The Wedding Game

by Jane Feather

  He could see no reason why the wealth of some privileged aristocratic woman shouldn't go towards improving the lot of the suffering men, women, and children whose existence he was certain she would barely acknowledge. And he could see no reason why he shouldn't put his considerable medical skills to work to the same philanthropic end, exploiting the hypochondriacs who could well afford to pay for his services. So, by what right did that undersized veiled creature with that ridiculous fake accent prate to him about love and respect in a marriage? She advertised a service and it was none of her business why her clients chose to avail themselves of it. He'd been cured of love matches, and if he'd wanted one now he'd have gone and found one for himself.

  Fuming, he stalked down the steps of the museum and marched off in the direction of St. James's Park, hoping that the cold air would cool his temper, as indeed it did. By the time he'd crossed the park and reached Buckingham Palace, his customary sense of humor had reasserted itself. He had learned from the age of five that when dealing with women a sense of humor was essential if a man was not to court insanity.

  Chastity hurried across Trafalgar Square, this time ignoring the pigeons who rose up in a flapping, cooing flock from around her feet. She hailed a hackney at Charing Cross, gave the cabbie the address of 10 Manchester Square, and climbed in, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale tobacco that clung to the squabs.

  She had been looking forward to meeting Douglas Farrell. That day when he'd walked into the corner shop to buy a copy of The Mayfair Lady, she'd found something intriguing about a doctor who practiced in the wretched area around Earl's Court. And she'd been very intrigued by one who bought several pounds of sweets. Far more licorice and humbugs than any one person could consume, and Chastity knew her own capacity when it came to the consumption of sweets to be more than ordinary. She had wondered if he'd been buying them for the poor children who attended his surgery at St. Mary Abbot's. It was an idea that had sparked her own empathetic nature and had made her eager to meet the man. But he was very different in person from how she had imagined him.

  She put back her veil with a little sigh of relief as the cool air laved her overheated complexion. Mrs. Beedle had seemed to like him, but of course it stood to reason that the keeper of a small corner shop wouldn't have intimate knowledge of her customers. Was he living in Kensington? It seemed likely if he patronized Mrs. Beedle's shop. It was respectable enough, but hardly a fashionable address for an up-and-coming Harley Street physician. Convenient enough, of course, for an Earl's Court surgery. And presumably cheap enough. And money, of course, was one of his problems.

  Chastity told herself that the Go-Between was a matchmaking service and passing moral judgment on its clients was not part of that service. If you looked at it from one point of view, the doctor had merely been blunt and to the point in stating his objectives.

  It was just a hard point of view for Chastity to take. Dr. Farrell was coldly calculating. He wanted a wife who was both rich and influential, a woman that he could use for his own purposes. It made her scalp crawl. She was aware of an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

  The cab drew up outside the imposing facade of No. 10 and she stepped down to the curb before paying the driver. She then hurried up the steps to the front door, shivering in a gust of wind that swept across the square garden. Jenkins, the butler, opened the door for her before she reached the top step.

  “I saw the cab draw up, Miss Chas,” he said by way of explanation. “There's a bitter wind this afternoon.”

  “It smells like snow,” Chastity said, stepping into the hall that was warmed by a fat steam radiator. “Is my father in?”

  “His lordship hasn't left the library, Miss Chas,” Jenkins said. “He says he thinks he's getting a bit of a chill.”

  “Oh, dear.” Chastity frowned as she took off her gloves and hat. “Should we call the doctor?”

  “I asked, but he said no.”

  Chastity nodded. “I'll go and see him. Perhaps he'd like some tea with whisky.”

  “I took the whisky decanter in just after luncheon,” Jenkins said.

  Chastity frowned again. Lord Duncan had become increasingly depressed since the libel case that had exposed the perfidy of his erstwhile bosom friend, the earl of Barclay. The case had exposed both his friend's betrayal and his own blind stupidity in trusting him. It was the latter that troubled Lord Duncan the most, or so his three daughters believed. Through his own stupidity he had lost the family fortune, entrusting it to a man who could be trusted only to deceive and defraud. As a result, Lord Duncan's daughters had turned The Mayfair Lady and the Go-Between into paying propositions whose income for a while had kept their father in ignorance of the true state of the family finances. That fact too was eating away at Lord Duncan's pride. The fact that his daughters had kept the truth from him while making shift themselves to keep the household from bankruptcy was something with which he could not come to terms.

  Chastity went towards the library and hesitated, her hand raised to knock. Since Prudence's marriage six weeks earlier, Chastity was the only daughter living at 10 Manchester Square and the burden of Lord Duncan's increasing depression lay heaviest upon her shoulders. It was not that her sisters wouldn't share the burden, but simple physical distance from the house separated them from the moment-by-moment recognition.

  She tapped lightly and then went into the room. It was in the semidarkness of late afternoon, with only the glow from the fire providing any illumination. “Wouldn't you like the lamps lit, Father?” she asked, closing the door behind her.

  “No, no, I'm fine as it is. We don't want to waste the gas,” Lord Duncan declared heavily from the depths of his armchair beside the fire. “Time enough to light them when it's dark.”

  Chastity frowned. One way her father dealt with his new knowledge of the true state of the household's finances was to insist on small and pointless economies. “Jenkins said you're not feeling too well, Father. Should we call Dr. Hastings?”

  “No, no. No need for the expense of a quack,” his lordship declared. “It's just a chill.” He reached for the whisky decanter and Chastity noticed that the level was down about two-thirds. She knew that Jenkins would have brought it in full. Her father didn't seem the worse for wear, but he had a very strong head. He probably wasn't drinking any more than usual, she reflected, it was just that he was drinking alone, whereas in the old days he would have been at his club with his cronies. She couldn't remember when he'd last gone to his club.

  “Are you dining out tonight?” she asked, forcing a cheerful note into her voice.

  “No” was the unadorned negative.

  “Why don't you go to your club?”

  “I'm not up to it, Chastity.” He took a deep draught of his whisky.

  “Well, why don't you change your mind and come with me to Prudence and Gideon's dinner party?” she coaxed.

  “I declined the invitation, my dear. I'm not going to change my mind on a whim and upset your sister's table arrangements.” He leaned forward and refilled his glass.

  Chastity gave up. Her father could never be met head-on, one had to approach obliquely. She leaned over and kissed him. “Stay in the warm, then. I'll see what Mrs. Hudson has for your supper.”

  “Oh, just some bread and cheese will do.”

  Chastity sighed, reflecting that her father's economic martyrdom was actually harder to handle than his blithe spending of the past. “I'm going to Prue's early to dress for dinner there, so I'm going to get my things together now. I'll pop in and say good-bye before I leave.”

  “Very well, my dear.”

  Chastity left the library and encountered Jenkins lighting the gas lamps in the hall. Lord Duncan, even if he could have afforded the innovation, considered electric light an abomination of the modern world. “Could you light the ones in the library?” she asked. “Father says he doesn't need them, but he can't go on sitting in the dark, it's so depressing.”

  “If you ask me, Miss Chas
, his lordship needs something to take him out of himself,” Jenkins said.

  “I know. My sisters and I are racking our brains trying to come up with something,” she responded. “Maybe Christmas will cheer him up. He always likes the Boxing Day hunt.”

  “We'll hope so,” Jenkins said, sounding somewhat doubtful. “I wanted to make sure about the timing for Christmas, Miss Chas. Mrs. Hudson and I will be going down to Romsey Manor on the day before Christmas Eve.”

  “Yes, and the rest of us will come down late afternoon on Christmas Eve, after Lord Lucan and Hester Winthrop's wedding,” Chastity said. “The reception is a luncheon affair, so we should be able to catch the four o'clock and be there in time for the caroling.”

  “Very nice it will be to have a grand family Christmas again,” Jenkins said.

  Chastity smiled a little wistfully. “Yes, we haven't really had a proper one since Mother died. But with Prue and Gideon and Sarah, and Mary Winston, and Constance and Max and the aunts, it's going to be wonderful.”

  “In the old tradition,” Jenkins agreed. “I'll go and light the library lamps now. I've told Cobham you'll be needing him at six. He'll bring the carriage around. You'll be staying the night with Miss Prue . . . Lady Malvern, I should say,” he added.

  “Not to her face, she won't know you're talking to her,” Chastity said with a chuckle. “But, yes, I'm staying the night, and Sir Gideon's driver will bring me back in the morning.” She left him in the hall and went towards the kitchen regions to consult with the cook, Mrs. Hudson, on the subject of her father's dinner.

  “Oh, don't you worry, Miss Chas,” Mrs. Hudson said comfortably. “I've a fine brace of pheasant for his lordship, with applesauce, just as he likes it. And there's his favorite chestnut soup, and I've baked a cream custard. Tempt his appetite nicely, that will.”

  “I knew you'd have it organized,” Chastity said. “It certainly smells delicious in here.” She smiled, bade the cook a cheerful farewell, and hastened upstairs to get together her clothes for the evening.

  It still felt strange and rather lonely sometimes being the only one left in the house. In the old days the sisters would dress together, moving around between bedrooms, sharing clothes, jewels and trinkets, curling irons, asking one another's opinions of particular items of dress. Both Constance and Prudence were very aware of Chastity's possible loneliness and went out of their way to ensure that she spent almost as much time with them now as she had when they were all together under the same roof. Very rarely did Chastity dress alone if she and one or both of her sisters were attending the same social event; she had a standing invitation to stay at both houses. Natural delicacy kept her from overusing the invitation. Much as she liked her brothers-in-law and knew that the liking was mutual, she didn't want to intrude on her sisters' marriages.

  Now she frowned to herself as she examined the contents of her wardrobe, contemplating the upcoming discussion with her sisters about her encounter with Douglas Farrell. Part of her cherished the secret wish that they would be as repulsed by the doctor's mercenary attitude as she herself was and would agree to decline his request for the Go-Between's service. She might wish it, but she also knew it was a fond hope. They would not turn down a paying client. But where were they going to find a suitably wealthy, suitably compliant, suitably socially positioned candidate for the doctor?

  She chose an emerald-green silk gown with a low-cut neck and a small train that fell in graceful folds at the back from the high waist set just beneath her bosom. It was one of Doucet's creations, bought for Chastity by Constance in Paris on her honeymoon. She draped the gown over the back of a chair and selected the accessories, packing them in a small valise with her nightdress, toothbrush, and hairbrush. When all was assembled she gathered the gown over her arm, picked up her valise, and hastened downstairs just as the clock struck six.

  Jenkins took her burdens and carried them out to the waiting carriage while she went to say good night to her father. Lord Duncan seemed a little more genial now. The lights burned cheerfully and the fire blazed. His whisky decanter was recharged and the good smell of roasting pheasant drifted from the kitchen. “Give your sisters my love, my dear,” he instructed. “Tell them to come and see me once in a while.”

  “Father, really,” Chastity protested. “They were here only yesterday. You know they come almost every day.”

  “Yes, but not to see me so much as to get on with the business of putting out that disgraceful rag you're all so proud of,” Lord Duncan declared. “What your mother can have been thinking of when she started that publication, I can't imagine.”

  “Women's suffrage, as you know very well,” Chastity told him, refusing to be drawn into this conversation. “And we're simply carrying the banner for her.”

  Lord Duncan harrumphed and waved her away. “Off you go, you don't want to be late.”

  “I'll be back in the morning,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “Enjoy your dinner. Mrs. Hudson's cooked all your favorites, so be sure to thank her.”

  Shaking her head, she left him to his whisky. Cobham was waiting beside the carriage when she ran lightly down the steps, drawing her coat closer about her against the cold. The electric streetlights were lit and bright white pools glittered on the cobbles. It was a much less friendly light than the golden glow of gas, Chastity reflected, as she greeted the coachman and climbed into the carriage.

  “My sister tells me you're retiring in the new year, Cobham,” she said, settling the lap rug over her knees.

  “Aye, Miss Chas. 'Tis time enough to go out to pasture,” he said, whistling up the horses. “It's a nice snug little cottage Miss Prue . . . Lady Malvern . . . offered me an' the wife. Pleased as Punch is the wife. Nice little vegetable garden there. Happy as clams we'll be, I reckon.”

  “I'm sure you will,” Chastity agreed, and huddled closer under the lap rug until they drew up outside the Malvern residence on Pall Mall Place.

  Chapter 2

  Hello, Aunt Chas.”

  “Hello, Sarah.” Chastity greeted her sister's eleven-year-old stepdaughter with a kiss. “How's school?”

  “Boring,” the girl said with an exaggerated, world-weary sigh. “Utterly tedious.”

  Chastity laughed. “I don't believe you, Sarah.”

  Sarah laughed back. “Well, I suppose there are some things I like, but you have to say it's all boring or people think there's something the matter with you.”

  Chastity correctly assumed that the people in question were Sarah's fellow schoolgirls. “I can understand that,” she said sympathetically. “But it must be hard to pretend you're not enjoying yourself when you are.”

  “Oh, I'm quite a good actress,” Sarah said blithely. “Is that the gown you're going to wear this evening? Let me take your valise.”

  “Yes, it is, and thank you.” Chastity relinquished her burdens to the eager child. “Is Prue upstairs?”

  “Oh, yes, and Daddy's still in his chambers. They had words at breakfast, so I think he's going to come home at the very last possible minute,” the girl confided with total lack of concern over a not infrequent event in the Malvern household.

  “What did they have words about?” Chastity followed Sarah across the narrow hallway to the stairs.

  “Something to do with a case that Daddy's taking and Prue thinks he shouldn't. I didn't understand all of it, something about a man refusing to support a child.” Sarah danced ahead of Chastity up the stairs.

  Chastity nodded to herself. If Prudence disapproved of something, she could be counted upon to say so. And Gideon could be counted upon to tell her to mind her own business. They were a somewhat flammable pair.

  “Shall I put your things in the guest room? Prue's in her sitting room.” Sarah paused outside a closed door on the landing above.

  “Yes, thank you, Sarah. I'll just go and say hello to Prue.” She smiled and hastened down the corridor to a pair of double doors at the far end. The door opened at her light knock and Prudence
greeted her with a hug.

  “Oh, I'm so glad you're here,” she said, drawing her sister into a pretty, square sitting room that adjoined the large marital bedroom. “I am quite out of sorts with Gideon.”

  “Yes, Sarah said something.” Chastity unbuttoned her coat. Ever the peacemaker, she prepared to listen to her sister's side. “Something about a man refusing to support a child.”

  “Sometimes I think Sarah hears far more than she should,” Prudence said with a rueful frown, adjusting her spectacles on the bridge of her nose. “I wonder if we speak too freely in front of her.”

  “She's far too bright to get the wrong end of the stick,” Chastity reassured. “And she's not afraid to ask if something puzzles her.”

  Prudence smiled. “No, you're right as usual. Gideon's always been very open with her, it would be a bad thing to change that just because I appeared on the scene.”

  “Exactly,” her sister agreed, draping her coat over the back of a tapestry-covered chair. “So, tell me what happened.”

  Prudence filled two glasses from a sherry decanter that stood on a console table between two long windows, their rich amber velvet curtains drawn to shut out the winter night. She brought the glasses over to the sofa. Chastity took one and sat down, crossing her ankles, regarding her sister expectantly. She was accustomed to the role of sympathetic listener with both her sisters.

  Prudence took a sip of sherry and began. “Gideon's going to defend a man who's refusing to support a child born out of wedlock to his former mistress. It means that Gideon's going to be attacking the woman . . . her morals, her motives. Greed, he says, is what motivated her. She deliberately got pregnant in order to tie the man to her and is now trying to ruin his marriage and his career.”