Page 10 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)
Chapter 10
S CARLETT —P APA , L OOK . N O H ANDS .
O h, Papa, if only you could see what your little Scarlett has done. I peer up at the chandelier hanging in the center of the upstairs gaming room in White’s.
The inside of the building is not as fancy as I imagined, definitely not as big or as ornate as any room in the Duke of Torrance’s home. But what is? He’s over the top with his decorations, all his actions.
My sister Katherine sees it as some way to make her envious or look bad to Lydia. It’s not. It’s him.
Speaking of looking bad, poor Mr. Stuffy looks withered. Stephen Adam Carew has droopy eyes. He’s frowning and fussy and refuses to eat a thing. He’s not himself, but that’s probably because I’m not myself.
I try to catch his gaze to see how much more aggravation he’ll take before he leaves. Then I’ll catch a jarvey and head to Anya House. The man with perfect posture can’t help but slouch. Give up!
He won’t. He’s as stubborn as me. If I wasn’t certain this act is to make me concerned, I’d be fretful. His talkative driver Benny once told me how Carew fainted at some aunt’s picnic after working three days straight with no sleep and nothing to eat.
I hope he’s just pretending. I take note of his condition—his skin doesn’t appear clammy. He’s not perspiring like me under this makeup. Yet, he’s nodding off.
Go home!
Men. They are no mind readers.
Leaving him to his oddities, I search the room. The glass sconces add a little brightness to the corners. The new ones the duke is having made for his study seem like suns.
I sit back and clutch my papers. Livingston, the renowned expert, has approved of my sketches. The couching procedure sounds like the approach for Mr. Thom. I’ll have to learn more.
The earl’s laughter draws my attention.
“And then she told me . . .”
Too late. I hear buttock s and slippery and more imagery than I care to have lodged in my brainbox.
Pitiful. It appears that with a bit of fermented grapes, Lord Livingston tosses away his brilliant mind and again becomes a caricature of a man with no morals. He’s describing brothel women with Lord Flanders and the nodding off Carew. Flanders seems just as enthused at visiting a rosebud as the earl.
I refuse to laugh. I have principles. I’ve gained the knowledge I need. The insight I need for Mr. Thom is worth the itchy sideburns, the weight of the paint on my face, and the boorish change in the conversation.
As my physician yawns, I look toward the large window, arrayed in blue and gold velvet curtains, framing a now dark night sky.
How many times have I seen this particular room from the outside? The happy memories start. Scotland and I sit next to our father as he proudly drives his coal dray through Mayfair.
Through five-year-old eyes, I witness Papa scrambling to make deliveries, looking at his son holding the reins, his daughter tracking our route stops. We often drove past White’s.
As in my best dreams, he motions to Scotland, saying One day son, you’ll be able to walk into places like this . Guess my being here is a kind of victory. One for us, Scotland.
Another bottle of wine is brought. Luckily, the earl, or Flanders, doesn’t notice I’m not actually drinking. Papa would never let his guard down, no matter how friendly his customer might be.
I do eat more of the cheese Mr. Carew refuses to try. It’s delicious, light and creamy. He’s missing a treat. But that’s his natural stance, to be slow and deliberate and filled with regret.
“Cousin, I think you should eat something.”
He doesn’t say no or move. Maybe he’s becoming more stubborn.
I can be a mule, too.
Lord Lange has finally returned to the table. He was here earlier but walked off when eye anatomy took over the discussion. He sits to my right drinking brandy. He’s had some sort of recent heartache. The blond young man is not interested in science, but he’s told his tale of woe, twice.
How can he not see the woman in question, the engaged future duchess of another man, was only using Lange to make her fiancé come up to scratch? Lange is not that smart. Or maybe, like me, he’s trapped in seeing things as he wishes them to be, and not as they truly are.
Lord Flanders to Carew’s left has participated more in the conversation but he keeps looking over his shoulder as if he’s expecting someone.
Imitating him, I glance this way and that, making sure I’m not blind to what might be coming. There’s a battle of cards happening two tables from the window. One man seems to wager about it raining next week. This feels sad, to invade this world and to find men at leisure are like women gathered doing needlepoint—gossiping, gambling, gaining pleasure from food. All are resting marionettes, waiting for an emergency to pull their strings and force them to move, then they forget how idle they’ve become.
“Blast it, Randolph. You won again. I miss my old mark, Tavis. He surely took stupid bets.”
My throat goes dry, for there aren’t too many with that name. I sip the sweet poison in front of me. I try to stretch to be a little more observant. I’m sure the person says Lord Hampton.
Tavis was admitted here? Of course he would be. What peer wouldn’t be? And he kept betting and losing, betting and losing, until he drained the Wilcox coffers and took a wager that broke his back and killed him.
Though he gambled away all our money, I liked Tavis.
He made Katherine laugh. She’d stopped laughing. Thank goodness Mama’s Lydia survived. Two stillborn babes would’ve been terrible. At least the mistake of marrying Tavis brought us the Duke of Torrance. Perhaps, if I tell the duke what happened and how it devastated Katherine, it will help him to have more patience with my sister. The duke must remind her of the past.
“Carew the Younger,” Lange says. “The cabernet’s not to your liking?”
“It’s fine, but the fermentation may be off. My face itches.” My chin and jaw really do. This black powder will probably cause bumps. I’ll have to use the bottled salted water from Epsom Commons to get rid of them. The cosmetics should’ve been off hours ago. “Might just be my youth, to not appreciate the flavors.”
I look at the dour Carew . . . the Elder. No witty remark? Nothing cutting? My statement is an opportunity for him to strike.
He does not look well. Now, I’m genuinely concerned. “Perhaps it’s time—”
“Carew, have you gotten over Miss Perfect?” Livingston pokes the physician. “It’s been a year, sir, since you discovered that the lady you held in such great esteem married Baron Derand.”
Oh, dear. Livingston’s going to tease him about the infamous Eveline Gray. Poor Carew never got over the one who got away.
“In consequ . . .” Carew slouches more. “It’s inconsequential. We ready to go yet, cousin? Not feeling . . . much myself.”
Before I can respond, Livingston becomes animated. “That’s what’s wrong with you. You’re still grieving a woman who has moved on. You need to move on. Gentlemen, we should head to Madame Rosebud’s.”
“Madame Rosebud? Truly. That’s your answer?” I know when I say it, I should’ve kept quiet. Now the earl’s looking at me like I’m twelve.
He starts to grin. “A green one? What is it with you Carews? I thought the islands were where all the heady adventures happen. The physician is virtually a monk, and I guess Carew the Younger is a virgin.”
What do you do when someone calls out your truth when you’re supposed to be hiding in a lie? Eyes wide, I look at him and say, “Never kiss and tell, gentlemen.”
That leads to a round of nods and laughs.
“So, you’re a man of the world.” Flanders’s voice is loud. “You should think of trying a professional.”
The snickers of these men goad. “Lord Livingston, how can you think of going to a brothel? Those women often become sick and go to Bridewell.”
“Bridewell?” Flanders looks uncomfortable, decidedly more uncomfortable than my fake-cousin. “Perhaps young Carew has a point. The conditions at Bridewell Hospital are terrible. How many courtesans—”
“Prostitutes,” I say, for there’s no need to cater to fools by making the brothels sound exotic. “But do go on, my lord, enlighten our party to the troubles of Bridewell. You do know it.”
Flanders looks down at his hands.
Lord Lange stops chuckling. “Flanders, does young Carew know something we don’t?”
Lord Flanders sighs. “Bridewell is not quite a hospital but more so an all-female prison. Some are tossed-out courtesans . . . prostitutes.”
“One hundred and thirty were prostitutes when I visited six months ago. Many had turned themselves in during the freezing cold of 1816, the year there was no summer. Bad weather impacts forgotten women and those abused the most by society.”
“So you’ve visited your older cousin before, just to do social work?” Livingston makes a loud slurp at his wine. “Admirable, Carew the Younger, but Madame Rosebud’s not Bridewell. Madame Rosebud keeps her roses clean, and without thorns. They even have associates to keep the gentlemen in line.”
I tilt my head to him and say, in the manliest voice I can, “So you like declawed kittens? That hardly seems right.”
“A hundred or so is not that much,” Lord Lange says. His cheeks are red like he has something to hide about the prison. “Young Carew, be careful. The young always try to push too much too fast for change. That only causes more problems.”
“Let the young have opinions, Lord Lange,” says Flanders. “But Bridewell is for prisoners. Declawed or not, Madame Rosebud’s girls are not criminals.”
“You are right.” I nod and smile and refrain from scratching my sideburns. “They aren’t. They are some of over two thousand prostitutes in London who have to find love and care as they age or realize how disposable they are. Bridewell is a prison, but offers more care than the streets.”
Lord Lange grits his teeth. “That’s three percent of the population of London. That’s not that many.”
“I suppose. That’s at least one prostitute per twenty houses. Everyone can share. These women each would have a place to stay for the month.”
The peers laugh. Carew doesn’t.
“And, gentlemen, if you add that number to the poor, the permanently infirmed, or even the immigrants, that’s a lot of people who need access to physicians.” They are listening to me now, the way rich men do when they are annoyed that their coal delivery is too late, too big, or too dusty black. Like coal could be another color and be useful.
“They aren’t our concern, young man. If they need assistance, they can pay a bone doctor.” Lange says this and sneers at Carew.
It’s a slight to my physician. I feel it, but my alleged cousin doesn’t respond. He’s blinking a lot, yawning, barely keeping his eyes open.
After tucking my drawings back into my satchel, I stand. “I think we’ll have to agree to disagree. My cousin is ready for bed. I’ve kept him out long enough.”
Carew, my family physician, tries to fist his hands. “Stop.” His words are slurred.
Livingston snaps his finger under Carew’s nose. “He’s not moving. Gentlemen, I think we are going to need to help the physician to be on his way.”
The other two men look at each other. Lord Lange steps forward. “He didn’t even drink. Come on, Carew. Snap out of it. It’s some type of palsy.”
Flanders disappears, not that the old man can be helpful.
“This will be fun.” The earl ducks under Carew’s arm and guides him down the steps. Lange sort of follows but then disappears at the cloakroom.
I’m fearful of the type of medical attention the good physician needs. All I know is getting him out of White’s and away from the prying eyes of hypocrites is the best prescription.