The Wedding Game

by Jane Feather

  “It makes some kind of sense, I suppose,” Chastity said, still sounding doubtful. “He was certainly angry that I saw the place. I assumed he was embarrassed and obviously afraid that I'd let on and that would be the end of his grand scheme. Who's going to patronize a physician who's just had his hands on a patient from the slums?”

  “Good question,” Prudence said, finishing the last bite of her cake. “So, what do you want to do about him now, Chas?”

  Chastity dabbed up a morsel of chocolate cream with her fingertip and licked it off thoughtfully before she said, “I'm intrigued. I want to know the answer.”

  “The answer to what?” Constance asked, watching her sister closely.

  Chastity shrugged again. “To what kind of a man he really is. Is he just a socially ambitious gold digger, or is there something more to him? Watching him with those patients yesterday, it was . . . he was . . .” She shook her head. “I don't know how to describe it. It was beyond simple compassion, and then while he's doing that with one hand, with the other he's treating me with such incredible hostility. I want to know why.”

  She chased another morsel of chocolate cream with a fingertip, adding, “Besides, we did take him on as a client and we usually do what we can to foster the matches we make. Shouldn't we be trying to advance his courtship of Laura before we offer him any alternative prospects?”

  “Particularly in the light of Father's definite interest in the contessa,” Constance said. “We have to get the daughter out of the picture as soon as we can if we're going to promote that particular courtship.”

  “Not to mention protecting our own sanity from such a stepsister,” Prudence said. “Chas can't possibly share a roof with her.”

  Chastity gave an exaggerated shudder. “Ghastly prospect. That was exactly why I invited Douglas for Christmas in the first place. But I'm sure he'll think the invitation is rescinded now.”

  “So, what does Chas do now?” Prudence asked, sipping her coffee.

  “Wait for him to make the next move?” Constance suggested. “He's bound to follow up that apology with something.”

  “Unless he's waiting for me to acknowledge it,” Chastity mused. “He might interpret a stony silence as a statement of rejection.”

  “You could always send a thank-you note for the flowers,” Prudence said. “That would be appropriate.”

  Chastity nodded. “Yes, I think that's the answer. A cool but pleasant thank you should open the door again and give him the opportunity to follow up.” She reached into her handbag and took out the other letters she had picked up from Mrs. Beedle's. “That takes care of the doctor for the time being, I believe, so let's look at our other post.”

  They parted company on the pavement outside Fortnum's, Chastity to go home and write her thank-you note to Douglas Farrell and get it in the post that afternoon, Prudence to the bank to deposit some payments made to The Mayfair Lady, and Constance to attend a meeting of the Women's Social and Political Union in Chelsea that she would then write up for the next edition of the broadsheet.

  “Try the hat with the dress when you get home,” Prudence instructed her sister. “It's on approval, so if it doesn't work we'll need to return it by tomorrow morning.”

  “It will work, I'm sure,” Chastity said. “If you say it will.” She swung the hatbox from its string then kissed her sisters and went off with a wave of farewell. She reached home to be told by Jenkins that Lord Duncan had gone to visit his wine merchants, Harpers of Gracechurch Street, and was not expected back for luncheon.

  “It's good that he's getting out and about again,” Chastity said.

  “Yes, indeed it is, Miss Chas,” Jenkins agreed. “His lordship's showing much more interest in things these days.” He regarded Chastity with a question in his eye. “Quite suddenly, it seemed to me.”

  “Yes,” Chastity agreed, then lowered her voice, saying with a mischievous smile, “Just between you, me, and the gatepost, Jenkins, I think there's a lady involved.”

  Jenkins made a visible effort to restrain an answering conspiratorial smile. He said with dignity, “Indeed, Miss Chas. Will you be taking luncheon?”

  “Yes, please,” Chastity said. “I'll be upstairs in the parlor. Some bread and cheese at my desk will be perfect since I have work to do.” She hurried to the stairs, reflecting that if Jenkins realized that Lord Duncan's present female interest was different from his usual casual involvement with a lady of the town he might be less amused. The prospect of a new Lady Duncan with strange ways would not be relished by either Jenkins or Mrs. Hudson.

  And where would it leave her? Chastity thought as she entered the parlor. It was a question she had been avoiding. But a stepmother taking over the household reins? She caught herself grimacing. Even if one liked the stepmother, it was still an awkward prospect. And if by some mischance they didn't get Laura married off beforehand, she'd have her under the same roof too. Not a prospect to be considered. She'd have to go and live with one or other of her sisters like some homeless poor relation.

  Chastity realized she had been standing stock-still in the middle of the room for about five minutes contemplating the grimness of this picture. She shook her head vigorously as if she could dismiss the whole idea and went to the secretaire. The sooner she mended fences with Douglas Farrell, the better able she would be to throw him together with Laura on every possible occasion.

  She had just taken up her pen when Jenkins tapped at the door. Presumably with her bread and cheese, she thought, turning in her chair as she called for him to come in. But Jenkins carried no luncheon tray; instead he had a silver salver on which reposed a visiting card.

  “Dr. Farrell has left his card, Miss Chas. I didn't know whether you were at home for callers this morning.” He presented the card.

  “Did he leave straightaway?” She took the card, turning it around between finger and thumb.

  “I suggested he wait in the drawing room while I ascertained whether you were at home or not,” Jenkins informed her.

  Chastity considered this, then said, “I believe I am, Jenkins. Will you tell Dr. Farrell that I'll be down in a few minutes?”

  Jenkins bowed and retreated on his errand. Chastity played a tune on her lips with her fingertips. So, Douglas hadn't waited for a response to his initial overture. Her instinctive reaction was one of warm sympathy and understanding. He must be in agonies of remorse and embarrassment at his behavior and couldn't wait to put the whole wretched business behind him, and she certainly wouldn't prolong his misery another minute. But then her natural empathetic response faded a little as she reminded herself that this was the man with the dual personalities and a very clear strategy for gaining his goals. He wanted her on his side—no, needed her on his side. She was the person with the social introductions, the one who issued convenient Christmas invitations that would enable him to pursue one of those objectives.

  Well, she had her own goals to pursue, one of which was to get this man married to Laura Della Luca with all due speed, so in this instance her goal meshed with his. It didn't really matter if his apology was genuine or not so long as it got them both where they wanted to go.

  Chastity stood up and peered at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was in an unruly mood this morning; the cold, dry air made it crackle and the curls tangled without any outside assistance. She tried to tame some of the wisping locks framing her face, pulling her fingers through them to untangle them, but they merely corkscrewed tighter. A veritable Medusa, she thought with a sigh.

  She glanced down at her feet as if to remind herself of what she was wearing. It was one of her favorite suits, made of dark green wool with a matching braid trimming. It had a rather attractive pleated skirt with a long jacket, pleated at the back and flaring over her hips. She looked back in the mirror and made a minute adjustment to the high neck of the pale green silk blouse she wore beneath the jacket, then with a shrug both mental and actual decided it was a perfectly good outfit for receiving apologies and w
ent to the door.

  She walked quite slowly downstairs, trying to decide how she would greet her visitor. Cool and pleasant, she thought, opening the door to the drawing room.

  Douglas was standing at the window looking out into the garden, his hands clasped at his back beneath his black frock coat. He turned at the sound of the door and a smile grew on his face as he saw her, his deep-set charcoal eyes warming in his lean face. He came towards her, his hands outstretched. “Chastity, it's so good of you to see me, I hardly dared hope you would.”

  This was the man she had discovered that first evening they'd spent together. There was not a hint here of the contemptuous arrogance of yesterday. How could he possibly be so different? But somehow under the genuine warmth of that smile all her resentment, her doubts faded into the mists. Her hands were lost in his firm all-encompassing clasp and she made no attempt to withdraw them. He raised both her hands to his lips and kissed them with a gesture that seemed so smooth and natural, Chastity didn't question it, even as she thought at the back of her mind that it was almost loverlike.

  “Your flowers were beautiful,” she said. “I was just this minute writing you a thank-you note actually.”

  He still held her hands, his fingers curling over hers with a warm strength that reminded her of the way he had held the old woman's feet in his surgery. He said quietly, “They can't begin to express my remorse.”

  Under the deep, penetrating gaze of his dark eyes, Chastity found herself curiously tongue-tied. She looked up into his face, searching his expression for some indication that he was not sincere, that he was only trying to correct a misstep, but she could read nothing there but this warmth, underlaid with an anxiety that surely could not be feigned.

  “Can you forgive me?” he asked into the long-stretching silence.

  She nodded, knowing that she had forgiven him the first moment she'd seen his face when she'd walked into the room, but she heard herself say, “I would like to understand, Douglas.”

  “What would you like to understand?” He slowly, reluctantly, released his hold on her hands and she felt strangely bereft as the warmth of his skin left hers.

  “You,” she said, rubbing her hands together as if they were cold. “I would like to understand you. Why are you working there . . . with those poor, poor people? I could understand if you were some kind of missionary, but you're not. You have a practice on Harley Street.” She shook her head helplessly. “It doesn't make any sense. But I know there must be a reason, and that's why you were so horrid—angry and contemptuous—yesterday.”

  Douglas steepled his hands, tapping them against his mouth as he looked at her. He'd trusted a woman once before to understand. At that time it hadn't occurred to him in the youthful naiveté of his passionate commitment that anyone could fail to see matters as he did, could fail to feel the way he did . . . particularly a woman he believed loved him as he loved her. A woman he intended to spend his life with. That disillusion had been harsh enough to cure him of any desire to confide in anyone other than one or two of his peers and fellow medics, who, while they didn't necessarily feel the same commitment, certainly didn't regard it as some kind of lunatic infection. An oddity, perhaps, but not a failing.

  “Have you got half an hour to spare?” he asked abruptly. It was probably foolish to confide in her but even if she reacted to his explanation in typical fashion, it wouldn't really matter. She knew enough now to make his life difficult if she chose, but he didn't believe she was the kind of person who would make that choice. And if she didn't sympathize with his mission, he would not be disappointed. This time he would be able to shrug it off. He wasn't in love with Chastity Duncan.

  “Yes, I think so,” she said readily. “Now?”

  “Yes, now,” he responded. “We'll go for a walk.”

  The suggestion surprised her. Why couldn't he simply answer her question here, in the quiet and the warmth of the drawing room? But then she had the sense that he was somehow and for some reason feeling confined, and once again she was conscious of his sheer physical size, the broadness and tallness, the muscularity of him. The room didn't seem big enough to hold him. And perhaps, she thought, it wasn't big enough to hold his secret, perhaps he needed open, neutral air for this confidence. “All right,” she said. “I'll fetch my hat and coat.”

  His nod was brisk, his tone equally so as he said, “Don't be long.”

  As if he'd put apologies and remorseful anxiety behind him, he had reverted to his customary manner, relaxed and just a scrap too authoritarian for comfort. But then, Chastity reflected, that trait, like arrogance, was a very common one among professional men, as her sisters had noted. She could certainly handle it better than overt hostility.

  “I'll be five minutes,” she said, and left him. In her bedroom she retrieved the hat she had been wearing that morning. It was a fetching, dark green felt bonnet with a very long dyed green ostrich feather that curled onto her shoulder. Her hair, with its usual mind of its own, refused to stay completely beneath the hat and errant curls sprang in lively fashion over her forehead and framed her face.

  She sat down before the dresser mirror and contemplated the small supply of cosmetics. Natural vanity insisted she look her best even for Douglas Farrell, in whom she had no interest other than as a client. Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true, the ruthless voice of honesty corrected. She did have a personal interest now in finding out his story.

  She picked up the little book of papers impregnated with face powder and leaned towards the mirror, looking for freckles. They didn't usually appear until the summer sun and she could find only a light sprinkling across the bridge of her nose. She dabbed at them with the papier rouge, thought about enlivening her mouth with lip rouge then dismissed the idea. It was so cold out her lips would dry in no time and nothing was less appealing than cracked lips with peeling paint on them.

  Chastity decided she was as good as she was going to get on such short notice and abandoned the mirror. They were only going for a walk, after all. She shrugged into her thick woolen overcoat, gathered up her fur muff and gloves, and headed downstairs again.

  “I'm ready.” She stood in the drawing room doorway.

  Douglas put down the copy of The Mayfair Lady he'd been reading and stood up. “You read this, then?”

  “Doesn't everyone?” Chastity responded. “It has a special relevance for us, as you might imagine. After the libel case.”

  “Ah, yes.” He nodded. “That must have been hard for your father.”

  “It wasn't easy. But it's water under the bridge now.” She walked back to the hall.

  “I can't remember the details,” he said, following her to the front door. “Wasn't he the victim of some fraudulent scheme?”

  “Yes,” Chastity said, her tone flat enough to discourage any further questions. “Jenkins, we're going for a walk. I'll be back in half an hour. I'll have my bread and cheese then.”

  “Very well, Miss Chas.” Jenkins opened the door for them. “Enjoy your walk. Good day, Dr. Farrell.”

  Douglas returned the farewell and the door shut behind them. They stood on the top step, bracing themselves against the cold. “It's going to snow,” Douglas stated, tucking Chastity's hand into his arm and guiding her down to the pavement.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He laughed. “I'm a Scot, remember. From the frozen north. We know such things.”

  “Ah, and I'm a delicately nurtured southern flower,” Chastity returned. “We Hampshire-bred lasses know little of such extremes.”

  “I'm looking forward to spending Christmas in the country,” Douglas said, glancing at her. “That is, if the invitation still stands.”

  “Of course it does. Where do you want to walk?”

  “Is it too far for you to walk to Hyde Park?” he asked, looking down questioningly at her booted feet. “Or we could take a hackney there if your shoes aren't comfortable.”

  She was not about to encourage that extravagance, Chast
ity decided. “We'll walk,” she stated, thrusting her hands into her muff. “My boots are perfectly comfortable.”

  He nodded, tucked a hand into the crook of her elbow, and set off towards Oxford Street.

  “So, are you going to explain your mysteries, Dr. Farrell?” she asked after they'd been walking in silence for ten minutes and were now threading their way through the crowded pavements towards Marble Arch.

  “I don't have mysteries,” he denied.

  She laughed. “Oh, you're the most mysterious person I've ever met, Dr. Jekyll.”

  “Dr. Jekyll?” he exclaimed in mingled astonishment and dismay. “What the devil do you mean?”

  “Oh, I was just being fanciful,” Chastity said, realizing belatedly that it was hardly a complimentary comparison.

  “I would hardly call it fanciful,” he said. “More like downright critical.”

  Chastity sucked on her lower lip. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But you must admit I have some cause.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “You haven't quite forgiven me, then. I thought it was perhaps a little too good to be true. Or, perhaps, that you were a little too good to be true. You'd have to be a candidate for sainthood to forgive and forget quite so readily.”

  “That I'm not,” Chastity stated. “Absolutely no possibility of beatification whatsoever.”

  Douglas laughed. “That's something of a relief. I'm so far on the wrong side of St. Peter myself, I might find it uncomfortable in the company of the truly good.”

  “You need have no fears on that score,” she said, looking up at him, liking the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Sensing her gaze he looked down at her and she felt her cheeks warm a little as if she were embarrassed by her thought.

  “Why did you become a physician?” she asked abruptly. It was one way to get to the purpose of this walk.