Page 11 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 11

S CARLETT —S OME K IND OF H ELP

O ut on St. James Street, we stand in the shadow of link boys as they wave fire. My heart pounds as Carew leans, half flopped over, on Livingston. The earl, despite his heavy drinking, is fit, but he struggles to keep the taller physician upright. I’m holding Livingston’s hat, gloves, and my own. Boy, I’m a weakling.

“Out in the fresh air, that should rouse him, Lord Livingston?” My voice is a plea. I’m asking the earl as much as Carew.

This isn’t right, and it is my fault.

Livingston’s out of breath. “Let’s—”

“Stop. Unhand him.” A man runs at us. He’s in a dark mantle, flopping like a cape. His gloved hands shield his face and keep on his hat. “Mr. Carew? Did they hurt yuh?”

Livingston bucks up. Surprisingly, he’s ready to fight.

But the man, I’ve seen him before. Mr. Carew’s driver? “Benny, over here.”

He nods. “Did dey beat him inside? Did dey do that?”

“No, Mr. Benny,” I say. “White’s didn’t do this. Cousin Carew just sort of lost all his energy.”

“I knew it. It’s happened before. He’s been working nonstop, no sleep for two days. I don’t think he ate.”

“There was plenty in White’s,” I say, “but he refused.”

“Stubborn.” The driver grabs the bulk of Carew shifting the burden of supporting the physician from Livingston. He leads us across the street. “I knew he was working too hard. No rest for days, visit after visit. His aunties will kill me.”

Stewing in guilt, I follow behind. “Let’s take him to Anya House. The Duke of Torrance can summon help quickly.”

Benny shakes his head. “I’ll take him back to his home in Cheapside. He needs to lie flat and sleep.”

Carew will definitely be more comfortable there, but that sounds like a long drive. I look back to White’s, thinking there must be a physician inside, and see a man looking down from the extravagant window.

It’s probably Lange or Flanders. One helped a little. The other not at all. Scotland, you haven’t missed a thing at White’s Gentlemen’s Club.

Climbing into the carriage first, I guide the limp Carew to the seat.

“Cheapside is too far,” Livingston says as he climbs inside. “I know a better place. Eighteen Half Moon Street off Piccadilly.”

Benny tilts his head, but it’s too dark to see the young man’s expression. “But that’s—”

“I know where it is, young man. I have friends there who will help.” Livingston’s tone seems dire. “Hurry. Time, we can waste no more time.”

“Dis is too much.” Benny gives me a mean glower, then he slams the door shut and gets the carriage moving.

My cosmetic seems smeared as Carew’s head has bumped my jaw. He probably has some of my coal black dusted into his tight curls. The attached pieces of long sideburns are still intact on my face.

I’m not caught, but maybe I should be. Chasing after me has made Carew sick. He doesn’t deserve this.

Why won’t he wake up? “What is this, Lord Livingston? You seem to know.”

“Well,” he says rubbing his chin, “I don’t think it’s a permanent palsy. Not eating or drinking can cause weakness. This could be an infection. It could be many things.”

“Maybe he has something in his medical bag that can help.” I know he has one. He often brings it with him. Striking up the carriage lamp, I illuminate the hideaway compartments beneath the seat. Pulling open the door, I hide a gasp when I find a short gun, a blunderbuss. My nervous fingers knock a bottle and peppermint wafts. For a moment, I think about waving it under Carew’s nose.

Finally, I reach his bag—smooth leather, brass clasp.

Tossing the hats aside, I drop to the floor. Stashing my treasured satchel inside, I exchange it for the bag. Quickly, I work the clasp, which makes a clicking noise when the brass lock opens.

“Is anything helpful in there, Carew the younger?” Livingston peers out the window.

My fingers dip inside again, I find tools and a bottle. I lift the glass to the light. “It’s laudanum. That won’t help. The last thing he needs is a drug to keep him sleeping.”

The earl takes the bottle and for a moment it looks like he wants to take a sip. He catches me staring and hands it back. “Might have hurt my arm. Never mind. We are almost to our destination.”

He looks out the window again. “Don’t fret. Your cousin will be fine.”

Fine? I want to put one hand on my hip and give the earl a talking-to about when simple situations or conditions go from bad to worse.

The carriage stops.

Carew rouses for a moment. “What? Time to work?”

“No, cousin.” I need him well. I stare into the eyes and they close shut.

“Driver,” Livingston says, “help me get Carew out.”

They do and I follow, once I put the bag back into the compartment. “So we’ll get food in him and sleep in here?”

Livingston slips under Carew’s arm. “We’ll get something for him.”

I leave my hat with the carriage and bounce up the steps of the town house, following the men.

The door opens. I hear loud laughter. My heart pounds as I enter behind the men like a girl who lost a puppy.

The strong scent of rose water slaps my face. The entry and the front room are dimly lit. It looks like the walls are painted red and puce. Tiny, sparse candles show paintings that bear different types of roses.

Velvet-covered chaises are everywhere, as are scantily dressed women lying in repose.

I step back and knock into a gentleman. He jostles a wine goblet that looks like it holds a claret. Luckily, none spills. A woman in nothing but a thin muslin shift which exposes her bosom leads the fellow up the stairs.

Another woman with titian-red hair comes to us, and Livingston kisses her hand. “Madame Rosebud, how are you?”

He gives Carew to me and Benny. The physician flops onto my shoulder.

I’m too shocked to care that Carew dribbles on my coat. “This is a brothel.” Oh, Papa, don’t look at me now.

Benny has the biggest grin.

Oh, he knew the address. “Mr. Benjamin, Mr. trusted man-of-all-work. The joke is on me. Well, on me and Carew.”

Livingston addresses the flamboyantly dressed woman in fiery crimson. “Madame Rosebud, my friend is ill. I think he needs tender care. Stretch him out with a girl who will help him wake up.”

“Of course, my love,” she says. “Whatever you’re paying for.”

My hand would be on my hip if I wasn’t afraid of dropping Carew. “Benny, no. We need to take him—”

“Carew is always saying he’s too reserved. He tells me he wants to do grand gestures for his next woman.” Livingston chuckles, but it sounds so evil. This is Sodom and Gomorrah. “Nothing is grander than Madame’s flowers.”

“He means his novels. But he never does anything he dreams.”

“Carew the Younger,” he says to me, “one of the rosebuds will take care of that.”

I clasp my physician’s arm, trying to hold him back, but two big men dressed like eunuchs in priestly robes grab Carew and hoist him up the stairs. A big chesty woman follows and goes into the same bedchamber. Only the men come out.

The earl is laughing. “The man will wake up and thank me. My work is done.”

From the bottom of the steps, I watch in horror and curious amazement. Beautiful, scantily clad women bounce about. They aren’t modest. They aren’t scared. They seem proud of their bodies. They refuse to be covered.

Carew’s driver gawks. “I’ve dropped men off here before when I drove a hackney. Never been inside. These walls are red.”

I grab him by his mantle and shake him hard. “Benny, come out of your lusty trance. We need to get Mr. Carew out of here. You know he doesn’t wish to be here.”

“Don’t. From all his patients, all the hours of work, and fretting over yuh, maybe he deserves to be catered to.”

“Benny, he’s barely conscious. He can’t make a decision. And what do you mean fretting over me?” I lower my rising voice as another prostitute seeking an old man dances past me. “Help me get him out of here.”

“How yuh get him past de guards?” His head turns from side to side. “They mighty big.”

I hope Benny’s talking about the soldier like footmen, not the courtesans dancing around us and taking patrons upstairs. But these women are chesty, endowed with big delights .

“Maybe a good sleep in the arms of a beautiful woman is what he needs. The man been working too hard and being made crazy ’bout his odd-dressing cousin. Too much.”

“Driver of Carew,” Livingston calls to Benny. “We’ll send for you.”

Dismissed by the earl, the poor fellow looks away. “Sorry, Carew the Younger, but I can’t get in trouble. Not like yuh.”

The driver makes the sign of the cross and backs out the door. It slams. The noise rips through me.

I’m left on my own to rescue my physician.

Standing in Madame Rosebud’s, I need to figure out a plan fast. The red wall makes the light look like flames. More men are coming into the brothel. I’m standing in the corner trying to figure out how to get upstairs past the eunuchs.

I begin to cough. The fragrance of roses has replaced all the fresh air. I’m drowning in rose water.

“Good, you’re staying, Carew the younger. I thought you’d run off. I like a fellow built for adventure.”

I salute him. “Yes. That’s me, alright. They don’t call me Carew the Younger for nothing.”

Livingston claps at my ridiculous statement. If this is how men truly act, no wonder it’s so easy to fool them.

The earl turns back to Madame Rosebud and whispers something in her ear.

She giggles and commands a young woman to come to me. “Younger Carew, this lady is for you.”

My goodness, this brunette girl is my age or a little older. She takes my hand and leads me between the eunuchs up the stairs.

“Don’t fret, Carew,” Madame Rosebud says. “Chrysanthemum is particularly gentle. She’ll make a gentleman’s first time easy and memorable. She’ll take care of you.”

Livingston walks away with the buxom woman in charge. Before entering a room with her, he calls out to me. “You’re bright. A great researcher, but books all the time can make you dull. You need to live, Carew the Younger. This is my gift, because you’re very promising.”

Long arms with sparkling jewels reach from inside the bedchamber and pull him. He laughs and willingly goes.

Livingston and the madam are on the opposite end of the hall.

“I’m Chrysanthemum,” my assigned prostitute says. Her long brown hair falls in curls about her face. She takes me to the room, a room next to the one I saw them carry Carew.

This bedchamber bears the same red color as below. It has a few tables with objects and bottles. And of course, there is a bed with white sheets. I wonder if they are truly white or if the candles are playing tricks.

“Sir, I see you looking next door. Gentlemen often prefer blondes, but I’ll take care of you.”

“No. I’m concerned about my friend. He fainted. I need to check on my cousin.”

Chrysanthemum starts attacking the buttons of my waistcoat. “Daisy will take care of him.”

I step away from her and knock a table by the door. A basin of rose water dumps on me. “Sorry. See, I’m nervous.”

“Well, you smell better than most of the men here. That’s why we use rose water all the time.”

“Washing your clients may help keep the spread of disease away.”

She releases me. “You’re training to be a physician. I can tell. I know some.” Chrysanthemum scrunches her pretty young face at me. The grimace I suppose is meant to be seductive. “Nothing to be afraid of, sir, it’s—”

“Oh, there is much to fear. You need to get me into the room next door. I’m convinced my cousin is having a medical emergency. You don’t want a dead man on your hands.”

Chrysanthemum drags me closer to the bed. She’s fiddling with my cravat and quickly has it off and begins on my buttons. Soon, she gets to my surprise—my bandaged bosom.

She steps back immediately and shakes her fingers at me. “You’re not who you say you are.”

While admiring the skill it took to quickly unbutton and defrock me, I refasten my shirt. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

She shrugs and comes at me, kissing me along my brow. “You can imagine what comes through our doors. I can please you.”

I back all the way up until the door latch jabs me in my back.

“I didn’t come for affection, but I do need your help.” I take coins from my pocket and put them into her wandering hands. “You’re very lovely, but I need you to take me into the room next door, with Daisy.”

“You do prefer blondes.” She looks up. “Typical, they have all the fun.”

“Ma’am, please. The man next door is ill. I need to make sure he doesn’t die and . . . the Duke of Torrance will pay for your inconvenience.”

“Torrance?” Chrysanthemum’s voice rattles with fear. She covers up her chest like someone is watching. “I know him. We all know him.”

Oh goodness. I don’t want to think that Torrance is like Livingston. He’s supposed to be lusting for my sister, not a flower.

Chrysanthemum must see the confusion on my face and begins confessing. “Torrance paid Matricaria Chamomilla, our Russian courtesan, to be nice to the Marquis of Prahmn. Any friend of the duke is a friend of ours.”

She reaches out, lifting her hand to mine.

Tentatively, I take her hand, and she leads me next door.

Once inside, I’m . . . horrified. Then I’m mad and jealous.

Daisy is on top of my physician, trying to wake him, slapping kisses down his bared chest.

He’s flat on his back, motionless on the mattress. Boots on. Jacket and shirt off. His breeches look in place, but she’s probably as fast as my prostitute. “Is he dead?”

“Well, he’s sure not moving.” The naked woman looks to have at him again.

“Daisy,” Chrysanthemum says in rash, hushed tones. “Plans have changed. This one needs a doctor to take care of the doctor.”

Pouty, Daisy glances at me, then she huffs. “Fine. He’s no fun for such a handsome man.”

She picks her robe off the floor and slides it onto her naked body. The brazen thing stops at the door. “Pity, he’s mighty handsome . . . and a handful.”

That saucy look boils my jealous blood. She leaves, and I catch Chrysanthemum’s arm. “Thank you. Can you go get his driver? Mr. Benjamin is outside. Torrance will pay more. Please get the guards to let us leave without being serviced.”

“Serviced? Guards? The attendants keep us safe. They’ll do what I ask.” She puts her hand to my chin. “We get all kinds here. Take this cosmetic off. It will stain the sheets. That will cost the duke extra.” She floats out the room.

I fall against the door and lock it. It’s bright enough to see where I’ve trapped us. A basin and small candles sit on the bed table. Their smoke and the fishy tallow smell mixes with the scent of rose water. They highlight the ornate frame of the bed, the half-clothed physician lying flat.

The room feels small and again, red paint is everywhere. It feels like it’s closing in. I, Scarlett Wilcox, will not panic—even though this is the textbook definition of compromise. A brothel. Two people unwed. One bed. One barely dressed man. Compromise.

I tremble but move close to the footboard where his tailcoat hangs. I tug his boot. “Mr. Carew. It’s me. Scarlett. Don’t be afraid.”

Why would he be fearful? I duck my face into my hands. These most certainly are little-girl nerves. My cosmetic goes everywhere. I can’t see. The paste from my sideburns has sealed a lash. I must wash. Searching with one eye, I see a basin on the bed table. As I head to it, the pine floors creak under my boots like the room is haunted.

This doesn’t feel romantic or salacious or even sensual. It’s odd, and I’m itchy.

I scrub my face. The basin is filled with more reeking rose water. Just as I get all the cosmetic and glue off my skin, Carew growls.

My nervous fingers hit the bowl. It jumps off the table, spilling everywhere before landing on the floor. My breeches, Carew’s discarded shirt and tailcoat are stained black and soaked in sickly sweet rose scent. We’re going to smell like a brothel forever.

Keep yuh head, cool-headed Scarlett. That’s how yuh win.

Flinging wetness from my hands, I sit on the bed. Carew doesn’t move. “Awaken, sir.”

Is he breathing? Is that noise distress? Panicking more, I shift closer and wave under his nose. Rose water drips on him. Now I’m wiping stinky water from his face, his chest.

Skin to palm—his chest is hard. Little silky hairs coil at my fingertips.

“Sorry.” He hasn’t consented to my touch or to be here. If this is not a compromise, I do not know what one is. “So sorry, but please wake up.”

I shake him until I hear, “Scarlett.”

But is that God, Carew, or my conscience?

“Scarlett.” My physician huffs.

Is he choking? Checking for an obstruction in his airway, I finger his lips. Smooth and unfortunately wet from my dripping, they open like I have some sort of power over him.

“Me more powerful than you.” I forget myself. “Whoa.” I clamp my mouth. I can’t be thrilled that Mr. Stuffy is barely conscious and under my command. “You actually need me. I didn’t think you needed anyone.”

He works his jaw. I think he’s trying to say something. I dip closer and he snores in my face. At least his breath is still minty. “Carew, we need to get out of here. This is a scandal.”

Knocking him, making him shift, I examine him for injury, for beauty. Well made are the words that come to mine. Unlike me, he’s very muscular. The ligaments and tendons are defined, curved and strung tightly like a good violin.

There’s a scar along his ribs from some childhood accident he once told me that made him want to know more about medicine and healing. His stomach is flat, almost too lean, which surprises me, for he loves dessert and he’s always talking of the aunties fattening him up for a nice girl. His belly button is cute. It’s slightly raised, but mostly inward. His stomach must’ve been bound as a child, as my mama did to us, to make the button flatten.

He grumbles and half turns. A little taut backside becomes exposed, for the fall flap of his breeches is undone. That will need to be buttoned up before those thick limbs move.

Where’s Daisy? She needs to redo what she undid.

Yet, the thought of another woman touching him is abominable. I want to be a physician, so I must be comfortable with all forms of undress. I take charge and make him lie flat again. Then I seize his breeches and take my time sliding velvet-covered disks into resisting buttonholes.

My cheeks are aflame. This is intimate, touching and fastening and aligning him to the cloth and the buttons while my knuckles skim his skin.

Done. I back away. I can’t admire my handiwork. This is a compromise. I’ve compromised my physician. One word of this gets out, and my freedom and Carew’s is over. The duke will make me marry him or him marry me—but we’ll be done.

Focus, Scarlett. Carew’s shirt and waistcoat remain wet. “Can we escape with just a tailcoat?” I grow warm, thinking of him as I stare at the sculpted sinews that squeeze and pump life into him. Daisy is right. He’s a beautiful man. “Let’s go with the jacket.”

Groan.

“Carew?” I drop the coat and sit beside him, patting his forehead. “Don’t be warm. Please don’t have a fever. I’ve spilled all the water. I have nothing to break a fever.”

An icy palm grasps my hand. The physician weaves his fingers to mine. “Scarlett?” He rears up and hugs me. “It’s a dream, you’ve come back to me.”

When a half-naked man embraces you and says he’s dreamed of you, that must mean something. It takes a moment for his eyes to open again. His palm cups my cheek. “I fainted, didn’t I? I hate when that happens. Been working too hard. The past few days, the past weeks have been terrible.”

Carew’s arms wrap about me. “What a nightmare. Then you stopped talking to me.” His embrace tightens. Then it slacks. “Oh Lord, Scarlett. Don’t do that.”

The look he gives me, glassy eyes open to a slit, rips at my heart. Just add tears, and it’s the gaze he offered when he came out of Mama’s bedchamber with Katherine’s stillborn in his arms. That glassy-eyed frown appeared when trying to convince me my mother wasn’t in pain anymore. The same wet countenance whispered Papa was gone.

I shake Carew. “Don’t ever look at me like that. Ever.”

“Okay, Scarlett.” His eyes shift around, then slowly focus on me. “Won’t. Just don’t leave me. I’m not myself, but neither are you.”

Carew chuckles and then puts his hands on me.

I stiffen, then relax as his fingers smooth my arms. They cascade and tickle my neck. He finds the ribbon in my hair and whips it away. “There you are, Scarlett.”

My freed braid hangs down to my shoulders. I want to push my hair back.

“Much, much bettah. And I wager at midnight, your beautiful eyes become pure black.”

Groaning, yawning, he flexes and scoots until we are next to each other, hip to hip. Gloriously muscled, he stretches an arm and hooks it about my neck. Then he slumps. I put my hands to his chest to hold him up.

He growls, “Did you kiss me, Scarlett? Did I kiss you?” His voice is weak. He sounds horrified. “My apologies.”

He starts to fall. I grab him and shake, hard. “Mr. Carew. Wake up. We need to leave.”

When his lids flicker open, the brownish-black lenses are clear, no cataracts. Not that he ever had them. In fact, they’re perfect. I see the bed table, the fallen clothes, the red wall—everything but me.

Before I fall into that black pit of wanting him, I pound on my physician’s chest. “Carew, get up. Our prostitutes will be back to rescue us.”

“No prostitute. You should not consummate the joining of flesh . . . You need to hold dat till yuh married. Not here, little girl. Not this. Not you.”

Little? Not now, not his old way of teasing me returning. Not hating Stephen Adam Carew is impossible. I hate him.

And when he topples, I let him fall. I want him to spill onto the wet floor. But on the way down, he grabs me and bumps his lips into mine. And I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him hard to shut his stupid mouth. I want to kiss him big, like I’m bad and bold . . .

But he’s not in his right mind.

I am. So I push him away. “Let’s finish getting you dressed.”

“W-a-i-t.” His breath is pepperminty. Our hands tangle and I’m not sure if we’re trying to escape or undo the good work I’ve done buttoning his breeches.

The knock on the door makes him release me, and I drop to the sopping floor. Now I’m wetter and more in love with this fool than ever. “Sir, our prostitutes have returned.”

Yawning, groaning, Carew slaps the mattress. “I’ve ruined you.”

Yes, you have, for others, for any other man, for a long time.

I hate him, but I hate me the most. Because of him, I’ll continue putting my heart on a shelf out of everyone’s reach. “Be quiet, Carew the elder, and we may get out of this.”

His eyes are shut. His breaths ease, but his smile makes my insides mushy, like warm butter on toast. “Missed you too, Scarlett.”

“Carew, Carew the Younger. Open the door.”

I launch to my feet and pretend nothing has happened when I let Benny into the room. My physician has the nerve to snore.