The Wedding Game (32 page)

Epilogue

D
o you realize,” Chastity observed, “that this time last year we didn't know that Max, Gideon, or Douglas even existed, and now look at us all.” She drew a silk stocking up to her thigh.

“Don't forget Father and the contessa,” Constance said, passing her sister a ruffled garter.

“I suppose garters are more romantic for a wedding night than suspenders,” Chastity said, tying it high up on her thigh.

“Most definitely,” Prudence said, handing her the second one. “For the Flying Scotsman, only garters will do.”

Chastity laughed. “You are referring to the train, I trust, Prue.”

“It was intended as a double entendre,” her sister said.

“Well, the train doesn't leave until ten tomorrow morning, so I'm spending my wedding night in the honeymoon suite at Claridge's.” Chastity slid her feet into a pair of ivory kid slippers. “And I don't know how Douglas is paying for it.”

“I don't think it would be politic to ask,” Constance said, shaking out the folds of an apple-green chiffon evening gown before dropping it over Chastity's head.

“I'm not a complete idiot,” Chastity protested, her voice muffled in the yards of material. She held out her arms for her sisters to button the tight sleeves of the gown. “This is so pretty, isn't it?”

“It's lovely,” Prudence agreed. “Unlike her daughter, the contessa has superb taste. It was a lovely stepmotherly gift.”

“Does Laura know what happened to her decorating attempts?” Constance asked, fastening the last tiny button.

“No, she hasn't been near Harley Street since,” Chastity said. “She's been far too busy remaking poor George.”

“He doesn't seem to mind the process,” Prudence said with a chuckle. “He adores her.”

“Each to his own,” Constance said.

There was a brisk knock at the door and Max called, “Mrs. Farrell, your husband grows impatient.”

“Tell him some things take time, Max,” Constance instructed. “Chas isn't going away in her petticoat.”

“I doubt he'd object,” her husband said, “but I'll pass it on.”

“We had better hurry,” Chastity said, clasping the amber beads around her throat. A ray of the setting sun caught the fire opals on her finger. “Wasn't it clever of Douglas to know that only people born in October can wear opals?” She held her hand out to the sun. “Look how they change color . . . so iridescent.”

“They are gorgeous. As are the earrings. Put them on, Chas.” Prudence handed her a pair of opal drops.

“Here's your evening bag, gloves, cloak,” Constance said, passing each garment to her baby sister. “You look utterly beautiful, love, just as you have all day.”

Chastity took a deep, shuddering breath, and tears glistened for a moment in her hazel eyes. “I know it's not the end of anything, but it feels as if it is.”

“No, it's not, love. It's the beginning,” Prudence said firmly. “For all of us. Now go to your Flying Scotsman.” She gave Chastity a little push towards the door, then pulled her close again and kissed her, her own eyes suspiciously shiny. Constance encircled them both in a tight hug and for a moment they clung together, then Chastity stepped back.

“All right,” she said. “I'm ready.”

Her sisters preceded her down the stairs to where the wedding guests were gathered to see off the newlyweds. Douglas stepped to the bottom of the stairs, his eyes on his wife. Constance whispered as she passed him, “Take care of her, Flying Scotsman.”

He looked at her, startled, then Chastity was beside him and he could only drink her in, take her hand, and kiss her on the mouth to the general applause.

“The carriage awaits, sir,” Jenkins announced. “Mrs. Farrell, please accept the congratulations of all the staff.”

“That's the one and only time you may call me that, Jenkins,” she said with a misty smile as she kissed him.

“Certainly, Miss Chas,” he said, bowing.

Douglas tucked her hand into his arm and they walked between the two columns of guests. Laura, with Lord Berenger at her side, tossed a handful of white rose petals. “An Italian custom,” she trilled. “So civilized.” Chastity smiled at her, happy to have civilized rose petals adorning her hair.

Lord Duncan and his wife stood beside the front door that Jenkins held open. Lord Duncan took his daughter's hands in both of his in a fierce clasp. “The last one,” he said. “Your mother would have been so proud.”

Chastity leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Less than a year ago, Father, you had despaired of ever walking any of us to the altar.” She kissed him as he laughed and hugged her.

“I was never any good at predictions,” he said, reaching a hand to his newest son-in-law. “Farrell, take good care of my youngest.”

“I will, sir,” Douglas said. “But Wimpole Street is no more than a five-minute walk.”

“We shall be delighted to see all and any of you whenever you have the time to visit,” the contessa said with an understanding smile. “Will we not, Arthur?”

“Oh, yes, m'dear. Yes, certainly. Whenever convenient.” He put an arm around his wife's waist. “But young people have their own lives to lead.”

Douglas gently urged Chastity through the door and down the steps. She turned to smile and wave at the guests gathered now at the top, then obeyed the hand that turned her to the carriage, a very splendid open carriage drawn by two magnificent Shire horses.

“You're going to pick me up, aren't you,” she said with a tiny sigh of resignation.

“It's customary,” he returned, his eyes sparkling.

“It's a pagan custom, and it's only over the threshold,” she protested.

“I have more than a little of the Scots pagan in me,” he said, and scooped her into his arms. Before he put her in the carriage, he said, “What was that your sister said . . . something about a Flying Scotsman?”

“Oh, that . . . probably a reference to the pagan Scot,” she said airily as he deposited her on the wide leather bench amid a round of cheering applause from the top step of 10 Manchester Square.

About the Author

Jane Feather
is the
New York Times
best-selling, award-winning author of
The Bride Hunt,
The Bachelor List, Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow's Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan
, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has more than ten million copies of her books in print.

Also by Jane Feather

V
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V
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D
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LIPPER

T
HE
S
ILVER
R
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T
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MERALD
S
WAN

T
HE
H
OSTAGE
B
RIDE

A V
ALENTINE
W
EDDING

T
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A
CCIDENTAL
B
RIDE

T
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L
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B
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V
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T
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B
ACHELOR
L
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T
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B
RIDE
H
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Look for the first two tales of the
delightful and vivacious Duncan sisters . . .

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Con's story

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M
ax 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 Property 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.

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