this doctor, Chas. Where did you meet him?” Polly leaned forward across the narrow space that separated them as the carriage started forward.
“Oh, he came to the At Home this afternoon. He was looking for someone . . . I can't quite remember who,” Chastity said vaguely. “I don't know anything about him, except that he's new to London and he's starting a medical practice.”
“Oh, well, I shall definitely go to him,” Elinor declared. “Large men seem to inspire such confidence.” She dabbed at her cheeks with a
papier poudre
. “Anyone else need a touch-up?” She offered her companions the tiny book of paper impregnated with peach-colored face powder.
Chastity shook her head, though Polly availed herself of the offer. Chastity was still feeling somewhat stunned, as if she were caught up in a whirlwind. Was it more than coincidence that had brought Douglas Farrell to the Albert Hall that night, so soon after accosting her at home on an excuse that quite frankly had sounded trumped-up? Why wasn't he calling upon Laura Della Luca as he was supposed to be doing? Just what was going on? He certainly wasn't supposed to be forming part of
this
supper party. It was thoroughly disconcerting.
It was just as disconcerting to find herself sitting next to him at the round supper table in the noisy mirrored restaurant on Covent Garden's Piazza. One minute she had been about to sit between Roddie and Elinor's brother and the next she had Douglas Farrell adroitly displacing Roddie and sliding in on her left.
“This is a cheerful place,” he said, shaking out his napkin.
“Yes, it specializes in serving the kind of food the costermongers in the market would eat,” she said. “Good Cockney fare.”
“Appropriate enough for my first opportunity to sample London's nightlife,” he observed.
“You've been too busy starting up your practice to go out and about much, I daresay,” she responded, accepting that the rules of etiquette now required her to engage her neighbor in small talk. “How does one go about doing that, exactly?”
She took a sip of water as her eyes roamed over the menu. She was actually interested in his response. As the Go-Between, she knew rather more of his plans than he would ever acknowledge, so it was at least amusing to see what web of fantasy he had spun for social use.
“I have some contacts from my father,” he replied. “And, of course, some referrals from my previous patients in Edinburgh. It's a beginning. What are you going to eat? Do you recommend anything special?”
“The roast chicken is good,” she said. She leaned forward around her other neighbor. “Excuse me, Peter. Roddie, was it the jugged hare that was so good last time we were here?”
A lively discussion ensued as to the relative merits of jugged hare or the
jarret de veau.
No one mentioned the merits of the roast chicken, Douglas noted. When Chastity sat back, he murmured, “Roast chicken seems somewhat pedestrian under the circumstances.”
“That rather depends on your viewpoint. My brother-in-law, who is an excellent chef and an unashamed gourmand, always eats it here. He says it's the Platonic ideal of roast chicken—a perfect bird, perfectly cooked.”
“Is that Lady Malvern's husband, or Mrs. Ensor's?”
“Prudence's husband. Sir Gideon Malvern.” Chastity broke her roll and buttered a piece lavishly.
“Ah. The barrister.”
“Yes,” she agreed, then turned to the sommelier, who on Roddie's instructions was offering a choice of wine. “I'll have the red, please. I'm going to have the
jarret de veau.
”
Douglas took a glass of the same. He was trying to remember where he'd heard the barrister's name before. Then it came to him. He snapped his fingers. “Wasn't Sir Gideon the barrister who defended
The Mayfair Lady
? Didn't he defend it in that libel suit?”
“Yes,” Chastity agreed airily. “And a very fine job he did of it too.”
Douglas ran the tip of his finger around the lip of
“Oh, he came to the At Home this afternoon. He was looking for someone . . . I can't quite remember who,” Chastity said vaguely. “I don't know anything about him, except that he's new to London and he's starting a medical practice.”
“Oh, well, I shall definitely go to him,” Elinor declared. “Large men seem to inspire such confidence.” She dabbed at her cheeks with a
papier poudre
. “Anyone else need a touch-up?” She offered her companions the tiny book of paper impregnated with peach-colored face powder.
Chastity shook her head, though Polly availed herself of the offer. Chastity was still feeling somewhat stunned, as if she were caught up in a whirlwind. Was it more than coincidence that had brought Douglas Farrell to the Albert Hall that night, so soon after accosting her at home on an excuse that quite frankly had sounded trumped-up? Why wasn't he calling upon Laura Della Luca as he was supposed to be doing? Just what was going on? He certainly wasn't supposed to be forming part of
this
supper party. It was thoroughly disconcerting.
It was just as disconcerting to find herself sitting next to him at the round supper table in the noisy mirrored restaurant on Covent Garden's Piazza. One minute she had been about to sit between Roddie and Elinor's brother and the next she had Douglas Farrell adroitly displacing Roddie and sliding in on her left.
“This is a cheerful place,” he said, shaking out his napkin.
“Yes, it specializes in serving the kind of food the costermongers in the market would eat,” she said. “Good Cockney fare.”
“Appropriate enough for my first opportunity to sample London's nightlife,” he observed.
“You've been too busy starting up your practice to go out and about much, I daresay,” she responded, accepting that the rules of etiquette now required her to engage her neighbor in small talk. “How does one go about doing that, exactly?”
She took a sip of water as her eyes roamed over the menu. She was actually interested in his response. As the Go-Between, she knew rather more of his plans than he would ever acknowledge, so it was at least amusing to see what web of fantasy he had spun for social use.
“I have some contacts from my father,” he replied. “And, of course, some referrals from my previous patients in Edinburgh. It's a beginning. What are you going to eat? Do you recommend anything special?”
“The roast chicken is good,” she said. She leaned forward around her other neighbor. “Excuse me, Peter. Roddie, was it the jugged hare that was so good last time we were here?”
A lively discussion ensued as to the relative merits of jugged hare or the
jarret de veau.
No one mentioned the merits of the roast chicken, Douglas noted. When Chastity sat back, he murmured, “Roast chicken seems somewhat pedestrian under the circumstances.”
“That rather depends on your viewpoint. My brother-in-law, who is an excellent chef and an unashamed gourmand, always eats it here. He says it's the Platonic ideal of roast chicken—a perfect bird, perfectly cooked.”
“Is that Lady Malvern's husband, or Mrs. Ensor's?”
“Prudence's husband. Sir Gideon Malvern.” Chastity broke her roll and buttered a piece lavishly.
“Ah. The barrister.”
“Yes,” she agreed, then turned to the sommelier, who on Roddie's instructions was offering a choice of wine. “I'll have the red, please. I'm going to have the
jarret de veau.
”
Douglas took a glass of the same. He was trying to remember where he'd heard the barrister's name before. Then it came to him. He snapped his fingers. “Wasn't Sir Gideon the barrister who defended
The Mayfair Lady
? Didn't he defend it in that libel suit?”
“Yes,” Chastity agreed airily. “And a very fine job he did of it too.”
Douglas ran the tip of his finger around the lip of
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