easy laugh. “Well, if you're ready, Chas, we should be going. The others are waiting for us at Blue Moon.”
“I'm quite ready.” She held out her hand to Douglas. “Good evening, Dr. Farrell. I hope you find your card case. Don't wait up for me, Jenkins. I have my key.” She went out on the viscount's arm.
Douglas looked after her. A covered barouche waited at the curb, a pair of very fine chestnuts in the traces. He was a good judge of horseflesh and guessed that the pair had cost their owner several thousand guineas. Enough to equip a small hospital ward. He realized that Jenkins was waiting patiently beside the door, gazing into the middle distance, and hastily gathered himself together.
“What's Blue Moon?” he asked the butler.
“A café, sir. Rather select . . . situated in the Brompton Road. It is a favorite of the young people for early-evening gatherings,” Jenkins informed him. “Viscount Brigham's party are going on to the Albert Hall afterwards, I believe.”
“Ah.” Douglas nodded. “Thank you.” He left and walked briskly around the square. His visit to Manchester Square had been made on impulse, which in itself was unusual. He was not a man given to impulse. But he had had the thought that a surprise call on Miss Duncan might have interesting consequences. Maybe she would have agreed to an impromptu dinner invitation, or at least have invited him in for a drink.
He hailed a hackney. The cabbie leaned down from his box. “Where to, guv?”
To Douglas's astonishment, he heard himself say, “Albert Hall, please.” He climbed in and sat in the dark as the cab clattered away. What the hell was he doing? While it was possible that there were spare tickets for the concert this evening and it was not beyond the realm of coincidence that he and Miss Duncan should find themselves at the same musical event, this spur-of-the-moment pursuit struck him as somewhat lunatic in its impulsiveness.
Roddie observed within the gloom of the barouche, “I didn't bring the motor because I thought it would be too cold for you tonight. There's a bitter wind.”
“Yes,” Chastity said rather vaguely, tucking her gloved hands beneath the lap rug.
“I hear this musician chappie is excellent,” Roddie said.
“Yes,” Chastity agreed. “I'm looking forward to hearing him.”
“I'm looking forward to Guinness and oysters,” Roddie said, rubbing his hands together. “Just the ticket on a night like this.”
Chastity made no reply. He peered at her in the gloom. “You seem very thoughtful, Chas.”
“Oh, do I?” She smiled at him. “It's probably the cold, it's numbing my brain.”
“Oh, we'll soon take care of that.” He slipped a hand beneath the lap rug and took one of hers. “You shall have onion soup, dear girl.”
Chastity let her hand lie in his. Roddie had been pursuing a mild flirtation for so long, it was second nature to them both. He asked her to marry him on a fairly regular basis, but she was convinced he'd be shocked if she ever accepted him. He was as easy and comfortable to be around as wearing a pair of bedroom slippers. Not that she'd ever let him know that.
The only trouble was that tonight she seemed to want not bedroom slippers but a pair of impossibly high-heeled, very sexy buttoned boots.
Douglas left the Albert Hall ticket office in possession of a standing-room ticket. The prospect of standing didn't trouble him unduly, and it had the added bonus of only costing him a shilling. He was a music lover and particularly fond of the violin, so regardless of what lay behind this impulse, he was going to enjoy the evening.
He found a pub that offered steak-and-kidney pies and Guinness, and after he'd eaten he returned to the Albert Hall just before eight-thirty. He merged with the throng on the pavement, not too easy to do when one stood head and shoulders above the majority of one's fellow man, and glanced casually around. He saw
“I'm quite ready.” She held out her hand to Douglas. “Good evening, Dr. Farrell. I hope you find your card case. Don't wait up for me, Jenkins. I have my key.” She went out on the viscount's arm.
Douglas looked after her. A covered barouche waited at the curb, a pair of very fine chestnuts in the traces. He was a good judge of horseflesh and guessed that the pair had cost their owner several thousand guineas. Enough to equip a small hospital ward. He realized that Jenkins was waiting patiently beside the door, gazing into the middle distance, and hastily gathered himself together.
“What's Blue Moon?” he asked the butler.
“A café, sir. Rather select . . . situated in the Brompton Road. It is a favorite of the young people for early-evening gatherings,” Jenkins informed him. “Viscount Brigham's party are going on to the Albert Hall afterwards, I believe.”
“Ah.” Douglas nodded. “Thank you.” He left and walked briskly around the square. His visit to Manchester Square had been made on impulse, which in itself was unusual. He was not a man given to impulse. But he had had the thought that a surprise call on Miss Duncan might have interesting consequences. Maybe she would have agreed to an impromptu dinner invitation, or at least have invited him in for a drink.
He hailed a hackney. The cabbie leaned down from his box. “Where to, guv?”
To Douglas's astonishment, he heard himself say, “Albert Hall, please.” He climbed in and sat in the dark as the cab clattered away. What the hell was he doing? While it was possible that there were spare tickets for the concert this evening and it was not beyond the realm of coincidence that he and Miss Duncan should find themselves at the same musical event, this spur-of-the-moment pursuit struck him as somewhat lunatic in its impulsiveness.
Roddie observed within the gloom of the barouche, “I didn't bring the motor because I thought it would be too cold for you tonight. There's a bitter wind.”
“Yes,” Chastity said rather vaguely, tucking her gloved hands beneath the lap rug.
“I hear this musician chappie is excellent,” Roddie said.
“Yes,” Chastity agreed. “I'm looking forward to hearing him.”
“I'm looking forward to Guinness and oysters,” Roddie said, rubbing his hands together. “Just the ticket on a night like this.”
Chastity made no reply. He peered at her in the gloom. “You seem very thoughtful, Chas.”
“Oh, do I?” She smiled at him. “It's probably the cold, it's numbing my brain.”
“Oh, we'll soon take care of that.” He slipped a hand beneath the lap rug and took one of hers. “You shall have onion soup, dear girl.”
Chastity let her hand lie in his. Roddie had been pursuing a mild flirtation for so long, it was second nature to them both. He asked her to marry him on a fairly regular basis, but she was convinced he'd be shocked if she ever accepted him. He was as easy and comfortable to be around as wearing a pair of bedroom slippers. Not that she'd ever let him know that.
The only trouble was that tonight she seemed to want not bedroom slippers but a pair of impossibly high-heeled, very sexy buttoned boots.
Douglas left the Albert Hall ticket office in possession of a standing-room ticket. The prospect of standing didn't trouble him unduly, and it had the added bonus of only costing him a shilling. He was a music lover and particularly fond of the violin, so regardless of what lay behind this impulse, he was going to enjoy the evening.
He found a pub that offered steak-and-kidney pies and Guinness, and after he'd eaten he returned to the Albert Hall just before eight-thirty. He merged with the throng on the pavement, not too easy to do when one stood head and shoulders above the majority of one's fellow man, and glanced casually around. He saw
Similar Books
