Page 1 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

June 3, 1816 Anya House London, England

I f someone had bet me a fiver that I’d be sitting in one of the finest dining rooms of Mayfair, drinking champagne and conversing with peers of the realm, I, Stephen Adam Carew, would’ve offered to examine their cranium for a head wound or sign their admission into Bedlam.

“Let me tell you about Madame Rosebud’s bosom. Big and bouncy, strewn with pink blossoms and the fragrances . . .” Alexander Melton, the buffoon Earl of Livingston, again used the lull in the conversation to talk about women. The whoremonger was a brilliant man of science. How, I did not know. But research papers didn’t lie.

Even after getting to know him during my visits here, I still couldn’t reconcile his scholarly aptitude for eye anatomy with his abnormal appetite for courtesans.

Ignoring him, as I often did, I reveled in the surroundings. The warmth of the gold-and-silver-threaded Russian tapestries hung along the freshly painted light blue walls. I sat back in my elegant walnut chair and allowed the finely turned spindles to support my back . . . or more so my spine.

Why was I letting a lusty fool sabotage me? No more hesitation. “Your Grace, I think we were discussing my proposal for the hospital building project.”

Our host, Jahleel Charles, the Duke of Torrance, seemed distracted. He rubbed his chin. His pallor was restored from his last episode of sickness. No one could tell that this strong-looking gentleman had come close to succumbing after his triumphant ball. The diet of beetroot for anemia seemed to help. He made a soup of the vegetable and called it borscht. “One moment,” he said as he whispered something to his manservant, the wise Mr. Steele.

The ash-blond Scottish man’s secret reply made the duke laugh. “Carry on, Mr. Steele. Make sure Miss Wilcox and Miss Lydia Wilcox have dessert brought to them in the library.”

So, Scarlett Wilcox is here. Wonder what trouble that one will get into today?

Alas, whatever it took to get a patient to heed, including borrowing the Wilcoxes as his adopted family, I wholeheartedly encouraged it. The duke, at thirty-three, needed to focus on joy and listen more intently to what his body was trying to tell him. Chronic illness could be both painful and deadly.

With my own thirty-first birthday coming by year’s end, I needed to be more settled, more deliberate. Before the new year, I hoped to have a new hospital commissioned, and a wife—in that order.

With hazel-colored eyes darting between me and the earl, Torrance asked, “Before we discuss the project, I want your opinions on why attendance has dwindled at my science meetings.”

The earl wiggled and hemmed and hawed in his seat. “Well, the peers and gentlemen with courtesans as mistresses probably do not want to attend. They don’t wish to risk exposure.”

The statements made the duke chuckle. “Then they should know better than to be my enemy. There were four men who voted to invalidate my parents’ marriage. Prahmn was the lead.”

The way Torrance said this, without emotion, almost stiff, was more frightening than when his voice held anger. I tried to ignore it. I had a tendency to worry and, as Miss Wilcox said, think a thing to death.

But I couldn’t. Like nosy Miss Wilcox, I needed to know. “What does that mean, Your Grace?”

“Nothing. Or everything, for the three left who helped delay my hearing and cost me all that mattered, including my sister’s life.” His chuckles were bitter, menacing. “See? Almost nothing.”

Livingston tapped the table. “That’s the attitude which makes people wish to avoid Anya House.”

The duke looked away for a second. “It’s a flaw, sir. I’ll deal harshly with anyone who threatens me or those I care for. And when it comes to family . . . I can have the temper of a d’yavol.”

It was obvious from the ball Torrance held at Anya House he’d do everything in his power to expose and destroy his detractors. It took great fortitude to set up a scheme that caused a guilty person to confess publicly to their hypocrisy.

The duke’s skill was grand. He involved the papers to protect Georgina Wilcox and, to some degree, her new husband, Lord Mark Sebastian.

“It’s sad,” I said, “that these consequences of the Prahmn scandal have affected Anya House. Your science meetings were surpassing the efforts of the Royal Society.”

I set down my knife and stopped eating for this next bit. “But the impasse will not last. I mean the Marchioness of Prahmn has probably forgiven her husband, that is after he’s confirmed to not have picked up warts or syphilis or gonorrhea from his affair.”

“Can you please contain your language, Carew? There’s food present.” Livingston responded. “And no, the marquess remains unforgiven. His well-deserved embarrassment is legendary. It will be the talk until there’s a new scandal.”

My words were deliberate. Though the earl claimed he was careful in his dealings with courtesans and brothels, those dangers existed. He needed to be reminded. As a physician, I’d seen far too often the damage those afflicted suffer.

Picking up his coupe, turning it so the candlelight flickered on the pale champagne, the earl said, “I hear Prahmn’s close friends are very concerned. They’d love to know how to make peace with you. It’s a conversation I have at White’s.”

Torrance smirked. The short smile quickly disappeared. I’d have missed it if I looked away. “White’s, the club for gentlemen, landed gentlemen, that excludes our friend Carew. No White’s for you.”

The duke had a sense of humor. He straddled all communities—the ton, immigrant sections, and the parts of populous London where one found men and women with more color in their skin. Oh, the aunties of Cheapside, the women who bring together people foreign to London, would love to get a hold of him. My immigrant stronghold would have him married to a nice girl in no time at all. “Hypocrites need to be wary,” he said softly. “Kingdoms and heavens are shut to those who practice and teach hypocrisy.”

That sounded cryptic and threatening . . . and he’d shown London he could bring thunder and brimstone. Goodness, I was mixing up my metaphors like . . . Miss Wilcox. Well, her humor and criticisms were infectious.

Livingston gawked at the duke as if he’d spoken in Russian. “According to Lord Mark, the ton is also uneasy with his bride’s elevation.”

The earl eyed us as if he’d said too much, like he suddenly realized he was dining with men with tanned or darkened skin, men of color—Blackamoors, as we were known in London.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continued. “Georgina Wilcox is perfect for Lord Mark Sebastian. The man is deliriously happy. But with three Wilcox sisters left, peers might not be willing to risk their sons to Lady Hampton or Scarlett, or even Lydia Wilcox in due time.”

“Lady Hampton is still grieving. She’s not again on the marriage mart.” I glared at the earl. “The other two are children.”

The earl looked down into his glass like it would reveal a fortune in the rising bubbles. “One is a child, Carew. However, the other—”

“Careful, Livingston.” The duke had his cane raised like he’d strike the fool.

I would, too. Scarlett Wilcox was a handful, but she was a good . . . well, mostly good girl. “Settle, Your Grace.”

The duke cut his gaze at me. “When Scarlett and Lydia are ready, they will have substantial dowries.” He set down his cane. “I’ll ensure it. Nothing but their happiness matters. Carew, you’ll have to keep me fit to do so.”

Now that I had his attention, I returned Torrance to my initiative. “Your Grace, I want to know your opinion on building a new hospital.”

“Carew, are there not enough hospitals in London?” The duke flicked a finger to one of his servants. Instantly animated, the fellow in the silver livery changed from a statue positioned at the side of the room to a madman whipping from the chestnut sideboard to the table, refilling our crystal goblets.

Torrance’s thick brows came together as he savored the Veuve Clicquot, the best champagne I’d ever tasted—lemony with the sweetness of apples.

“A wealthy city like London,” he said. “It seems quite prideful of its efforts in the sciences and medicine. Why are there not enough hospitals?”

The earl smirked, then drained his glass. “Your Grace, our friend Carew is ambitious, very much wanting to change London. But there are many hospitals. St. Bartholomew’s was founded in 1123. Then there’s St. Thomas, which has served almost as long. I could go on.”

“There are many hospitals for those with connections,” a loud, Scarlett-like voice from the hall said. “Most of the operating hospitals need letters of admission from a benefactor. How are the poor to gain those?”

“How indeed, Miss Wilcox? Please come from the shadows.” The duke’s invitation sounded humorous. “I thought you were studying in the library.”

The pretty girl, with her light olive complexion and dark, dark eyes, stuck her head into the room. Her lithe body followed, and she centered herself under the curved entry of the threshold. A high chignon with tendrils falling sculpted her face. She was soft but bold.

And I prepared for her to say something outrageous.

“I was studying, Your Grace. But as I suspected, the gentleman’s argument for more care lacks a proper defense.”

The earl snickered. “That’s our Carew. Always garnering support from the ladies. And planning grand gestures to win them.”

Never tell a fool you read for relaxation. And if said fool was told about the powerful women in my life, the aunties, of course he’d get everything twisted. Sigh. Being considered a man of the world wasn’t awful.

As if he were conducting an orchestra, the duke put one finger up to silence any potential response from me, then curled the others requesting Scarlett to enter. “The physician cannot help but be charming. I think a Caribbean accent does better than Russian. But Livingston, you could learn much from him. And Miss Wilcox is learning not to hide her opinions. I hope, in some small way, I’m encouraging her.”

Yes, but to what end? Scarlett possessed a sharp intellect. She was learned, a gentleman’s daughter. Mr. Wilcox, by owning property, was one of the first Blackamoors to vote for parliament. Nonetheless, she, like all women, would have to conform to the way life was. I merely prayed she found a tolerant husband, one who could recognize her brilliance and had the patience to withstand her tongue.

Donning men’s boots as some sort of conceited sign of independence, she glided into the room, then curtsied. Head up, poised and balanced, she said, “Your Grace, I didn’t mean to interrupt. . .”

“Sure,” I said in a cough.

“But I was merely walking by, and I felt Mr. Carew’s reservedness. The need for more hospitals is great.”

Though she omitted eavesdropping, her excuse sounded innocent. Make no mistake on that one. Scarlett Wilcox was a minx, a vexing viper in training.

Attempting to take back control of the discussion, I cleared my throat. “Miss Wilcox is correct about the need. The requirement of a reference reduces access for sick people, particularly among immigrant populations. A new hospital such as what I propose would provide care for those communities.”

“Immigrants?” Livingston hiccupped. “You mean the Jamaicans? Or is it Trinidad . . . Trini . . .”

“Trinidadians.” My annoyance rose. “Livingston—”

“And the Dominicans, even Russians.” Scarlett folded her arms and glanced at the buffoonish earl as if he were refuse—old, spilled milk, or God forbid, cassava pone cake that spoiled. “London is a port city, known to trade with all regions of the world. Who else do you expect to come when British appetites are global?”

It would be rude to clap, so I sat still, admiring her fury while it was turned on someone other than me.

Older and wiser, this one would be stunning, setting the world on fire. Well, that would be if she could learn to navigate the world as a proper young woman, not a tomboy or an easily excitable miss.

“Mr. Carew is right, Your Grace.” Her tone sounded so arched, her chin lifted. “People need a place to feel secure when they seek medical attention.”

The gaze she offered the duke made me think the two had secrets. That was an unsettling notion. I wouldn’t want to imply that the young woman was sneaky or conniving but she possessed the same fearlessness that made her father, the late Cesar P. Wilcox, a coal millionaire. In a woman, that streak was admirable and frightening.

Though Miss Wilcox advocated for me now, in the next breath, she’d cut me direct. Her words will be sharp, slashing through my innards better than a scalpel. Heaven help the man who loved her. And please, let him be worthy of the Wilcox family and their duke.

“There’s a great deal to consider,” Torrance said. “When do you need an answer about investing and championing the project, Mr. Carew?”

His Grace hadn’t refused. His answer wasn’t a no or a yes.

“I’m still gathering investors,” I said.

The worlds barely left my mouth when the mostly angelic vixen turned on me. “Why delay? The need is now. The duke could fund the entire project.”

“Now, Miss Wilcox . . .” The room felt ten degrees hotter. All eyes were on me. “It’s not polite to count what’s in a man’s pocket.”

The silver fork in my grasp spoke to the duke’s great wealth. Though he could be over the top in his gifts and parties, Torrance remained levelheaded and—most of the time—without airs. He hadn’t changed from the person I knew when we were both struggling students in Inverness.

“Is that a Trinidadian saying that means to delay forever?” Her sharp tone stabbed. “Or is this just another idea you’ll start and not finish?”

Scarlett’s verbal scalpel went through my rectus abdominis muscle, slashed the oblique, and twisted.

“Carew is smart to delay, young lady.” The earl tapped his glass for more champagne. “He wants a wide base of support so that everyone will partake of the hospital. It won’t be a Russian thing—”

“Or a Blackamoor thing, or a people-with-natural-tans thing. That is your actual concern, isn’t it, Lord Livingston?” She put her hand on her hip. That meant Scarlett was seconds away from another lethal wordy attack. “Mr. Carew is not frightened by backlash, not when he sees the need. He’s a man of great principle and doesn’t require expensive liquors or brothels to give him false bravery or silly opinions of his self-worth.”

The earl shrank back into his chair.

The grinning duke signaled for more champagne to be poured.

Livingston finished one glass and waited for a second pour. “A mouth on that one. Almost as bad as the venomous viscountess. Lady Hampton still ripping into you, Torrance?”

“Da,” the duke said, confirming the intense relationship he had with Scarlett’s oldest sister. “Some habits are hard to kill.”

“Well, Mr. Carew.” One boot tapped on the polished mahogany floor. She stared at me, and I felt inflamed and shamed.

“Tell him that it doesn’t matter who invests.”

It did matter.

It mattered when the hospital hired staff.

It mattered which physicians would want to be associated with it.

There were even those in my own area of Cheapside who would be wary of a hospital that exclusively focused on immigrants and people with different backgrounds and skin color. Sometimes Blackamoors only wanted what the ton had.

Knowing I’d let her down, I sighed. “I want everyone to support the hospital. Beginnings are important, Scarlett.”

Her mirror-black eyes turned on me, then rolled up. I doubted she admired the ornately molded ceilings, but rather wished for the plaster filigree to fall on my head. “So, more delay. Can you be considered a champion if you never fight?”

“I fight, little girl. It’s just typically you. You and I bicker as I answer your medical questions while indulging your lack of decorum and manners.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I tried to defend you. Worthless.”

The earl scoffed and drank half his glass. “Torrance, please send the little lady back to the library so we can talk about more important things—Seasoned Women.”

Shaking his head, Torrance said, “My dear, go check on Lydia. Though the angel is with her personal maid, I like to continually make sure she is happy and well.”

“My little sister is very healthy, Your Grace. She’s drawing pictures for her official sixth birthday in a month. I know she can’t wait to see what you will do.”

The duke’s countenance brightened. “Elephants. It will be amazing. That is as long as Lady Hampton allows us all to have fun.”

For a moment, those fearless dark eyes grew small. Scarlett’s chin lowered. “I’ll go check, Your Grace.”

With poise, she curtsied and left.

“She floats from the room like a descended angel.” The duke raised his goblet to her.

“Then, would that make her Lucifer?”

The duke glanced at me. He looked confused, but I thought the metaphor was fitting. Scarlett Wilcox, the young woman I begrudgingly admired, was beautiful . . . a beautiful devil.