorrow for coffee at Fortnum and Mason, where they conducted a fair number of their business meetings, she really should wait to open these until then. She tapped the one from Douglas Farrell against the palm of her hand. What did he want of The Mayfair Lady now?
It was irresistible. And he was very much her own special project, or at least, she amended, he had been. She set down the other letters and returned to her chair to open the missive, slitting the envelope with her thumbnail and drawing out the single sheet of writing paper. It had an address on Wimpole Street engraved at the head . . . rather different from his previous communication, which had used Mrs. Beedle's address.
To whom it may concern:
I have made contact with the lady you suggested I meet and have found her to be a potentially suitable connection. However, the contract states that you will offer me up to three prospects, so should you have other suitable possibilities on your books at this time, I would be happy to meet them. You may contact me at the above address.
Yours very truly,
Douglas Farrell, MD.
Chastity read the note with increasing indignation. It was the arrogant tone of it that got to her. Laura Della Luca would do, but he'd like a few more choices up his sleeve. They were dealing with people here, she thought furiously, not loaves of bread—I like the whole-meal, but maybe I might like to sample the split-tin or the cottage-loaf before I make up my mind.
Well, if she had her way, the agency had fulfilled its contract to provide Dr. Farrell with the perfect candidate, and the Go-Between's obligation ended there. Except, of course, that he was quite right. They owed him two other introductions. She put the letter back in the envelope. They would discuss a response tomorrow.
Another discreet knock heralded the return of Jenkins. He was invisible behind the most enormous bouquet of hothouse roses that Chastity had ever seen.
“The florist's boy just delivered these for you, Miss Chas,” he said from behind the floral wall.
“Ye gods!” she exclaimed jumping to her feet. “Who are they from?”
“The boy didn't say, but there's a note attached.” Jenkins set the bouquet on the sideboard. “I'll fetch a vase . . . or perhaps two.”
“Yes, bring that big crystal bowl and the Sevres vase, please,” Chastity said, inhaling the fragrance that now filled the room. “They'll look beautiful in those. Oh, and some scissors. I should cut the stalks a little.”
“Right away, Miss Chas.” Jenkins, brushing stray leaves from his lapels, went off on his errand.
Chastity found the little card attached with silver ribbon to the stems. She recognized the handwriting immediately, which was hardly surprising since she'd been reading the same hand not two minutes earlier. She turned the card over.
My dear Chastity, can you ever forgive me for being such a bear? I behaved abominably this afternoon. I have no excuse and will not attempt to find one. Please accept my most profound apologi
es. Douglas.
Chastity read it again. It was graceful, elegant, and sounded utterly genuine. No fancy flourishes, no bombast. Did it come from Jekyll or Hyde? Either way, only the most ungenerous nature could refuse such an apology. And Chastity did not have an ungenerous nature.
And she was also very curious. How could such an urbane, charming, attractive man turn into a surly bear . . . good word that. Not that he'd been in the least surly with his patients, she reminded herself, only with an unwelcome visitor. Admittedly, she'd ambushed him on his way to his very private business and she'd had the flimsiest of excuses for the ambush.
There was something inappropriate about wanting to talk about Christmas celebrations and servants to a man who had just spent two hours caring with the utmost compassion for the poorest of the poor. The most wretched inhabitants of this vast and uncaring city. If only she'd been able to think of a better excuse. But then, he'd been rude and abrupt before she'd even opened her mouth on the subject of Christmas. Was it simply because she'd intruded on a dark secret, or was there something else?
She wouldn't find out if she didn't accept his apology, let bygones be bygones, and renew the invitation for Christmas. And besides, she still had to play her role as Go-Between, she reflected. The prospective union of Laura Della Luca and Dr. Douglas Farrell was very much in all their interests. She could put aside her dislike sufficiently to play the courteous and helpful hostess for a few days.
Chapter 9
Lord Duncan was eating kidneys and bacon with a hearty appetite when Chastity went in to breakfast the next morning. She bent and kissed him. “Good morning, Father.”
“Morning, my dear,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “Excellent kidneys. I recommend them.”
Chastity shook her head. “Not for me this early in the day.” She gave him a quick, covert scrutiny. He was looking, she thought, remarkably smug, like a cat who's caught a larderful of mice. His cheeks were pink, his eyes very bright, his luxuriant white hair looking even more lush and well cared for than usual.
“Coffee?” She raised the pot in invitation and at his nod refilled his cup before sitting down. “So, did you go to the club for dinner last night?” she asked conversationally.
“No, no . . . Café Royal,” he said. “Haven't been there in quite a while. Holds up nicely, I must say. Very pleasant dinner. Nice bottle of Montrachet.” He folded back his newspaper with a crackle.
“Pleasant company?” She kept her eyes on the toast she was buttering.
There was a pause, then the newspaper crackled again. “Yes, very pleasant,” he said. “I dined with the contessa.”
“She's a lovely woman,” Chastity said warmly. “And very cultivated.”
“Yes . . .” Another crackle from the newspaper. “Very good company . . . good conversation.”
“I wonder if she plays bridge,” Chastity mused. “At Christmas we thought we'd have a bridge tournament one evening.”
“I'm sure she does,” Lord Duncan said. He looked over his newspaper at his youngest daughter. “You're not thinking of playing in this tournament, are you?”
Chastity laughed. Bridge was not her forte. “I might be,” she said.
“Good God. Well, I hope I don't draw you as a partner.”
“Oh, that's unkind.”
“Not a bit of it,” he said. “Now, your sisters are a different matter. I can never decide which one of them is the better player.”
“They get plenty of practice,” Chastity pointed out. “Max and Gideon aren't exactly incompetent.” She wondered whether Douglas Farrell was a bridge player. On reflection, she doubted it. He would be more inclined towards physical sport than idle evenings around a card table.
And on the subject of Douglas Farrell, she needed to consult her sisters.
Fortnum's tearoom was buzzing when Chastity passed through the swinging glass door at mid-morning. She saw her sisters at a table by a window overlooking Piccadilly and threaded her way through the tables towards them.
“Good morning,” she greeted, unbuttoning her coat. “At least it's warm in here. Oh, yes, Gaston, you can take my coat, thank you.” She smiled at the attentive maître d'hôtel as he helped her out of her coat. “I've been looking for a hat for David and Hester's wedding, but I couldn't find anything I liked.”
“Great minds think alike,” Prudence said. “We've been shopping for hats too.”
“Successfully so,” Constance said with a satisfied nod. “And what's more, we saw the most perfect hat to match your lavender shantung afternoon dress, so we bought it on approval.”
“Yes, it'll be wonderful for the wedding,” Prudence declared. “You were going to wear that dress, weren't you?”
“I will be now,” Chastity said. Prudence's dress sense was always impeccable and her sisters trusted her sartorial judgment unreservedly. Chastity turned to examine the cake trolley that had appeared beside her. “A chocolate meringue, I think.” She leaned back a little so that the waitress could put the plate in front of her and fill her coffee cup. “What's the hat like?”
“Pretty as a picture,” Prudence said readily. “Turquoise felt with a wide brim, a tiny wisp of a veil, and a big lavender bow. I tell you, it could have been made expressly for that dress.” She put a forkful of vanilla slice into her mouth.
“Well, that's one less thing to worry about,” Chastity said, pouring cream into her coffee. “Did you know what Father was doing last night?”
Her sisters shook their heads. “Tell us,” Constance demanded.
“He took the contessa out to dinner . . . to the Café Royal, no less.” Chastity nodded significantly. “What do you think of that?”
“Promising,” said Prudence.
“Very promising,” said Constance.
“At breakfast he was so smug, you wouldn't believe,” Chastity told them, forking into her meringue. “But there's something else, rather more urgent, that we have to discuss.” She popped the airy forkful into her mouth and let it melt on her tongue in a chocolate and cream mélange while her sisters waited patiently.
Chastity swallowed, took another sip of coffee, then rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I agreed not to tell anyone . . . of course, I don't count you two, but I expect Douglas would. Anyway, my promise is yours.” She looked a question and received nods in return.
“Then let me tell you all about yesterday afternoon.” The telling took close to an hour and another meringue, her sisters interjecting the occasional question, the occasional exclamation, but for the most part listening in silence.
“So,” said Chastity at the end of the recital, “what do you think of all that?”
“I don't know,” Prudence said. “What an extraordinary way to behave . . . to be so rude.”
“Well, this is the card that came with the flowers.” Chastity dug in her handbag for the card. “How could one resist an apology like that? It's as if the man has a double personality.”
“A double life certainly,” Constance said, reading the card and handing it to Prudence. “A practice in Harley Street and one in the slums.” She shook her head. “And he's looking for a rich wife to help him with the rich practice. I hope he doesn't already have a poor wife to go with the poor practice.”
Her sisters laughed, although the idea didn't strike any of them as completely ludicrous. Douglas Farrell was becoming a sufficiently mysterious character for one to believe almost anything of him.
“So, is he going to abandon the other practice as soon as he's properly set up on Harley Street?” Prudence asked.
“I assume so,” Chastity said with a shrug. “That's got to be the point, surely. All he's ever said to the Go-Between is that he wants a rich wife whose money and position will go to establishing his practice. Oh, on which subject, he sent this letter to The Mayfair Lady as well.” She handed over the letter from Dr. Farrell. “Nice tone, don't you think?” Her lip curled slightly.
>
“Arrogant certainly,” Constance said. “But as we've so often noted, my dears, that's a very common trait among the male of our species. Some of them can be quite lovable despite.”
“Somehow, I don't think lovable is a word one would ever be tempted to apply to Douglas Farrell,” Chastity stated.
“But how did he end up at this St. Mary Abbot's in the first place?” Prudence asked, frowning as she took off her glasses and polished them on her napkin, an activity that often helped her to think. “He comes from a good family in Edinburgh—you said his father's connections have helped him in London, or will do as soon as he's ready to contact them. What took him to Earl's Court?”
Chastity shook her head. “I have no idea. Perhaps he had some kind of a row with his family and was disowned or something. It would explain why he's not going home for Christmas. He said it was because he was too busy setting up house but that sounded rather feeble to me since he's leasing a furnished flat. What's there to do?” She opened her palms in an expressive gesture.
Constance nodded. “So, perhaps he's penniless, with only his physician's shingle to his name, and he set up in the only place where he could do so really cheaply.”
“Maybe,” Chastity said, but she sounded a little doubtful. “I can't imagine he pays much rent on that miserable house. And I'm sure he doesn't have to tout for patients among those poor people living around there but . . .” She paused, sucking in her bottom lip.
“But what?” prompted Constance.
“I don't know. It was just a feeling I had.” She stirred sugar into her coffee. “A feeling that he really cared for those patients. As if they mattered to him.” She shook her head. “I don't know what to think, quite frankly.”
“That kind of a practice can't bring in much money,” Prudence pointed out, returning her glasses to her nose.
“No . . . so it would make sense to have a plan to move up in the world,” Constance said. “He arrives broke, without friends, has to do something while he decides what he really wants to do, so sets up a surgery in the slums, and then goes about putting a grand scheme into practice.”