by Jane Feather
VALENTINE
VELVET
VENUS
VIXEN
VIRTUE
THE DIAMOND SLIPPER
THE SILVER ROSE
THE EMERALD SWAN
THE HOSTAGE BRIDE
A VALENTINE WEDDING
THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE
THE LEAST LIKELY BRIDE
THE WIDOW’S KISS
ALMOST INNOCENT
TO KISS A SPY
KISSED BY SHADOWS
THE BACHELOR LIST
In this dazzling new trilogy from the incomparable Jane Feather, a trio of spirited sisters harbor a secret that could scandalize all of London . . .
English society knows them as the Honorable Misses Duncan. But what society doesn’t know is that these elegant—fiercely independent—young beauties make it their business to ignite romance as the clandestine founders of a discreet matchmaking service. And a rewarding business it is, as one by one, they meet their own matches . . .
Constance
The eldest and most like their suffragette mother, sophisticated Con would rather be a spinster than marry Mr. Wrong—although she’s somewhat vague about what constitutes Mr. Right . . .
Chastity
Wickedly funny and naturally flirtatious, young Chas attracts suitors as honey draws bees. But, like her sisters, she’s in no hurry for marriage . . .
Prudence
Bookish middle sister Prue has a head for business—and a heart for mischief—wherever and whenever it’s least expected . . .
This is her story . . .
A Main Selection of Rhapsody Book Club
A Featured Alternate Selection of Doubleday Book Club
And look for the next two tales of the
delightful and vivacious Duncan sisters . . .
Jane Feather’s
The Bachelor List
Con’s story
On Sale Now
and
The Wedding Game
Chastity’s story
On Sale April 2004
Read on for previews . . .
The Bachelor List
On sale now
Max Ensor gazed thoughtfully after the three sisters as they left Fortnum and Mason. He was convinced now that not only he but also Elizabeth Armitage had been exposed to a degree of gentle mockery. He wondered if Elizabeth had noticed it. Somehow he doubted it. It had been so subtle, he’d almost missed it himself. Just a hint in the voice, a gleam in the eye.
They were a good-looking trio. Redheads, all three of them, but with subtle variations in the shade that moved from the russet of autumn leaves to cinnamon, and in the case of the one he guessed was the youngest, a most decisive red. All green-eyed too, but again of different shades. He thought the eldest one, Constance, with her russet hair and darkest green eyes, was the most striking of the three, but perhaps that was because she was the tallest. Either way, there was something about all three of them that piqued his interest.
“Are they Lord Duncan’s daughters?” he inquired.
“Yes, their mother died about three years ago.” Elizabeth gave a sympathetic sigh. “So hard for them, poor girls. You’d think they’d all be married by now. Constance must be all of twenty-eight, and I know she’s had more than one offer.”
Tiny frown lines appeared between her well-plucked brows. “In fact, I seem to remember a young man a few years ago . . . some dreadful tragedy. I believe he was killed in the war . . . at Mafeking or one of those unpronounceable places.” She shook her head, briskly dismissing the entire African continent and all its confusions.
“As for Chastity,” she continued, happy to return to more solid ground. “Well, she must be twenty-six, and she has more suitors than one can count.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice at a conspiratorial volume. “But they took their mother’s death very hard, poor girls.” She tutted sorrowfully. “It was very sudden. All over in a matter of weeks. Cancer,” she added. “She just faded away.” She shook her head again and took a cream-laden bite of hazelnut gâteau.
Max Ensor sipped his tea. “I’m slightly acquainted with the baron. He takes his seat most days in the House of Lords.”
“Oh, Lord Duncan’s most conscientious, I’m sure. Charming man, quite charming. But I can’t help feeling he’s not doing a father’s duty.” Elizabeth dabbed delicately at her rouged mouth with her napkin. “He should insist they marry—well, Constance and Chastity certainly. He can’t have three old maids in the family. Prudence is a little different. I’m sure she would be content to stay and look after her father. Such a sensible girl . . . such a pity about the spectacles. They do make a woman look so dull.”
Dull was not a word Max Ensor, on first acquaintance, would have applied to any one of the three Duncan sisters. And behind her thick lenses he seemed to recall that Miss Prudence had a pair of extremely light and lively green eyes.
He gave a noncommittal nod and asked, “May I see that broadsheet, ma’am?”
“It’s quite scandalous.” Elizabeth opened her bag again. She lowered her voice. “Of course, everyone’s reading it, but no one admits it. I’m sure even Letitia reads it sometimes.” She pushed the folded sheets across the table surreptitiously beneath her flattened palm.
Max Ensor doubted that his sister, Letitia, read anything other than the handwritten menu sheets presented to her each morning by her cook, but he kept the observation to himself and unfolded the papers.
The broadsheet was competently printed although he doubted it had been through a major press. The paper was cheap and flimsy and the layout without artistry. He glanced at the table of contents listed at the left-hand side of the top page. His eyebrows lifted. There were two political articles listed, one on the new public house licensing laws and the other on the new twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit for motorcars. Hardly topics to appeal to Mayfair ladies of the Elizabeth Armitage or Letitia Graham ilk, and yet judging by its bold title, the broadsheet was addressing just such a readership.
His eye was caught by a boxed headline in black type, bolder than any other on the front page. It was a headline in the form of a statement and a question and stood alone in its box, jumping out at the reader with an urgent immediacy. WOMEN TAXPAYERS DEMAND THE VOTE. WILL THE LIBERAL GOVERNMENT GIVE WOMEN TAXPAYERS THE VOTE?
“It seems this paper has more on its mind than gossip and fashion,” he observed, tapping a finger against the headline.
“Oh, that, yes. They’re always writing about this suffrage business,” Elizabeth said. “So boring. But every edition has something just like that in a box on the front page. I don’t take any notice. Most of us don’t.”
Max frowned. Just who was responsible for this paper? Was it a forum for the women troublemakers who were growing daily more intransigent as they pestered the government with their demand for the vote? The rest of the topics in the paper were more to be expected: an article about the American illustrator Charles Dana Gibson and his idealized drawings of the perfect woman, the Gibson girl; a description of a Society wedding and who attended; a list of coming social events. He glanced idly at the Gibson article, blinked, and began to read. He had expected to see earnest advice to follow the prevailing fashion in order to achieve Gibson-girl perfection, instead he found himself reading an intelligent criticism of women’s slavish following of fashions that were almost always dictated by men.
He looked up. “Who writes this?”
“Oh, no one knows,” Elizabeth said, reaching out eagerly to take back her prize. “That’s what makes it so interesting, of course. It’s been around for at least ten years, then there was a short period when it didn’t appear, but now it’s back and it has a lot more in it.”
She folded the sheets again. “Such a nuisance that one has to buy it now. Before, there were always copies just lying around in the cloakrooms and on hall tables. But it didn’t have quite so many interesting things in it then. It was mostly just the boring political stuff. Women voting and that P
roperty Act business. I don’t understand any of it. Dear Ambrose takes care of such things.” She gave a little trill of laughter as she tucked the sheets back into her handbag. “Not a suitable subject for ladies.”
“No, indeed,” Max Ensor agreed with a firm nod. “There’s trouble enough in the world without women involving themselves in issues that don’t concern them.”
“Just what dear Ambrose says.” Elizabeth’s smile was complacent as she put her hands to her head to check the set of her black taffeta hat from which descended a cascade of white plumes.
She glanced at the little enameled fob watch pinned to her lapel and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness me, is that the time? I really must be going. Such a charming tea. Thank you so much, Mr. Ensor.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Armitage. I trust I shall see you this evening at the Beekmans’ soirée. Letitia has commandeered my escort.” He rose and bowed, handing her her gloves.
“It will be a charming evening, I’m sure,” Elizabeth declared, smoothing her gloves over her fingers. “Everything is so very charming in London at the moment. Don’t you find it so?”
“Uh . . . charming,” he agreed. He remained on his feet until she had billowed away, then called for the bill, reflecting that charming had to be the most overworked adjective in a Mayfair lady’s vocabulary. Letitia used it to describe everything from her young daughter’s hair ribbons to the coals in the fireplace and he’d lost count of the number of times it had dropped from Elizabeth Armitage’s lips in the last hour.
However, he would swear that not one of the Honorable Misses Duncan had used it.
Women taxpayers demand the vote.
It would be both interesting and enlightening to discover who was behind that newspaper, he reflected, collecting his hat. The government was doing everything in its power to minimize the influence of the fanatical group of headstrong women, and a few foolish men, who were pressing for women’s suffrage. But it was hard to control a movement when it went underground, and the true subversives were notoriously difficult to uncover. Unless he was much mistaken, this newspaper directed at the women of Mayfair was as subversive in its intended influence as any publication he’d seen. It would definitely be in the government’s interest to draw its teeth. There were a variety of ways of doing that once its editors and writers were identified. And how difficult could it be to uncover them?
Max Ensor went out into the muggy afternoon, whistling thoughtfully between his teeth as he made his way to Westminster.
The Wedding Game
On sale April 2004
The gentleman who was standing at the top of the steps of the National Gallery closely scrutinized the assumed art lovers ascending towards the great doors of the art museum at his back. He held a prominently displayed copy of the broadsheet The Mayfair Lady. He was looking for someone flourishing a similar article.
A cloud of pigeons rose in a flurry from Trafalgar Square as a figure hastened across the square, scattering corn to the birds as she came. She crossed the street directly below the museum and paused at the bottom step, crushing the paper bag that had held the corn in her hand as she gazed upwards. She held a rolled-up newspaper in her free hand. The man made a tentative movement with his own broadsheet and the figure tossed the scrunched bag into a litter bin and hurried up the steps towards him.
That the figure was small and female was about all the gentleman could discern. She was swathed in a loose alpaca dust coat of the kind that ladies wore when motoring, and wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, her face obscured by an opaque chiffon veil.
“Bonjour, m’sieur,” she greeted him. “I think we are to meet, n’est-ce pas.” She waved her copy of The Mayfair Lady. “You are Dr. Douglas Farrell, is it not so?”
“The very same, madam,” he said with a small bow. “And you are . . .”
“I am ze Mayfair Lady, of course,” she responded, her veil fluttering with each breath.
With the phoniest French accent he’d ever heard, Dr. Farrell reflected with some amusement. He decided not to call her on it just yet. “The Mayfair Lady in person?” he questioned curiously.
“The representative of ze publication, m’sieur,” she responded on a note of reproof.
“Ah,” he nodded. “And the Go-Between?”
“One and the same, sir,” the lady said with a decisive nod. “And as I understand it, sir, it is ze Go-Between that can be of service to you.” This damnable French accent always made her want to laugh, reflected the Honorable Chastity Duncan. Whether she was using it or one of her sisters, they all agreed they sounded like French maids in a Feydeau farce. But it was a very useful device for disguising voices.
“I had expected to meet in an office,” the doctor said, glancing around at their rather public surroundings. A chill December wind was blowing across the square, ruffling the pigeons’ feathers.
“Our office premises are not open to ze public, m’sieur,” she said simply. “I suggest we go inside, zere are many quiet places in ze museum where we can talk.” She moved towards the doors and her companion hastened to open them for her. The folds of her alpaca dust coat brushed against him as she billowed past into the cavernous atrium of the museum.
“Let us go to the Medieval gallery, m’sieur,” she suggested, gesturing towards the stairs with her newspaper. “Zere is a secluded alcove with a bench where we may talk in private.” She moved authoritatively ahead of him and Dr. Farrell followed obediently, both intrigued and amused by this performance. In the long gallery she hurried down the aisle between massive canvases of atrocious martyrdoms, pietas, and crucifixions without so much as a sideways glance at these cultural icons. At the far end she turned aside into a deep window embrasure flanked by marble columns and occupied by a stone bench.
“’Ere it is quiet and we may be private,” she declared, settling herself on the bench and gathering her skirts close to her to give him room to sit beside her. When he had done so, she turned her veiled head towards him. Chastity had the advantage of Dr. Douglas Farrell in that she had seen him once before when he had visited Mrs. Beedle’s corner shop to buy a copy of The Mayfair Lady and Chastity had watched the transaction unobserved. He was as she remembered him, a very big man, certainly not easily forgotten. Both tall and broad, with the muscular heft of a sporting man. A boxer or a wrestler, she thought. The prominent bump on a once broken nose seemed to support the guess. His features were strong and uneven, his mouth wide, his jaw of the lantern variety. His eyes were the color of charcoal beneath thick black eyebrows that met over the bridge of his nose. His hair was as black, rather curly but cut short and businesslike. Everything about him indicated someone who cared little for the nuances of appearances. He wore an unexceptional greatcoat, buttoned to the neck, with muffler and gloves, and he held a plain trilby hat on his lap.
She became suddenly aware of the length of the silence that had accompanied her assessment of her companion and said quickly, “Now, ’ow exactly can ze Go-Between ’elp you, m’sieur?”
He glanced around with some interest. “So this is the office of The Mayfair Lady?”
She detected the faint Scottish lilt to his voice that she had noticed when she’d first observed him at Mrs. Beedle’s. “Non, but we do not see clients in our office,” she informed him firmly. Chastity kept to herself the reflection that their office was either the tearoom at Fortnum and Mason or the first-floor parlor of her father’s house that had been the Duncan sisters’ mother’s sanctum. Neither space was conducive to official client interviews.
“Why is that?” he inquired.
“It is necessary for ze Mayfair Lady to be anonymous,” she stated. “Could we proceed with business, m’sieur?”
“Yes, of course. But, I confess, Madam Mayfair Lady, that I am curious. Why is this anonymity necessary?”
Chastity sighed. “‘Ave you read ze publication, m’sieur?”
“Yes, of course. I would not have known to seek the services of the Go-Between otherwise.�
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“You can read advertisements without reading the articles,” she pointed out, forgetting her accent for a second.
“I have read the articles.”
She gave a very Gallic shrug. “Zen surely you must see that the opinions expressed are controversial. Ze editors prefer to remain anonymous.”
“I see.” He thought he did. “Of course, creating a sense of mystery must add to the publication’s appeal.”
“That is true,” she conceded.
He nodded. “As I recall there was a libel case several months ago. The Mayfair Lady was sued for libel by . . .” He frowned, then his brow cleared. “By the earl of Barclay, I believe.”
“A suit that was dismissed,” Chastity stated.
“Yes.” He nodded. “So I remember. I also remember that the publication was represented by an anonymous witness in the witness box. Is that not so?”
“It is so.”
“Intriguing,” he said. “I’m sure you saw the volume of your sales increase considerably after that.”
“Maybe so,” she said vaguely. “But it is not for zat reason that we choose to conceal our identities. Now, to business, m’sieur.”
Douglas, fascinated and curious though he remained, accepted that for the present, question time was over. “As I explained in my letter, I am in need of a wife.”
She drew out the letter in question from her handbag. “That is all you say, ’owever. We would need to know more details of your situation and the kind of wife you are looking for before we can know whether we can ’elp you in your search.”
“Yes, of course,” he agreed. “As it happens there are only two essential qualities I require in a wife.” He drew off his gloves as he spoke, thrusting them into his pockets. “I am hoping in your registry you will have someone who would serve my purpose. Apart from the two essential issues, I am not unduly particular.” His voice was very cool and matter-of-fact as he laid out the situation for her, tapping off the points with a finger on his palm as he made them.