The Wedding Game (7 page)

He shook his head reflectively. His mother had never understood why he'd abandoned his destiny, left the lucrative practice that had earned his father a knighthood and kept the Farrell family at the top of Edinburgh's social tree. She had done her best to cope with the breaking of his engagement to Marianne, but at the first mention of her son's going to London to develop a practice there, she'd taken to her bed for a week, enlisting the desperate pleas of her daughters to keep him at her side. He'd resisted with grim fortitude and, if his sisters were to be believed, a total lack of compassion. He knew the latter was not true, just as he knew they would never understand why he was doing what he was doing.

On which subject . . . He picked up the other envelope that sat beside his plate and slit it with his knife. He read the contents twice. It was a very straightforward, very practical letter. He tapped it thoughtfully into the palm of his hand. He didn't think it could have been penned by the veiled lady he had met in the National Gallery. Here there was no hint of condescension or moral superiority, just a simple list of instructions, as befitted a business arrangement. Personalities and personal opinions had no place in a business arrangement, and it was a relief to know that whoever
really
ran the Go-Between understood that. Their representatives could do with some training, he thought somewhat caustically. Perhaps he should drop a line to
The Mayfair Lady
and mention that he'd been dissatisfied with their emissary's less than professional manner. It certainly didn't look as though he'd ever meet one of the editors or managers in person.

He read the letter again. The Go-Between had a prospect in mind for him. A lady sporting a white carnation at an At Home at a prestigious address in Manchester Square. Businesslike but completely anonymous, as he'd been told it would be.

He glanced around the parlor, at the yellowing net curtains on the windows, the greasy antimacassars on the chairs, the stained tablecloth. The game had started. It was time to make a move. A man who frequented At Homes in Manchester Square held by the Honorable Miss Chastity Duncan could not continue to live at Mrs. Harris's boardinghouse on the Cromwell Road.

The bank draft crackled in his pocket as he pushed back his chair. It would certainly go to a good cause, one that even Lady Farrell might support.

Chapter 4

C
hastity bent back her father's newspaper and kissed him on the cheek when she entered the breakfast room on Wednesday morning. “Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning, my dear,” he said, returning his newspaper fastidiously to its creases.

“I want to ask you a favor,” she said, pouring coffee into her cup. “It's a very big favor, actually, so you'll have to think about it before you answer.”

Lord Duncan regarded his youngest daughter uneasily. “Not sure what you mean.”

“No, I haven't explained it yet,” she said, giving him a quick smile as she reached for the toast rack. “Could you pass the marmalade?”

He pushed the silver pot across to her and looked down at his own plate of cooling eggs with obvious distaste.

“You can't waste those,” Chastity said gravely. “We can only afford a dozen eggs a week. There must be at least two there.”

Her father shot her a sharp and startled look, then saw her teasing smile. “It's no laughing matter,” he declared, picking up his fork again. But Chastity had seen just the glimmer of reluctant amusement in his eye and it gave her some encouragement. “If you and your sisters had kept me apprised of the situation in the first place, we wouldn't find ourselves in this absurd position now.” It was a statement repeated so often, it had become something of a mantra.

“There's nothing absurd about it, Father,” Chastity said, spreading butter lavishly on her toast. “We have plenty of money to live quite well, particularly now that Con and Prue are no longer a household expense.” She gave a heavy sigh, shaking her head. “You can have no idea how expensive
they
were to keep.”

“I do wish you wouldn't talk nonsense at the breakfast table,” Lord Duncan said, burying his nose once more in the newspaper.

Chastity smiled to herself and ate her toast, waiting. She didn't have long to wait. Her father suddenly peered at her around the side of the paper. “Did you say something about a favor?”

“Yes,” she said. “It's Wednesday.” She took a second piece of toast.

He glanced at the front page of his newspaper as if to reassure himself of that fact. “It is. And what of it?”

“It's the day for my At Home,” she explained. “Wednesdays have always been At Home days. It was Mother's day too.”

He was looking puzzled. “I remember. Am I being obtuse?”

“No, not at all. It's just that I would like it if you would be there this afternoon. Con and Prue will come, of course.”

He shook his head. “Not my kind of thing, Chastity. You know that.”

“Yes, that's why I said it was a big favor,” she said, refilling his coffee cup. “I need you to help me out with someone. A widow, from Italy. She doesn't know anyone in London, and she's . . . how shall I put it . . . she's more in your age group than ours. You would only need to stay for about ten minutes, just to drink a cup of tea with her.”

“Tea!”
her father expostulated. “You expect me to drink tea with some foreign woman on a perfectly good Wednesday afternoon?”

“For a start, she's not foreign,” Chastity said. “She's as English as you or I, but she was married to an Italian. And if you don't want to drink tea, there's always whisky or sherry. And in the last place, what else were you intending to do on a perfectly good Wednesday afternoon?” Now there was a distinct challenge in the hazel eyes and in her lightly teasing tone.

“Making small talk with a roomful of insipid women is not my idea of a pleasant afternoon,” her father said, vigorously turning the page of the newspaper and folding it back with a crackle.

Chastity propped her chin on her hand and regarded him steadily. After a minute he looked around the paper and said with resignation, “No more than ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Father, you're a sweetheart,” she said. “I promise it won't be that bad. Nothing can be too bad for only ten minutes. And she's a nice woman, but a little uncertain about London. If you would just put her at her ease . . .”

“Make sure Jenkins puts the whisky decanter out.” Lord Duncan returned once more to the paper.

“Of course,” Chastity said, rising from the table. “Have you finished? Shall I tell Madge to clear away?”

“Is that the name of the new parlor maid?” her father asked. “Thought she looked unfamiliar.”

“She's one of Mrs. Hudson's nieces. A nice girl. She'll be coming down to Romsey with us at Christmas.” Chastity went to the door.

“Oh, yes, Christmas. I suppose it'll be a small party?”

“Not particularly,” Chastity said. “Just family at present. But we might pick up some strays between now and then.”

“An expensive business, house parties at Christmas,” her father said.

“I thought we'd pawn the Stubbs,” Chastity responded, referring to the George Stubbs that hung over the wall safe in the library. She whisked herself from the room before her father could react to the joke.

Jenkins was crossing the hall from the front door with a handful of letters. “Has the postman been, Jenkins? Anything interesting?” she inquired.

Jenkins looked suitably shocked. “I wouldn't know, Miss Chas. I haven't looked at them.”

Chastity took the letters from him. “You know perfectly well, Jenkins, that nothing of significance passes you by, just as you know there are no secrets from you in this house.”

“I don't go about prying, Miss Chas,” he protested.

“No, of course you don't,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek that brought a dull flush in its wake. “I have to go to the florist's to buy some carnations this morning. We need to arrange them in the usual way before the At Home.”

“Very well, Miss Chas. Another client for the Go-Between, I assume?”

“Yes, exactly. The gentleman, a Dr. Farrell, will ask for Lord Buckingham, as usual. The white carnation goes to a lady who likes to be called Signorina Della Luca.”

“An Italian lady, I take it.”

“No, not a bit of it,” Chastity said, wrinkling her nose. “She just likes to affect Italian airs.”

“I see,” the butler said.

“Oh, and Lord Duncan has promised to put in an appearance, but he won't drink tea.”

“I'll make sure the whisky decanter is on the sideboard, Miss Chas.” Jenkins nodded and went on his way.

Chastity glanced through the letters as she went upstairs. Household bills mostly. Nothing of any great significance, and nothing to trouble her father with. She put them on the secretaire where Prue, the family mathematician, who still largely managed the household finances, would go through them when she came round later that afternoon. Then she went to fetch her coat and hat for her trip to the florist's.

She returned with her arms full of red and pink carnations, a single white bloom buried in the colorful depths, and ran into her sisters just alighting from a hackney at the bottom of the steps. “We thought we'd come for luncheon,” Prudence said. “In case Father needed some more persuasion. Did you have any luck?”

“He agreed to show his face for ten minutes,” Chastity said, unlocking the front door. “But very reluctantly, so if you could add your voices to the pot it might keep him up to the mark.”

“Is he in the library?” Constance asked, taking off her hat.

“Unless by some miracle he's gone to his club,” her youngest sister said. “Jenkins, is Lord Duncan in?”

The butler relieved her of her armful of flowers, saying, “He did go out for a stroll for half an hour, but he came back a few minutes ago. Good morning, Miss Con, Miss Prue. You'll be here for luncheon?”

“If it's not too much trouble for Mrs. Hudson,” Constance said.

“No, it's always a pleasure to see you both. I'll put these in water for the time being.” He carried the flowers towards the kitchen.

“Let's go and see Father.” Constance was already halfway to the library door. Her sisters followed her.

Lord Duncan was standing at the window looking out at the wintry garden. He turned as his daughters came in. “Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, m'dears,” he said with a clear attempt at joviality. “If you've come to bully me about the At Home this afternoon, there's no need. I told your sister I'd be there, and I will be.”

“We don't only come to bully you, Father,” Prudence said reproachfully. “We came to see how you are.”

“Well enough,” he said. “How's Gideon?”

“Busy defending a cad,” Prudence told him with a chuckle.

“And Max is writing a White Paper on the need for more tar macadam on the main roads out of London so that motor vehicles can travel more easily,” Constance said. “He wants to know if you'd like to drive down to Romsey with him on Christmas Eve. We're going to take the train.”

“I'll think about it,” Lord Duncan said. “Unreliable things, motorcars.” Ever since his own disastrous attempt at owning one some months before, he'd developed a considerable aversion to motorized transport.

“Max's Darracq isn't unreliable.”

“Neither is Gideon's Rover,” Prudence chimed in. “But he'll have Sarah and Mary, as well as all our luggage and presents.” She laughed. “Sarah's presents and belongings actually take up enough space for a railway carriage.”

“Well, I'll think about it,” Lord Duncan repeated. “Let's go in to luncheon.”

The sisters managed to keep their father entertained throughout the meal. He spent so much of his time immured in the house that reminding him of the existence of the outside world had become one of their main endeavors. They all hoped that sooner rather than later these frequent reminders would act to bring him out into the world again.

At the end of luncheon, he rose from the table with a benign smile and a rather rosy countenance. “I think I'll take a glass of port in the library,” he said. “Leave you girls to your own chatter.”

“Don't forget the At Home,” Prudence reminded him. “Jenkins will come and tell you when the Contessa Della Luca arrives and you can make your appearance then.”

“Oh, very well,” he said, sounding resigned. “I trust the woman is capable of holding a sensible conversation.”

“You'll find her very easy to talk to,” Chastity assured him. “She's very cultivated.”

Lord Duncan shook his head and went off to his port in the library.

“Are you changing, Chas?” Prudence asked, running an eye over her younger sister's simple navy-blue linen blouse and gray skirt.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Chastity said. “Since you two have come dressed to the nines.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Constance said. “Elegant, yes. But dressed to the nines, no. That's so vulgar, Chas.” She smoothed down the skirts of her blue-and-white-striped silk afternoon dress with a mock pained air.

Chastity laughed. “Well, you both look very elegant, then, so I had better go and do something about my own costume.” She went upstairs, leaving them to arrange the carnations on the hall table. Jenkins would be responsible for giving every lady visitor a flower before he announced them, ensuring that the one white bloom went to the signorina.

In her own bedroom, Chastity opened the armoire and gazed at its contents. She caught herself wondering how Douglas Farrell was preparing himself for this afternoon. He had struck her as a man not overly interested in his appearance, and since it was to be assumed he had very little money, it was also to be assumed that his wardrobe would be rather limited. But he would surely have a best suit. He couldn't expect to charm a rich wife into his hand without the correct clothes and accessories. Unless he was intending to announce up front to a prospective bride that he was only after her money, he must be prepared to appear to be something that he was not.

Chastity took out a cream crepe de chine blouse with a shirred bodice and a high, close-fitting neck that encircled her throat in bands of lace. It was one of her favorites, as was the skirt of russet-colored poplin that she laid beside it on the bed. It was an outfit in which she always felt confident. A pair of black, buttoned boots and a wide black belt completed the effect. She put her hands at her waist and decided with some satisfaction that she was definitely slimmer than she had been a few weeks earlier.

She sat at the dresser to deal with her hair. Unlike her sisters, whose hair waved in a very convenient fashion, lending itself to many different styles, Chastity's was a mop of thick and unruly curls that were hard to tame. Where her sisters had hair that could be called auburn, shading from such attractively subtle colors as russet to cinnamon, Chastity's was unashamedly red. But at least it was definitely red, not orange, she told herself as she twisted it into a knot that she fastened on top of her head with long and firmly inserted pins. She combed out the side ringlets that clustered around her ears, and teased a few tendrils to wisp on her forehead.

She examined the whole with a critical eye and decided that it was as good as it was going to get.

“Chas, are you ready? It's nearly three.” Prudence stuck her head around the door. “Oh, you're wearing that lovely blouse. It suits you so well. I love that collar.”

“So do I,” Chastity said, turning on the stool. “Could you fasten the buttons on my right wrist? They're so tiny, my fingers become all thumbs.” She held out her right arm.