The Wedding Game (31 page)

“Oh, dear,” Miss Gray said eventually, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “I don't know what came over me, Doctor. I can't remember when I've laughed like that.”

“It did me good too,” Douglas said. And it
had
done him good, in more ways than one. He felt purged. No bitterness, no desire for vengeance, not even a shred of mortification remained. He now knew exactly what he wanted—well, he'd always known that, but he now knew exactly what he had to do to get it.

He waited until Miss Gray had left, still wiping a tear of laughter from her cheek with her gloved finger, then opened a drawer and took out a plain sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and very carefully printed his missive, signing it with a completely indecipherable scrawl. He blotted the sheet, folded it, inserted it into an envelope, and with the same care printed the address of Mrs. Beedle's corner shop.

“I don't seem to be able to get the hang of this,” Prudence complained as she tapped with two fingers on the typewriter's keyboard. “My
B'
s keep becoming
N
's.”

“I'm not sure my thoughts flow as quickly as they do with a pen,” Constance said, leaning back in her chair at the desk in
The Mayfair Lady
's new premises on Shoe Lane.

“It's just adapting to a different technique.” Chastity slapped the carriage backwards with a merry ring. “I think I have it down pat. It's so much quicker to answer these agony aunt letters. Maybe I'm not as cerebral as you two.”

“And that, you know, is nonsense,” Prudence said. “You're just more adaptable.”

“I doubt that,” Chastity said with a tiny shrug, and continued with her tap-tapping.

Constance stretched and flexed her hands and wrists. “I think it's time for luncheon,” she said. “Three working women are entitled to a luncheon break.”

“Agreed,” Prudence said, jumping to her feet. “Let's try that little café on Fleet Street where all the newspapermen go. I'd love to see how they react when we walk in.”

“Prue, we can't,” Constance demurred. “We'll draw far too much attention. Let's go to Swan and Edgar's.”

“You two go,” Chastity said, still tapping away. “I'm not very hungry. I'll finish this and then take the omnibus to Mrs. Beedle's. We haven't picked up the post in a week.”

She didn't turn around as she spoke, leaving her sisters to look at the back of her head. “You must need luncheon, Chas,” Constance said.

“Oddly enough, I don't,” her youngest sister responded. “You two go.”

Prudence sucked on her lower lip, wondering whether they should force their way through this thicket that Chastity had thrown up around herself, and then decided that they couldn't. She glanced at Constance, who simply nodded and took her coat off the rack.

“Can we bring something back for you, Chas?” she asked. “We could bring you some soup.”

“No, I'll go and eat lardy cake at Mrs. Beedle's,” Chastity said, still without turning around. “I haven't had a good chat with her for ages.”

“All right. See you later.” Prudence and Constance left the office. They didn't say anything until they'd gained the pavement.

“I'm worried about her, Prue,” Constance said.

“I know. So am I. But I don't know what to do.”

“No,” Constance agreed. “Neither do I.”

Chastity finished typing her letter and then leaned back in her hard office chair, aware of a crick in her neck. Typing was certainly quicker than penmanship but it was physically harder work. Maybe once she became proficient it wouldn't be such a strain.

She needed a break, though, and a walk to the omnibus would be welcome exercise. She walked briskly, muffled in a scarf, her felt hat pulled low over her ears, her gloved hands thrust deep into her pockets. She wasn't allowing herself to think these days, or at least not about anything that didn't concern
The Mayfair Lady
or her father's developing relationship with the contessa. Only at night did the longings plague her, the regrets that she didn't know what she could do to assuage.

She got off the omnibus at Kensington High Street and walked quickly to Mrs. Beedle's. Involuntarily she found herself glancing at the passersby, wondering if she would see Douglas. But of course he would have no reason to be around here now. His slum surgery was some walk away and he now lived in the upper reaches of Wimpole Street. He would have no need to visit Mrs. Beedle.

“Why, long time no see, Miss Chas,” Mrs. Beedle greeted her with wreathing smiles. “It's a Happy New Year to you too. How was Christmas?”

“Nice, thank you, Mrs. Beedle. Very nice,” Chastity said, hearing how lukewarm she sounded. “Cold and snowy,” she added, trying to infuse some enthusiasm into her voice. “Sarah had a wonderful time.”

“Oh, well, that's good,” the shopkeeper said comfortably. “Nice for the little lass to have a real Christmas. Got some post for you.” She lifted the hatch in the counter, inviting Chastity through.

The kitchen was warm and inviting as always, and the smell of baking filled the air. “Jam roly-poly,” Mrs. Beedle said. “You'd like a piece with custard, Miss Chas. Straight out of the oven, and the custard's just made.”

Pudding for lunch, Chastity reflected, suited her mood. There was no one to tell her she had to eat her meat and vegetables first. “Yes, please, Mrs. Beedle,” she said, unwinding her scarf as she sat at the table.

“And here's your post.” Mrs. Beedle reached up to the shelf and took down a batch of envelopes, setting them beside Chastity before she went to dish up an enormous portion of jam roly-poly liberally smothered in thick yellow custard.

Chastity glanced at the envelopes, then put them in her handbag and turned her attention to her pudding. Mrs. Beedle was chatting cheerfully about her children and grandchildren and seemed to require little or no response. Once or twice the shop bell rang and she went out to deal with a customer. In her absence Chastity scraped her plate clean. That was going to put back a few of the curves she'd lost in the last couple of months, she thought.

“And how's his lordship doing?” Mrs. Beedle asked as she bustled back into the kitchen.

“Oh, rather well,” Chastity said with a tiny wink. “He has a lady friend.”

“Oh, my goodness me,” the shopkeeper exclaimed. “Well, now, isn't that wonderful. I always say, however good the marriage, the one left behind should be open to fate.”

“A good maxim, Mrs. Beedle,” Chastity said. “Mother would have agreed with you.”

“A wonderful woman,” Mrs. Beedle said. “Such a great heart.”

“Yes,” Chastity agreed with a smile that was just a little sad. “She was and she did have.” She reached for her hat and coat. “That was wonderful, Mrs. Beedle. I could stay all afternoon, but I have to go.”

“Well, don't be a stranger,” the woman said. “And give my best to Miss Con and Miss Prue.”

“Of course. And they send theirs.” Chastity kissed the woman's round cheek in farewell and braced herself for the cold outdoors. Roly-poly pudding and custard had their uses when it came to padding against the wind, she thought.

She went back to the office and found her sisters already returned, Prudence balancing the books, Constance writing a rather wicked account of the New Year's Eve party at Elizabeth Armitage's.

“How was Mrs. Beedle?” Constance inquired, glancing up from her two-fingered pecking.

“Well. She sent her best.” Chastity hung up her coat, then reached into the pockets for the post. “There are a few letters.”

“Did you eat anything?” Prudence asked, trying not to sound anxious. “We brought you back a sandwich just in case.”

“I had the most enormous helping of jam roly-poly and custard,” Chastity said with a laugh. “Not at all good for me, but good for the soul.”

“Then good for you,” Constance said. “Let's have a look at the post.”

Chastity laid the letters on the central table and they scooted their wheeled chairs over to look at them. Prudence, by custom, wielded the paper knife. “Two agony aunts for you, Chas,” she said, passing them across. “And this one's some kind of tirade against that article you wrote about Freud's book, Con.”

“
Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex,
” Constance said, reaching for the letter. She glanced at it, pronounced disgustedly, “What a bigot. Some ignorant country vicar who thinks publications of our kind should cater to the delicate sensibilities of ladies, not go out of their way to offend them.”

“Shall you answer it?” Chastity asked somewhat absently as she perused another of the letters Prudence had handed her.

“What do you think?” Constance said.

Chastity smiled reflexively. “This is another Go-Between. Odd writing, though. It's all printed.”

“Perhaps he—or is it she—can't manage cursive,” Prudence suggested.

“I think it's a he.” Chastity passed the letter over. “But the gender is definitely a little obscure.”

Her sisters read the letter. “No one who reads
The Mayfair Lady
is unable to write cursive,” Constance said. “Perhaps he has a reason for not wanting people to know he's sent the letter.”

“‘Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice,'” Prudence quoted. “Who's going to meet the mystery?”

“I will,” Chastity said without too much enthusiasm. “The Rubens room at the National Gallery works well. I'll tell him to carry a copy of the broadsheet, as usual.”

“Are you sure you don't mind doing this?” Constance asked. The Rubens gallery was where Chastity had first met Douglas and it might rub salt into old wounds.

“No,” Chastity said with an unwavering smile. “Interviewing Go-Between applicants is my job. Of course I'm happy to do it.” She took the letter and scooted her chair back to her typewriter. “It's Friday today, so I'll suggest next Thursday. That should give him plenty of time to make whatever arrangements he has to, to make the rendezvous.”

Chapter 18

T
he following Thursday was crisp and clear as Chastity strolled across Trafalgar Square, tossing corn to the pigeons as she went. The brightness of the day had lifted her spirits a little but she knew from experience that it wouldn't last. Once the evening drew in and the prospect of the long night lay ahead, the now familiar depression would swamp her anew.

She was swathed once more in her loose alpaca dust coat, her face obscured by the opaque chiffon veil, her Feydeau accent well prepared, although just the thought of it filled her with distaste. She hurried up the steps and entered the ground-floor hall, then climbed the stairs towards the atrium, turning to the left at the half landing, a copy of
The Mayfair Lady
prominently displayed in her hand.

She made her way through to the Rubens gallery and sat down on the circular bench in the middle of the room, as she'd specified in her letter, and opened up the broadsheet, its title page facing outwards. The Go-Between's client couldn't fail to identify her.

He didn't. Douglas entered the gallery and spotted the veiled, swathed figure immediately. A smile touched his mouth as he approached. “Madam Mayfair Lady, we meet again,” he said.

Chastity looked up. She stared at him in bewildered incredulity. “Douglas?”

“The very same. May I sit down?” He didn't wait for an answer, merely sat next to her on the bench. He reached out and lifted her chiffon veil, folding it carefully over the brim of her hat. “Surplus to requirements on this occasion, wouldn't you say?” He raised an eyebrow even as the smile in his eyes deepened. “Since we have no secrets from each other.”

Chastity was unable to respond for a minute. Her first thought was that this meeting was accidental; her second, that of course it wasn't. She was overwhelmed by his presence, by his scent and his smile, by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the large hands that were now stripping off his gloves. His deep-set eyes were darkest charcoal, and his long angular jaw had a disconcerting jut to it, as if he had determined on some course of action.

“You wrote to the Go-Between?” she asked, feeling stupid.

“I took a gamble that it would be you who answered, not one of your sisters,” Douglas said. “I need you to come with me.” He took her hand, standing up as he did so, drawing her inexorably to her feet.

“Come with you where?” Chastity thought she should be making some protest but for some reason couldn't summon the will to do so.

“You'll see,” he said. “I want you to see the consequences of your actions.” Still holding her hand he drew her firmly beside him and began to walk out of the gallery.

Chastity made no protest as they walked across the upper hallway, down the great flight of stairs, and out into the bright afternoon. In truth, just the feel of his fingers on her wrist set her senses awhirl. If she'd wanted to, she could have pulled away, but the idea never crossed her mind. She had no idea what was happening, or what he intended, but he was here beside her and she could sense none of the cold hurt and anger that had marked their parting.

Douglas hailed a hackney and when the cab drew up he lifted Chastity into the interior and climbed in behind her. She contemplated a form protest and then with an unconscious shake of her head dismissed the idea. She hadn't minded, why pretend she had? He was sitting beside her and now took her hand again, enclosing it in his own but saying nothing, seemingly content to sit quietly side by side in the swaying carriage.

“Where are we going?” she asked finally.

“Harley Street.”

“Why?”

“You'll see.” He smiled again, a very private smile, and said nothing further until they were inside the ground-floor hallway of his office building. “The second floor,” he said, gesturing to the stairs.

Chastity, with one questioning glance, went up the stairs ahead of him. She couldn't help drawing a shocking comparison between this opulent building and the tumbledown hovel of St. Mary Abbot's. It must be so difficult for Douglas to move between the two, she thought, stopping outside the single door on the second floor.

He leaned across her shoulder with a key in his hand and unlocked the door, pushing it open. Chastity stepped inside. She stopped dead. “Dear God,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. He moved to stand beside her and she turned her head towards him. “Laura,” she said in the same awed whisper. “She did this?”

“To the letter,” he agreed impassively. He gestured. “Go in. There's more.”

Chastity took another step, and then another. She looked all around, her hazel eyes stunned. “Is there a Buddha?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, she spared me that. But there's a palm tree.” He pointed.

Chastity gazed at it, her hands now covering her mouth. “Sweet Jesus,” she murmured.

“You realize that you are entirely responsible for this,” he said, leaning against the door, arms folded, little flickers of laughter in his eyes.

“Me?” she said. “No . . . how . . . how could I be?”

“Well, I was under the impression that you, in the guise of the Go-Between, had attempted to make a match between me and the Signorina Della Luca,” he observed.

“Well, yes . . . but . . . but I didn't suggest you make her your interior decorator,” Chastity protested.

“Neither did I,” he said aridly.

Chastity looked around again, then almost tentatively went towards the door that led to his office. She stood there in silence, then turned slowly back to him. “I am so sorry.”

He came over to her, took her face between his hands, looked down at her with a smile in his eyes that was half rueful, half amused. “So am I, sweetheart,” he said. “So very sorry.”

She reached up to grasp his wrists. “I didn't know what to do,” she said. “I didn't know how to stop it. Everything seemed to spin out of control.”

“I know.” He kissed her gently, and then more urgently. “I hurt you. Forgive me.” The words rustled over her lips, his thumbs pressed into the soft skin beneath her chin.

“I deceived you. It must have been so wretched for you.” She raised a hand to caress his cheek.

“It was, but I brought it upon myself.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Such crass stupidity to imagine that I could . . .” He raised his head and stared almost angrily at the wall behind her.

“I love you,” she said, touching his mouth with a fingertip. “Douglas, I love you.”

The anger faded from his eyes. He held her tightly against him, his mouth finding hers again, his lips firm and possessive, his tongue demanding entrance. She felt his body harden against her, felt the liquid jolt in her loins, and laughed with the sheer joy of desire. “Where?” she asked, laughing and yet urgent, sucking on his bottom lip as if it were a ripe plum, pressing herself against him, suddenly devoured by need.

He bore her backwards to the large desk adorned with an elaborately decorated blotter. Her legs curled around his hips as she fell back onto the smooth surface. She twisted her fingers in his thick hair, pulling his mouth down on hers as he pushed up her skirt and petticoat. She lifted her hips as he pulled down her knickers, tightened her thighs around him, barely aware of the hard wood beneath her, and then with a little gasp of delight felt him inside her. He slipped his hands beneath her hips, holding her on the shelf of his palms as he moved within her, his mouth pressed to hers.

He raised his head, looked down at her transported countenance, said softly, “Chastity, I love you,” and drove to her core as she rose to meet him, her heels pressing into his backside. They were laughing as the world reasserted itself, laughing at the absurdity of their position, laughing with heady relief, laughing with sheer unadulterated pleasure.

“I hope you weren't expecting any patients,” Chastity said, taking the hands he held out to pull her into a sitting position.

“No, I usually schedule appointments with some care,” he said, releasing her hands to tuck his shirt into his trousers before buttoning them. “Today was no exception.”

Chastity slid off the desk. “Oh, so you planned that.”

“Not exactly,” he said with a rather wicked smile. “But I had my hopes.”

Chastity was busy buttoning and tucking herself. She glanced over her shoulder. “I think you're going to have to keep the desk,” she said. “I've grown rather fond of it.”

“And the blotter,” he agreed. He reached for her, taking her shoulders, kissing her brow. “But what in the devil's name am I to do with the rest of this . . . this . . .” He ran his hands through his hair.

“Send it back,” Chastity said. “You have the receipts?”

“I have the bills,” he said. “Five thousand pounds' worth.” He reached into the desk drawer.

Chastity grimaced. “It's astonishing what people will pay for bad taste.” She glanced through the sheaf of papers he handed her. “We'll let Prue handle these. She's an expert at sending back merchandise. She was always having to do it when Father ordered things we couldn't afford.”

“I don't want to involve your family,” Douglas said, reaching to take them back from her.

Chastity put them on the desk. “You're not,” she stated. “You're part of the family, therefore you're not involving them, they are involved.” She regarded him through suddenly narrowed eyes. “Unless, of course, Dr. Farrell, you are merely trifling with me, and have no intention of making an honest woman of me.”

He was pleased to note that he was taken aback for no more than an instant. “Are you asking me to marry you, Miss Duncan?”

“Why certainly I am, sir.” She swept him a curtsy. “Dr. Farrell, would you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

“The honor would be all mine,” he said with a formal bow.

“Good, so that's over with,” Chastity said cheerfully. “So, we're agreed we'll let Prue deal with returning this stuff. I promise you, Douglas, she will have the shopkeepers begging to take it back before she's finished with them. There'll be no problem there.”

“Maybe not, but there
will
be a problem,” he said. “I shall be left with an unfurnished suite.”

“Oh, that's easy,” Chastity said. “As long as you don't want new stuff.” Her tone suggested that anyone desiring such furniture would be showing a serious lack of good judgment.

Douglas shook his head in hasty disclaimer. “No,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then it's simple. We have so much in the attics, both in Manchester Square and at Romsey Manor . . .” She paused, seeing his expression.

“I sat in an armchair in the attic at Romsey Manor that reeked of dog,” he said neutrally.

“They don't all,” she said, coming across to him. She put her arms around him. “We are at peace now, aren't we?”

“Oh, yes,” he said into her hair. “Utterly at peace, my love.”

Much later, in the full dark of late evening, in Douglas's flat on Wimpole Street, Chastity stirred against him and murmured, “At the risk of opening old wounds, we ought to discuss what we're going to do about money for your clinic, since I don't have any.”

“Well, you're not going to be an expensive wife, are you?” he asked, his voice teasing in the dark.

“No, of course not. We're all three of us financially independent,” she said with a touch of indignation.

“That's all right, then. As long as I don't have to support you.” He moved over her, tracing the contours of her face with a fingertip. “And you do have the right social contacts to scare up some rich patients for me, don't you?”

“I could do that,” she murmured. “And maybe we could find some philanthropic backer for the clinic. That would help.”

“It certainly would,” he agreed solemnly. “But what would help most at the moment is if you would just lift your hips a fraction . . . that's it, perfect.” He slid his length deep within her. “I can do anything, Chastity, my love, if I have you.”

She smiled up at him in the darkness. “Together,” she said softly, “we shall move mountains.”