Dangerous Decisions by Margaret Kaine Page B

held out his hand for the diary. The appointment was for 10.30 a.m. It was impossible. How could he carry out his plan to be at St Margaret’s Church before eleven o’clock? He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I have a commitment at the time that I can’t possibly break.’
    Andrew gave a heavy sigh. ‘In that case, I shall just have to eat humble pie. You may go, Miss Barnes, but in future please be more careful.’ After she had left he said, ‘I don’t understand it, she’s usually so efficient.’
    Nicholas looked down at his hands. ‘A wedding, you say? Is it a relative?’
    Andrew shook his head as he leafed through a case file. ‘No, it’s a society wedding. When I was a young, inexperienced doctor, my first practice was in Hertfordshire. I assisted a London gynaecologist at Oliver Faraday’s birth. Sadly, after a protracted labour the mother suffered a severe haemorrhage. He’s marrying some young woman from Staffordshire.’
    Nicholas managed to keep his voice one of quiet control. ‘Oliver Faraday?’
    â€˜Yes, of Graylings, a fine ancestral house.’ Andrew glanced up and explained, ‘Afterwards I used to attend Oliver when he had childhood ailments, and as I became more respected his father even invited me to luncheon.’ With dry humour, he added, ‘Never to dinner, of course.’
    Nicholas gave a sympathetic smile. ‘These social niceties, they really are nonsensical. Yet you’ve been sent an invitation.’
    â€˜I have indeed. Oliver consulted me a couple of years ago – merely a minor matter – and now that I have patients among the aristocracy I believe I am considered socially acceptable.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows, but Nicholas merely smiled, thinking it safer not to pursue the subject.
    The morning of the tenth of January dawned without a hint of rain, and Helena, although nervous, was enjoying all the attention. She breakfasted in bed, the tray before her daintily laid with a soft-boiled egg, toast and honey, and a fluted china cup of hot chocolate. Then the hip-bath before the lively coal fire began to be filled by a procession of maids carrying cans of hot water. As one tipped in rose-scented bath salts, Enid Hewson busied herself laying out a camisole, a ribbon corset, knickers with lace frills at the knee and white silk stockings. The myriad of petticoats lay fanned out over the back of a velvet chair, while complexion creams, silver-backed hairbrush, comb and mirror were in readiness on the dressing table.
    Helena was leaning against the pillows, trying to close her mind to the activity around her. She loved Oliver’s London house. It was not only tall and elegant but exquisitely furnished. She heard faint laughter overhead from her bridesmaids, Dorothy, and three debutantes Helena had remained friendly with, and took a deep breath, trying to calm her chaotic feelings. It was normal to feel panicky, it was just wedding nerves – every bride was supposed to have them. Yet despite the day before her, into her mind came the young doctor’s image again and mortification swept over her, guilt that she could think of another man on the morning she was to marry Oliver. It must be because she was back in London.
    With determination she drew a curtain over the memory and instead gazed at the ivory dress with its guipure lace and gossamer veil hanging in splendour outside the bow-fronted satinwood wardrobe.
    Oliver had been so sweet, so attentive in these weeks leading up to the ceremony. She hadn’t felt any of that disturbing uneasiness about him for ages. Leaning forward, Helena flung aside the blue silk eiderdown with resolve, swung out her legs and put on her peignoir and swansdown trimmed slippers.
    The maid turned to bob a curtsey. ‘Your bath is ready, Miss.’
    Helena, whose hair had been shampooed the previous day, waited until it was pinned