The Wedding Game Read Free

the service the Go-Between was offering.
    For all the progressive views put forward in
The Mayfair Lady,
it was clear that its writers and editors were people—women, he assumed—of means as well as education. They would know nothing of the dismal streets of Earl's Court, the tumbledown row houses where rats ran freely and the stench from the outhouses poisoned the air. They would know nothing of the realities of the tuberculosis and dysentery that lurked in every dark corner, of the desperate mothers trying to scrape together a penny for milk for their rickety children, of the men out of work, many of them drinking away whatever coins they could get, in the noisome public houses that littered every street corner. Oh, no, it was one thing to pontificate about women's suffrage and equal rights under the law, quite another to pit such grandiose views against the grim realities of the underclasses.
    Douglas Farrell strode from the gallery, still seething. Growing up fatherless in a household that comprised his mother and six older sisters, a household of chattering, squabbling, yet smothering women, he was inclined to sympathize with fellow Scot John Knox and his complaint about the monstrous regimen of women. True, Knox was referring to the queens who three hundred years ago had ruled England and Scotland, but Douglas, as he had threaded his way through the maze of womanhood that had dominated his youth, took a certain savage satisfaction in applying the comment to his own situation. An abundance of love could be as much of a disadvantage as too little, he had decided some years ago, and had managed to reach the age of thirty-five without succumbing to the trap of matrimony.
    It had been a narrow escape with Marianne, the voice of honesty reminded him, but the little murmur was ruthlessly suppressed. The past was the past, and now he was ready to sacrifice the peace of bachelordom to the interests of his passionate commitment to the poor of London's underworld, and whose business was that but his own?
    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