The Wedding Game (30 page)

“Will you come skating, Laura? Or do you have other plans?” Constance asked.

Laura bridled, then blushed a little. “I believe Lord Berenger suggested that if the weather was clement we might walk over to his house. He has some splendid Italian artifacts from his stay in
Firenze.
I am most interested in seeing them.”

“That's splendid,” Constance said. “And your mother?”

“Oh, the dear lady is going to come in the gig and watch the shooting,” Lord Duncan said. “I suggested it to her last night, if the weather made it possible, and she seemed most anxious to have a taste of fresh air. Jenkins will bring a luncheon to the pavilion on the lake.”

“Well, that all seems highly satisfactory,” Max said, getting to his feet. He touched his wife's hair fleetingly. “We'll see you three later this afternoon, then.”

Constance reached up and stroked his wrist. “Yes. Teatime probably.”

Chastity stood. “I'm not really properly dressed yet. I'll see you all shortly.” She made for the door and her sisters let her go, knowing that she would be waiting for them upstairs.

In her bedroom, Chastity sat at the dresser, her steepled hands to her mouth as she tried to absorb what had happened. It had been so fast, as if a freak whirlwind had entered her life, turned it upside down, and then swept out again, leaving chaos in its wake. Her eyes looked curiously hollow in the mirror, blank, as if they were no longer reflecting thought or light. She didn't move even when the tap at the door she had been expecting brought her sisters into the room.

Prudence closed the door behind her. Constance came over to the dresser and put her hands on her baby sister's shoulders. “What happened, Chas?”

Chastity took a deep, shuddering breath and told them.

“Oh, God,” Prudence said. “I never thought for one minute, up in the attic, when I used that stupid accent . . . Gideon and I often play around like that . . . since the trial, when I first used it. I'm so sorry, Chas.” She looked worriedly at her sister's reflection in the mirror. “I'm so sorry,” she repeated helplessly.

“It wasn't your fault, Prue,” Chastity said. “I thought it was over
anyway, only . . .”

“But you love him,” Constance said, with barely a question mark.

“Yes,” Chastity said flatly. “And now I know that he loves—loved—me. He wouldn't have reacted with such hurt, such pain and disappointment, if it had been only a fling. He would have been angry at the manipulation, yes. And embarrassed at what he'd revealed. But it was much more than that . . . much more.” She propped her elbows on the dresser and buried her face in her palms. “How could I have made such a mess of things?”

“You didn't make a mess of anything,” Constance declared. “Circumstances got everything muddled.”

“Quite,” Prue agreed. “And what we have to decide now is, what we do to untangle this mess.”

“Nothing,” Chastity said. “Nothing at all.”

Chapter 17

D
ouglas shoveled more coal onto the miserable fire in the grate at St. Mary Abbot's. It did little to warm the waiting room, with the wind howling outside. He'd seen at least three cases of frostbite that morning, many of his patients coming in with old newspaper and rags wrapped around their bare feet. It was too cold in his office to examine a patient properly. He really needed better premises, but better premises, even if he could find something in this area, drew higher rents.

He was back to square one, he thought dourly. Actually, it was worse than that. He had come to London with a clear plan of action. A rich wife, a substantial establishment practice, and a thriving clinic in the slums. And now the first two aspects of that plan filled him with acute distaste. He still wanted the last, wanted it with the same passionate fervor and commitment as ever, but he no longer knew how to go about getting it. He had thought he could have a pragmatic marriage, a civilized union that suited the needs of both partners. He had thought he would be happy with that.

And now he knew that he couldn't possibly settle for anything less than he had glimpsed with Chastity Duncan.

He realized he was still squatting on his ankles in front of the fire, still holding the empty coal scuttle. He set it down and stood up stiffly. The cold dampness of the room seemed to have seeped into his bones, certainly into his spirit. Perhaps it was time to abandon this plan, leave this city and go home. There at least he could plunge himself into the work of his slum clinic. It was already thriving but there was always more work to be done. It could be expanded into other parts of the city. He could establish other branches.

But that would be running from failure. And he knew he could not do that. It was not in his nature and never had been. And he wouldn't just be running from failure. He'd be running from Chastity. From the deeply personal failure she represented. He loved her. Still loved her. He was angry with her, but he was angry with himself too. Whenever he thought of that meeting in the Rubens gallery he went cold with embarrassment and self-contempt. He heard his words, so callous and mercenary.
The only essential quality in a wife was that she should be rich.

He had been so annoyed that the supercilious, veiled Go-Between had made no attempt to hide her contempt. He had thought then only that she had no right to pass judgment on a situation of which she knew nothing at all. But it was pure arrogance on his part. He couldn't be bothered to explain himself to someone whose services he required and was prepared to pay for. If he
had
explained himself, then perhaps she would have explained
herself.
He thought of the sisters' apparently gratuitous efforts to inform him that there was no family money, and mortification swamped him anew. Could they possibly have thought he was pursuing Chastity for her money? Thought that he had decided she answered his needs for social position and wealth? It didn't bear thinking of.

He took his greatcoat from a peg by the door, looked back at the fire, hoping it would stay lit for a good few hours in case any poor soul needed a little shelter, however inadequate, on a bitter January day. He blew out the oil lamps, and went out to the freezing street. It was time to assume his other persona. He was expecting a certain Lady Sydney, an obstetric patient who said she had been referred to him by Lord Brigham's sister.

He had not been to his Harley Street offices for several days. The city was still largely deserted and his patients were thin on the ground, although he expected that to change when the London Season was in full swing. As he turned onto Harley Street, he saw a large, covered dray drawn up outside his building, two massive cart horses tossing their heads, breath steaming in the icy air. Two men appeared from the house, burly men in baize aprons, wrestling with a massive oak desk.
His
oak desk, Douglas realized in a sort of horrified trance. He watched as they hefted the desk into the back of the dray and then turned to go back inside. Other men appeared, this time carrying leather armchairs, the old cracked leather armchairs from his waiting room. They too went into the back of the dray and the men returned inside.

Was he being evicted?
Of course not, he'd taken a year's lease on the suite. Signed and paid for. He broke into a run. When he reached the dray he stared inside at the contents of his suite piled any which way in the dusty interior. His downstairs neighbor emerged from the door as he turned in bemusement towards it.

“Afternoon, Farrell.” Dr. Talgarth lifted his pince-nez on the gold chain and peered amiably at Douglas. “Doing a bit of refurbishment? Always good to see the tenants doing improvements. Raises the tone of the building.” He waved a hand in farewell and marched off down the street, his belly leading the way.

Douglas raced into the hall, dodging a man carrying a large oil painting. A particularly gloomy hunting scene that had hung between the windows in the waiting room. He took the stairs two at a time and burst through the open door to his waiting room. It was warm, a good fire in the grate, the gas lamps lit. And it bore absolutely no relation to the room he had been in two days earlier.

“
Dottore, Dottore,
I had hoped to be finished before you arrived.” Laura emerged from his office holding up an ornate gilded lamp with a crimson tasseled shade. “I will just put this here . . .” She set the lamp on a gilded table beside a chintz sofa and turned to him with a triumphant smile. “Is it not beautiful . . . is it not perfection,
Dottore
?” She gestured expansively at the country tearoom that had once been a doctor's waiting room. “So
welcoming . . . so comforting for the sick.”

Douglas looked around. She had done exactly what she had threatened. The walls were eggshell blue with pale pink moldings. Flower paintings caught the eye at every turn. Chintz and lace at the windows, chintz on chairs and sofas. The carpet beneath his feet was a field of cabbage roses. He blinked, feeling dizzy at the riot of color. In a daze he walked into his office. Brocade, tapestry, more cabbage roses, more lace. An ornate screen concealed the examining table in the corner.

Laura was behind him. “The screen,” she said. “Such a perfect touch. So charmingly reassuring.”

Douglas peered at the screen's three gilded panels. They seemed to represent some kind of Roman orgy, or was it the sacrifice of a vestal virgin? He thought of Lady Sydney's imminent arrival and shuddered. He was at a loss, he had no idea what to say. He turned slowly to Laura, his mouth half open as he tried to find words.

She seized his hands, pumping them vigorously. “I know,
Dottore,
I know. You don't know what to say . . . but there is no need to say anything. I promised I would do this for you and I always keep my promises. It has been a pleasure, a true pleasure to put my talents to such good use.” She gave him a bridling smile. “You know, perhaps, that Lord Berenger and I are affianced.”

“Congratulations,” Douglas managed to say. “Um . . .” He looked helplessly around, his hands waving in the air as if they had nothing to do with
him. “All this . . .”

“Not a word,
Dottore,
” Laura said, seizing his hands again. “Not a word of thanks. It has been my pleasure.” Her smile grew more coy. “And it gave me a little
practice . . . a little preparation . . . for refurbishing dear Lord Berenger's house. My next project, of course.”

“Of course,” Douglas said.

“Well, I must be on my way.” Laura gathered up a fur stole with a glassy-eyed fox's head that dangled over her shoulder, a handbag, and gloves from one of the chintz sofas. “You'll find the bills on the little table over there,
Dottore.
” She waved airily in their direction. “You will see how well I negotiated on your behalf.” She moved to the door, pausing for a moment to indicate a gilded palm tree beside the door. “Isn't that the most perfect hat stand? I was delighted when I found it. I knew it would be exactly right.” And she was gone.

Douglas felt as if he'd been run over by a steam train. He didn't dare look at the bills. Dazed, he took off his overcoat and reached automatically to hang it up on the hat stand, then he stopped, his eyes glazing as he stared at the palm tree, the coat hanging from his hand. He turned his back on the abomination and went into his office, throwing his overcoat over a chair and slinging his bowler hat onto the windowsill. Desperately, he realized he had a patient coming at any moment. He couldn't think about any of this. He had to exude confidence and control. He
was
in control. He smoothed down his black suit coat and gray waistcoat and walked back into the waiting room.

“Dr. Farrell, is there anything—oh, my!” The woman who managed Dr. Talgarth's office downstairs appeared in the open doorway of his office. She stared around. “Oh, my,” she said again, rather faintly.

“It's only temporary, Miss Gray,” Douglas said, trying to sound confident and in control. He
was
in control, he told himself again.

“Yes . . . yes, of course,” she said, her eyes still wide as platters. She cleared her throat. “Is there anything I can get you before your patient arrives?”

“No, nothing, thank you, Miss Gray. It's good of you to work through your lunch hour.” He offered what he hoped was his usual suave, employer's smile.

“My neighbor makes Mother a sandwich on a Friday,” the woman said somewhat distractedly, her head still swiveling from side to side like a fascinated marionette. “I always pick up some fish and chips for supper on the way home as a special treat to make up for it.”

Douglas forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. He could hardly redecorate his suite before the arrival of his patient. “I'm very grateful for your help,” he said truthfully. Miss Gray was a real stroke of luck. The practice couldn't support a full-time receptionist, and when Miss Gray had offered to fill in when she wasn't working for Dr. Talgarth he had jumped at the prospect. He guessed she needed the extra money and was probably not that keen to spend the free time afforded by Dr. Talgarth's less than arduous office hours alone with her mother in the small flat they shared on the Bayswater Road. And she was very good at her job.

“If you could show Lady Sydney into the office when she arrives,” he said, and went back to his office. He stood looking at the screen, then bent to examine the tapestry panels more closely. On close scrutiny it appeared they did not represent an orgy or a virgin sacrifice. It was some pastoral scene in a Roman temple. Or at least he decided to believe it was.

Lady Sydney, by some miracle, was on time. Douglas was learning to accept that his time was not considered nearly as valuable as his patients', and for the time being he held his tongue. Once he was established, he would probably unleash it. Against all expectation he found he liked Lady Sydney—but then, he had liked Chastity's group of friends that night at Covent Garden, which seemed an eon ago. He would probably like the Duncan sisters' friends as a matter of course. It was not a helpful reflection. He tapped his pen on the desk blotter, noticing for the first time that the leather edging had some kind of runic engraving. Laura had probably thought the hieroglyphics depicted ancient remedies or apothecaries' recipes.

“Dr. Farrell . . . Dr. Farrell?”

He became aware that his patient was staring at him in puzzlement. “You were saying something about iron.”

“Yes, of course.” He resumed briskly. “Liver, and cod liver oil. You should include those in your diet at least three or four times a week. Pregnant women become anemic very easily.”

“I loathe liver,” the young woman said, wrinkling her nose.

“You want a healthy baby,” he said with something approaching a snap, thinking of all those women who couldn't afford the foods that would ensure that outcome.

She looked disconcerted. “Yes, of course. I'll do everything necessary, Dr. Farrell.”

He smiled, hoping to dissipate the effect of his snap. “I'm sure you will, Lady Sydney. I'll see you in a month. If you'd like to make an appointment with Miss Gray on the
way out . . . ?”

She rose to her feet, gathering handbag and gloves. She held out her hand to
him. “Your office . . . such unusual furnishings,” she said. “For a physician, I mean. Not that they aren't charming, perfectly charming,” she added rather hastily.

“My predecessor's choice,” he said smoothly, shaking her hand.

“I expect his wife had some influence,” Lady Sydney said.

“Yes, I expect so,” Douglas agreed. His visitor took her leave and he sat staring at the screen and the crimson tasseled shades on the lamps and exhaled slowly. Miss Gray came in with an armful of files. She looked around in clear puzzlement.

“The filing cabinet, Doctor,” she said. “It appears to have disappeared.”

“It's probably disguised,” he said. “Like the hat stand.”

“I wonder what as,” the woman said, a little laugh shivering in the back of her throat. “It's quite intriguing, really. I'm sorry, Doctor, but—” The laughter got the better of her and she dropped the files onto the desk and laughed as if she couldn't stop. After a minute, Douglas yielded to the absurdity himself and joined her. The room rocked with the sounds of their hilarity.