The Wedding Game (8 page)

Prudence obliged, deftly inserting the minute pearl buttons into the silk loops. “I wonder if our Dr. Farrell will arrive early and eager,” she commented. “Or saunter in nonchalantly at the very end of the afternoon.”

“I don't know,” Chastity said. “I hope he doesn't come before his quarry. We'll have to talk to him ourselves if he does.” She stood up, smoothing down her skirts. “Let's go down.”

Prudence followed her downstairs, reflecting that she was looking forward to meeting this ogre who had caused such an extraordinary reaction in her placid, sweet-natured sister.

Douglas Farrell was in no hurry to present himself at the door of No. 10 Manchester Square. He sauntered twice around the square, observing the carriages pulling up outside the house, trying to guess which of the female visitors was the one earmarked for his consideration. They seemed to come in pairs and trios of all shapes, sizes, and ages, some with male escorts, some alone. The Wednesday At Home at No. 10 seemed to be a popular event. He wondered about the Honorable Miss Chastity Duncan. Some elderly spinster, probably. Rich enough, certainly, judging by the imposing double-fronted edifice of the house. But then, of course, she could be some poor relation acting as companion or carer to an elderly relative. Some charity case responsible for walking overfed pug dogs and listening to the valetudinarian complaints of her benefactor.

He'd met plenty of women in such situations in his father's practice in Edinburgh, and he supposed that once he had established himself on Harley Street he would meet the English variety. But it would be unusual for a woman in such a subordinate position, little more than an upper servant, really, to be hosting the At Home. Passing the cakes, yes, fetching and carrying, yes, but hostess, unlikely.

Well, he wasn't going to find out by circling the square, Douglas decided. He glanced at his fob watch. It was just after three-thirty. Time to go in and meet his fate.

He ascended the steps to the front door and banged the highly polished lion's head door knocker. The door opened while the clang was still resounding in the air. A stately, white-haired butler greeted him with a bow. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Douglas handed him his visiting card. “Dr. Farrell,” he said. “I need to talk with Lord Buckingham, who, I understand, is visiting Miss Duncan this afternoon.”

“Ah, yes, of course, sir. His lordship has not arrived as yet, but if you'd care to come in, I'll inform Miss Duncan.” Jenkins's scrutiny was sufficiently covert for Douglas to be unaware of it. The butler could find no fault with the visitor's appearance or demeanor. He was dressed in conventional black frock coat, gray waistcoat, black tie, striped trousers.

“May I take your hat, sir?” Jenkins held out his hand for Douglas's bowler hat and silver-knobbed cane and placed them on the table with several others. The card, he held in his hand as he invited the visitor to follow him into the drawing room.

Douglas had missed the butler's scrutiny mainly because he was observing his surroundings. The faded elegance of old money, he decided. Aubusson rugs, a little threadbare but still charming, scattered casually over the parquet floor, a Sheraton table, and two Chippendale chairs. A collection of carnations in single-bud vases intrigued him, until he was shown into the drawing room and saw that every woman there had a flower pinned to her lapel.

Jenkins read from the card. “Dr. Douglas Farrell, Miss Duncan.”

Chastity turned swiftly from the sideboard where she was pouring tea. Her first thought, quite unbidden, was that Douglas Farrell was a remarkably attractive man. How had she failed to notice that the first time? But she
had
noticed it the very first time she'd seen him at Mrs. Beedle's. It was the second time, when they'd actually met, that she had failed to register anything appealing about him.

She came forward, her hand outstretched, her expression composed, a slightly interrogative smile on her lips. “Dr. Farrell . . . I don't believe we've met.”

Definitely not some elderly spinster. And definitely not some charity-case poor relation.
He took her hand. “No. Forgive me for intruding.”

Chastity looked down at her hand, registering with some surprise how completely it disappeared within the large palm enclosing it. It was a very firm, warm, and dry clasp and it seemed to last a fraction longer than necessary as he continued, “I was told I might meet Lord Buckingham here this afternoon. I need to speak with him and I keep missing him at my club.” He smiled and at last released her hand.

Those charcoal eyes seemed to be dancing, Chastity thought, as if they were full of little sprites of humor. His wide mouth had parted in a crooked smile that absurdly produced a dimple in his chin. She realized she hadn't seen him smile before.

“Lord Buckingham usually comes to visit on Wednesdays,” she said, trying to sound neutral. “But he's not here as yet. Let me give you some tea.” She turned back to the sideboard.

“Dr. Farrell, I'm Miss Duncan's sister Constance Ensor . . . and this is my other sister, Lady Malvern.”

Douglas turned his head to confront a tall, very elegant woman who, like the more angular lady at her side, bore a distinct family resemblance to Miss Duncan. Hair a slightly less vivid shade of red, eyes more green than Miss Duncan's hazel. But definitely the same family.

He shook hands and explained his need to speak with Lord Buckingham, an explanation that they took with the same unquestioning ease as had their sister, who now reappeared at his side with a cup of tea.

“Sandwich, Dr. Farrell? Or would you prefer a tea cake?”

“Neither, thank you,” he said. “I really am sorry to intrude.”

“I am At Home this afternoon, Dr. Farrell,” she said with a cool smile. “At home to any who care to visit. You are perhaps not from London.”

“No, from Edinburgh,” he responded.

“Ah.” She nodded. “I'm sure they don't have the same social traditions up there.”

For all the world as if he'd said he was from the islands of Samoa, Douglas thought with a prickle of annoyance. For some reason he could sense little shards of antagonism coming from the Honorable Miss Duncan, but for the life of him he couldn't understand why.

“The Contessa Della Luca, Miss Della Luca,” announced Jenkins.

“Excuse me,” Chastity said, and flitted from the doctor's side. “Contessa, signorina, how delightful you could come. Do have some tea and let me introduce you. Are you acquainted with Lady Bainbridge?” She drew the two women into a circle of ladies all balancing teacups on their laps. “My sisters, Constance and Prudence, you know, of course. And this is Lady Winthrop and her daughter, Hester. Hester is to be married in a couple of weeks.”

A genteel chorus of greetings answered the introductions. Laura sat down beside Hester, fixed her rather protruding gaze on her, and said, “Where are you going on your honeymoon, Miss Winthrop? You should definitely go to Italy. No one's education is complete without a visit to
Firenze
and
Roma.
”

“Isn't it a little cold at Christmas?” Hester ventured, somewhat intimidated by the authoritarian tone and the unmoving stare.

“No, no, not at all.
Firenze
is in the south,” Laura declared with a wave of her mittened hand and a blithe disregard for the realities of geography.

“Naples or Sorrento are perhaps more southern,” ventured Prudence with a gleam in her eye.

“Oh, there's nothing there to see,” Laura said.

“Pompeii,” murmured Chastity. “I was under the impression that Pompeii was definitely worth visiting.”

“It would be even more so if they would allow women to see the erotic frescos,” Constance said. “When we were there some years ago with our mother, we were not permitted to see them, while the men were welcomed with open arms and prurient winks.”

“I hardly think such sights are suitable for a woman's eye,” Laura announced, primly dabbing her lips with her handkerchief. “I would shudder to see them.”

“I really think Michelangelo's
David
should be covered with a loincloth,” Chastity suggested in a tone as sweet as chocolate as she handed the lady a teacup. “I had to avert my eyes.” She turned to the doctor, who had approached the conversational circle, his eyes on the white carnation on Miss Della Luca's lapel. “What do you think, Dr. Farrell? Should women be permitted to view male anatomy as part of a work of art?”

He had the unmistakable sense that he was stepping into a trap. If he disagreed with the lady wearing the white carnation, then he could be ruining his chances with a prospective bride, but if he agreed with her, he would be exposing himself to the ridicule of this somewhat intimidating trio of sisters. He had not been fooled by Miss Duncan's sweet-voiced suggestion. It had been so heavily larded with irony, only the most obtuse ear could miss it.

He opted for diplomacy. “I think it's a matter of personal preference, Miss Duncan. I gather you know Italy well, Miss Della Luca?”

“It is my home,
Dottore.
The true home of my heart.” The lady launched into her favorite subject, and the sisters moved away with silent sighs of relief.

“That was accomplished simply enough,” Constance murmured, picking up a plate of sandwiches. “Now all we want is Father.”

Her wish was answered as it was spoken. Lord Duncan, dapper as always, his luxuriant white hair carefully brushed back from his broad forehead, entered the drawing room with a practiced smile. He greeted his daughter's guests with impeccable courtesy, kissing female hands and cheeks according to his degree of familiarity, clapping the men on the shoulder, exchanging a jovial remark. His daughters, watching, had difficulty reconciling this social ease with the recluse he had become.

“I suppose it's like riding a bicycle,” Chastity whispered. “Once learned, never forgotten.” She stepped forward. “Father, I'd like to introduce you to Contessa Della Luca.”

“Delighted, my dear,” he said, smiling, bowing to the lady. “New faces are always welcome, madam. I trust there are some compensations for London in dreary December.”

“I find it quite delightful,” the lady responded robustly. “I wonder, could you explain to me the history of that painting over the cabinet? I've been looking at it and wondering ever since I arrived. It is not a Fragonard, by any chance?”

Lord Duncan beamed. “Why, well spotted, madam. Indeed it is. But not his usual style. So few people recognize it. Come and take a closer look.” He offered his arm. “I have another rather similar in the library. My late wife had a very good eye.” He bore the contessa off on his arm.

“Do you have a practice in London,
Dottore
?” Laura asked, turning her full attention to the man sitting on a gilt chair at her side.

Chastity found herself concerned for the chair; it seemed too fragile to bear the size of its occupant. But she noticed how deft and delicate were his hand movements, how his fingers on the dainty teacup were long and elegant even though his hands were so big. He was a doctor, she reminded herself. He probably performed surgery in some cases, or he certainly would have done during his training. It wasn't surprising that his hands were so sure.

“In Harley Street, Miss Della Luca,” he responded.

“Oh, and do you specialize,
Dottore
?” She leaned forward, clasping her mittened hands in her taffeta lap, her tongue rolling around the Italian pronunciation as lovingly as if it were sampling the finest beluga.

“I treat all complaints,” he responded. “But I specialize in diseases of the heart.”

“Oh, how splendid,” she cooed. “And how very important. You have a successful practice, of course.”

“It's newly established,” he demurred. Not for the first time his eyes were drawn to Miss Duncan, who was sitting in conversation with Lady Winthrop opposite, and he wondered why his attention kept wandering from the lady with the white carnation. He turned back to Miss Della Luca and gave her the warmly attentive, practiced smile that always reassured patients of his interest and sympathy. “I've only recently arrived in London from Edinburgh, where I had a flourishing practice. Of course, I hope to replicate that on Harley Street.”

“I'm sure you will,” Laura said. “Such a noble profession, the Hippocratic one. I salute you,
Dottore.
” She patted his hand. “One could wish for nothing better than to help one's fellow man. So essential for those of us who have been blessed by fortune.”

Douglas consented with a smile that was now a little forced. The sentiment was his own. So, why did he find the manner of its expression repellent? But then he reminded himself that that was not at issue. He knew better now than to expect in a wife a woman who combined wealth and social position with a true sympathetic understanding of his own calling. A rich woman who could at the very least voice the correct sentiments, even if it was only for effect, would suit his purposes very well. His smile became warmer.

The lady was not unattractive. One would not have to spend a great deal of time trying to converse with her. She would have all the right social connections. And he had a feeling she would be very persuasive when it came to advancing her husband's career and, not coincidentally, her own social position.

After half an hour, he rose to make his farewells. “I hope I may call upon you, Miss Della Luca.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Mama and I would be delighted. Twenty-six Park Lane. A delightful house. Not quite as commodious as our villa outside
Firenze,
but very pleasant . . . overlooking Hyde Park, you know.” She let her hand lie limply in his. “But don't let us take you away from your patients,
Dottore.
They have much greater need of you than we do.” A coy little laugh accompanied the instruction.

“I don't work all hours of the day,” Douglas lied, raising the limp fingers to his lips.

The doctor had address,
Chastity thought, watching this byplay with well-concealed scorn. It seemed he was willing to pursue the introduction, though, and the signorina didn't appear averse, quite the opposite. Her mother was still absent from the drawing room, presumably in the company of Lord Duncan, examining the more unusual works of art scattered around the house.