The Bride Hunt (31 page)

“Yes,” he agreed. “Mary needs to be there.”

“Then we’re agreed.”

He took her in his arms again. “Sweetheart, we are going to agree some of the time, and disagree much of the time.”

“Yes,” she said against his mouth. “It won’t be too difficult to remind myself that I dislike you intensely.”

He moved his mouth from hers, brushed his lips along the line of her jaw, and then raised his head. “I’ll get a special license. We can be married within the week.”

“Yes,” Prudence said. “Best to do it before I change my mind.” Her smile gave the lie to her words.

“Wasp,” he accused again, pinching the end of her nose. “I had better talk to your father now.”

Prudence grimaced. “He’s in the library. But bear in mind he’s had more than his fair share of shocks in the last two days. He might not be exactly . . .” She shrugged.

“I can manage your father, if you can manage Sarah,” he said.

Prudence nodded, all gravity now. “I’ll do my best, Gideon.”

“She’s a little uncertain about things at the moment . . . after Harriet, you understand.”

“I understand.”

He nodded, ran his hands through his hair again, then kissed her quickly and left.

Epilogue

C
has, are you ready?” Constance stuck her head around the door of her youngest sister’s bedroom. “Prue and Father are leaving in five minutes.”

“Yes, I’m quite ready.” Chastity put down the letter she was reading. “I was only running through the last batch of mail for the Go-Between.”

“Oh?” Constance gave her a rather quizzical look. “Strange thing to be doing on Prue’s wedding morning.”

“No, it’s not.” Chastity got up from the dresser chair. “You know how Mother used to say that a minute wasted was a minute lost forever. I’m ready, and I had a minute.”

“Yes, of course,” Constance said agreeably. “You look lovely.”

“As do you,” Chastity returned. “And Prue looks sensational. Let’s give her the finishing touches.” Constance nodded and left. Chastity hesitated for a minute before following. She picked up the letter she’d discarded on her dresser and looked again at the signature.

Dr. Douglas Farrell.

It seemed that the good doctor was in search of a wife. A helpmeet. A woman who would want to be involved in his work. Was it the same Dr. Farrell she’d seen at Mrs. Beedle’s?

A question for another day. She grabbed her handbag, took a quick look in the mirror to make sure her hat was straight, and hurried to Prudence’s bedroom.

“I don’t know if I want this veil,” Prudence was saying as Chastity came in. “It seems too bridal. I’m not walking down the aisle to the wedding march.”

“Then wear it up,” Constance suggested. “Lift it and put it back. Like so . . . then it frames your face.”

“And you
are
a bride,” Chastity chimed in. “It may not be the most conventional wedding, but it still has a bride and groom.”

“I know. But I wish we’d gone to Gretna Green,” Prudence said. She turned in front of the mirror. She could find no fault with her oyster-colored silk dress that had been refashioned from one of their mother’s afternoon gowns. Something old. No fault with the mink pillow that Constance had lent her as a hat. Something borrowed. No fault with the diamond bracelet that Gideon had given her. Something new. And no fault with the turquoise earrings that her father had given her that morning. Something blue.

“You forgot the sixpence,” Chastity said, dropping the shiny coin onto the dresser.

“Oh, yes.” Prudence laughed, and much of her tension dissipated. She sat down, slipped off her ivory silk slipper, and slid the coin into the toe.

“Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence in your shoe,” Chastity recited. “And now you’re ready to get married.”

“Oh, but am I?” Prudence asked, standing up, curling her toes around the sixpence. “
Am
I?”

“As ready as you’ll ever be,” Constance declared. “Gideon is the only man you could ever marry, Prue. If you don’t know that by now, then nothing Chas and I can say will persuade you.”

“Of course I know it.” She smiled a little dreamily. “I love him, but sometimes I could pour boiling oil on him.”

“That’s normal,” Constance said from the benefit of experience. “I don’t see any way that Duncan women can marry men strong enough for them without accepting boiling oil and cannon fire as part of the bargain.”

“I’m ready,” Prudence declared. “Let’s get married.” She paused in the doorway and said with a slightly tremulous smile, “At least Gideon has Max to stand up with him. I’m sure he’s as scared as I am.”

Chastity looked at her anxiously. “No regrets, Prue?”

Prudence took a deep breath. “No . . . none. Let’s go.”

Gideon and Max stood at the altar in the side chapel of the small church in Westminster. Sarah and Mary Winston sat in the front pew. Constance and Chastity sat on the opposite side. Lord Duncan had insisted that he walk his daughter down the aisle.

The organist began to play. Gideon looked towards the door. Prudence, his bride, the woman who once upon a time he could never have dreamed of as a life’s companion, was now the only woman he could imagine sharing his life. And she was walking towards him, her step as strong and decisive as always. And yet he could see the slight tremor of her lips, the hesitancy in her eye, and he knew she was as terrified and yet as certain of the rightness of this as he was.

He stepped forward as she reached him. Max touched his shoulder in brief masculine reassurance and then went to sit beside his wife. Lord Duncan kissed the bride’s cheek and stepped back also to take his seat. Gideon took Prudence’s hand and her fingers twined with his. The words were said. He put the gold band on her finger. He kissed her. And it was done. They went into the small registry to sign the book, and when they went back to the church, they were alone.

“Never,” Gideon whispered, bending towards her ear, “will I let you go.
Never.
You understand that?”

“And that goes double for me,” she returned in the same whisper. “Whatever happens, we belong together. Through boiling oil and cannon fire.”

“I’m not going to ask where that came from. But yes, through boiling oil and cannon fire. We belong together.” He kissed her again, and there was nothing formal about this kiss. It was an affirmation that ignored their surroundings, the incense-scented gloom, lit only by the altar candles.

Prudence looked around at the deserted church and Gideon said softly, “You wanted Gretna Green. I agreed with your sisters on a compromise. We’ll have a family celebration tomorrow, but for now, there are only the two of us.”

She smiled up at him. “Where are we going?”

“A bride is not supposed to know her honeymoon destination,” he said. “You have to trust me.”

“I do,” she said. “Now and for always.”

“Boiling oil and cannon fire notwithstanding?” he teased.

“Trust can withstand the occasional spark,” she returned.

About the Author

Jane Feather
is the
New York Times
best-selling, award-winning author of
The Bachelor List, Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow’s Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan
, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has more than ten million copies of her books in print.

Also by Jane Feather

V
ICE

V
ANITY

V
IOLET

V
ALENTINE

V
ELVET

V
ENUS

V
IXEN

V
IRTUE

T
HE
D
IAMOND
S
LIPPER

T
HE
S
ILVER
R
OSE

T
HE
E
MERALD
S
WAN

T
HE
H
OSTAGE
B
RIDE

A V
ALENTINE
W
EDDING

T
HE
A
CCIDENTAL
B
RIDE

T
HE
L
EAST
L
IKELY
B
RIDE

T
HE
W
IDOW’S
K
ISS

A
LMOST
I
NNOCENT

T
O
K
ISS A
S
PY

K
ISSED BY
S
HADOWS

T
HE
B
ACHELOR
L
IST

In this dazzling new trilogy from the incomparable Jane Feather, a trio of spirited sisters harbor a secret that could scandalize all of London . . .

English society knows them as the Honorable Misses Duncan. But what society doesn’t know is that these elegant—fiercely independent—young beauties make it their business to ignite romance as the clandestine founders of a discreet matchmaking service. And a rewarding business it is, as one by one, they meet their own matches . . .

Constance

The eldest and most like their suffragette mother, sophisticated Con would rather be a spinster than marry Mr. Wrong—although she’s somewhat vague about what constitutes Mr. Right . . .

Chastity

Wickedly funny and naturally flirtatious, young Chas attracts suitors as honey draws bees. But, like her sisters, she’s in no hurry for marriage . . .

Prudence

Bookish middle sister Prue has a head for business—and a heart for mischief—wherever and whenever it’s least expected . . .

This is her story . . .

A Main Selection of Rhapsody Book Club
A Featured Alternate Selection of Doubleday Book Club

And look for the next two tales of the
delightful and vivacious Duncan sisters . . .

Jane Feather’s

The Bachelor List

Con’s story

On Sale Now

and

The Wedding Game

Chastity’s story

On Sale April 2004

Read on for previews . . .

The Bachelor List

On sale now

M
ax Ensor gazed thoughtfully after the three sisters as they left Fortnum and Mason. He was convinced now that not only he but also Elizabeth Armitage had been exposed to a degree of gentle mockery. He wondered if Elizabeth had noticed it. Somehow he doubted it. It had been so subtle, he’d almost missed it himself. Just a hint in the voice, a gleam in the eye.

They were a good-looking trio. Redheads, all three of them, but with subtle variations in the shade that moved from the russet of autumn leaves to cinnamon, and in the case of the one he guessed was the youngest, a most decisive red. All green-eyed too, but again of different shades. He thought the eldest one, Constance, with her russet hair and darkest green eyes, was the most striking of the three, but perhaps that was because she was the tallest. Either way, there was something about all three of them that piqued his interest.

“Are they Lord Duncan’s daughters?” he inquired.

“Yes, their mother died about three years ago.” Elizabeth gave a sympathetic sigh. “So hard for them, poor girls. You’d think they’d all be married by now. Constance must be all of twenty-eight, and I know she’s had more than one offer.”

Tiny frown lines appeared between her well-plucked brows. “In fact, I seem to remember a young man a few years ago . . . some dreadful tragedy. I believe he was killed in the war . . . at Mafeking or one of those unpronounceable places.” She shook her head, briskly dismissing the entire African continent and all its confusions.

“As for Chastity,” she continued, happy to return to more solid ground. “Well, she must be twenty-six, and she has more suitors than one can count.”

Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice at a conspiratorial volume. “But they took their mother’s death very hard, poor girls.” She tutted sorrowfully. “It was very sudden. All over in a matter of weeks. Cancer,” she added. “She just faded away.” She shook her head again and took a cream-laden bite of hazelnut gâteau.

Max Ensor sipped his tea. “I’m slightly acquainted with the baron. He takes his seat most days in the House of Lords.”

“Oh, Lord Duncan’s most conscientious, I’m sure. Charming man, quite charming. But I can’t help feeling he’s not doing a father’s duty.” Elizabeth dabbed delicately at her rouged mouth with her napkin. “He should insist they marry—well, Constance and Chastity certainly. He can’t have three old maids in the family. Prudence is a little different. I’m sure she would be content to stay and look after her father. Such a sensible girl . . . such a pity about the spectacles. They do make a woman look so dull.”

Dull
was not a word Max Ensor, on first acquaintance, would have applied to any one of the three Duncan sisters. And behind her thick lenses he seemed to recall that Miss Prudence had a pair of extremely light and lively green eyes.

He gave a noncommittal nod and asked, “May I see that broadsheet, ma’am?”

“It’s quite scandalous.” Elizabeth opened her bag again. She lowered her voice. “Of course, everyone’s reading it, but no one admits it. I’m sure even Letitia reads it sometimes.” She pushed the folded sheets across the table surreptitiously beneath her flattened palm.

Max Ensor doubted that his sister, Letitia, read anything other than the handwritten menu sheets presented to her each morning by her cook, but he kept the observation to himself and unfolded the papers.

The broadsheet was competently printed although he doubted it had been through a major press. The paper was cheap and flimsy and the layout without artistry. He glanced at the table of contents listed at the left-hand side of the top page. His eyebrows lifted. There were two political articles listed, one on the new public house licensing laws and the other on the new twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit for motorcars. Hardly topics to appeal to Mayfair ladies of the Elizabeth Armitage or Letitia Graham ilk, and yet judging by its bold title, the broadsheet was addressing just such a readership.

His eye was caught by a boxed headline in black type, bolder than any other on the front page. It was a headline in the form of a statement and a question and stood alone in its box, jumping out at the reader with an urgent immediacy.
WOMEN TAXPAYERS DEMAND THE VOTE
.
WILL THE LIBERAL GOVERNMENT GIVE WOMEN TAXPAYERS THE VOTE
?

“It seems this paper has more on its mind than gossip and fashion,” he observed, tapping a finger against the headline.

“Oh, that, yes. They’re always writing about this suffrage business,” Elizabeth said. “So boring. But every edition has something just like that in a box on the front page. I don’t take any notice. Most of us don’t.”

Max frowned.
Just who was responsible for this paper?
Was it a forum for the women troublemakers who were growing daily more intransigent as they pestered the government with their demand for the vote? The rest of the topics in the paper were more to be expected: an article about the American illustrator Charles Dana Gibson and his idealized drawings of the perfect woman, the Gibson girl; a description of a Society wedding and who attended; a list of coming social events. He glanced idly at the Gibson article, blinked, and began to read. He had expected to see earnest advice to follow the prevailing fashion in order to achieve Gibson-girl perfection, instead he found himself reading an intelligent criticism of women’s slavish following of fashions that were almost always dictated by men.

He looked up. “Who writes this?”

“Oh, no one knows,” Elizabeth said, reaching out eagerly to take back her prize. “That’s what makes it so interesting, of course. It’s been around for at least ten years, then there was a short period when it didn’t appear, but now it’s back and it has a lot more in it.”

She folded the sheets again. “Such a nuisance that one has to buy it now. Before, there were always copies just lying around in the cloakrooms and on hall tables. But it didn’t have quite so many interesting things in it then. It was mostly just the boring political stuff. Women voting and that Property Act business. I don’t understand any of it. Dear Ambrose takes care of such things.” She gave a little trill of laughter as she tucked the sheets back into her handbag. “Not a suitable subject for ladies.”

“No, indeed,” Max Ensor agreed with a firm nod. “There’s trouble enough in the world without women involving themselves in issues that don’t concern them.”

“Just what dear Ambrose says.” Elizabeth’s smile was complacent as she put her hands to her head to check the set of her black taffeta hat from which descended a cascade of white plumes.

She glanced at the little enameled fob watch pinned to her lapel and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness me, is that the time? I really must be going. Such a charming tea. Thank you so much, Mr. Ensor.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Armitage. I trust I shall see you this evening at the Beekmans’ soirée. Letitia has commandeered my escort.” He rose and bowed, handing her her gloves.

“It will be a charming evening, I’m sure,” Elizabeth declared, smoothing her gloves over her fingers. “Everything is so very charming in London at the moment. Don’t you find it so?”

“Uh . . . charming,” he agreed. He remained on his feet until she had billowed away, then called for the bill, reflecting that
charming
had to be the most overworked adjective in a Mayfair lady’s vocabulary. Letitia used it to describe everything from her young daughter’s hair ribbons to the coals in the fireplace and he’d lost count of the number of times it had dropped from Elizabeth Armitage’s lips in the last hour.

However, he would swear that not one of the Honorable Misses Duncan had used it.

Women taxpayers demand the vote.

It would be both interesting and enlightening to discover who was behind that newspaper, he reflected, collecting his hat. The government was doing everything in its power to minimize the influence of the fanatical group of headstrong women, and a few foolish men, who were pressing for women’s suffrage. But it was hard to control a movement when it went underground, and the true subversives were notoriously difficult to uncover. Unless he was much mistaken, this newspaper directed at the women of Mayfair was as subversive in its intended influence as any publication he’d seen. It would definitely be in the government’s interest to draw its teeth. There were a variety of ways of doing that once its editors and writers were identified. And how difficult could it be to uncover them?

Max Ensor went out into the muggy afternoon, whistling thoughtfully between his teeth as he made his way to Westminster.

The Wedding Game

On sale April 2004

T
he gentleman who was standing at the top of the steps of the National Gallery closely scrutinized the assumed art lovers ascending towards the great doors of the art museum at his back. He held a prominently displayed copy of the broadsheet
The Mayfair Lady.
He was looking for someone flourishing a similar article.

A cloud of pigeons rose in a flurry from Trafalgar Square as a figure hastened across the square, scattering corn to the birds as she came. She crossed the street directly below the museum and paused at the bottom step, crushing the paper bag that had held the corn in her hand as she gazed upwards. She held a rolled-up newspaper in her free hand. The man made a tentative movement with his own broadsheet and the figure tossed the scrunched bag into a litter bin and hurried up the steps towards him.

That the figure was small and female was about all the gentleman could discern. She was swathed in a loose alpaca dust coat of the kind that ladies wore when motoring, and wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, her face obscured by an opaque chiffon veil.