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

Chapter 2

S CARLETT W ILCOX —M EN A RE S TUPID

W hen a person, no matter how brilliant or handsome, called you out of your rightful name to be Lucifer, the fallen angel, the fool deserved hell. And with my boots, I’d gladly kick Carew into the flames.

I couldn’t believe he said that after I tried to defend him.

Sighing and hissing like a steam kettle, I walked away from the dining room. My boots echoed in the grand hall of Anya House.

Stephen Adam Carew probably knew I was listening, probably said it on purpose. Probably thought I’d do something undignified when I heard his retort.

Halfway down the hall, I still fumed.

Devil? Mr. Carew was the d’yavol, as the duke would say.

Fury roiling inside, I trudged forward and stopped at a gilded framed mirror. Did I look like a devil?

I wore one of my old shapeless gray gowns, something Katherine bought me when we mourned old Tavis, her late husband. It was one of the few dresses that fit without showing off my hips.

This was nothing like the ballgown of aurora red satin that I wore to the duke’s ball a month ago. That dress fitted to my waist and captured the curve of my bosom for all to see. The men at the duke’s ball, including that obnoxious physician, did not look at me as a child. I pushed at my cheeks. They were lean. No baby fat at all. They’d never mistake me for Lydia.

What had changed? Was I always to wear such extravagant things to keep a man’s attention? Well, then it wasn’t worth it. I didn’t sing. I didn’t exhibit. I’d burn a kitchen down before I baked anything. And never would I ever dress provocatively to gain any man.

If I returned to the dining room, I’d catch the smug physician either being waylaid by the Earl of Livingston or engaged with the duke about nonsense that did nothing to push the hospital campaign forward.

Ten years was the difference between me and the physician, but I’d never wait for calling. Would reaching his age make me timid? How terrible.

I pitied him. I hated Stephen Adam Carew. I hated his charismatic smile, the way he bit down on his lip when he was in thought. I hated when those lips were dry because he forgot to take care of himself. I even hated when he caught me being less mature.

And above all, I hated that he hesitated before acting. His current delay would cause the physician to lose funding for a new hospital. This dream of Carew’s was old. It was one of the litanies of things he and my father discussed whenever he visited our house on the other side of the Thames. Then Papa made him promise to be a protector and mentor for my curious mind.

I guess that meant Mr. Carew was to be a brother . . . not a lover or anything else. I hate myself for wanting more.

Shaking my head, I trudged up the carpeted stairs and went into the crisp whitewashed library. This room, lined with ivory bookshelves, was the happiest place in Anya House.

Lydia had her head down, drawing what looked to be a map, while the gray-haired matron napped in the corner. Mrs. Cantor was a nice woman, typically very attentive, but my little sister had a lot of zeal.

When I got to the table, I bent and kissed her brow. It was good to see her happy, fever and pain free. Lydia was so much healthier since the Duke of Torrance came into our lives. My sister Katherine, who acted at times like Lydia’s mother, had to start seeing him as a benefit.

To find a cure to keep Lydia illness free was my life’s goal. I’d do anything to learn about the sciences which govern the body. I’d be the best physician the world had ever seen, if given the chance.

“You look mad, Scarlett.” Lydia kept drawing. She didn’t look at me.

“I’m not, not anymore. The men are meeting in the dining room.”

She giggled. “You wanna be there. Don’t you?”

I moved to a bookshelf and fingered the leather spines. The duke surely possessed a fourth . . . no, a third of all the books in the world. “Well, if I’m there, I can’t be up here with you.”

The little girl shook her head. “Scarlett, I know you are mad. Mr. Carew probably teased you, sort of the way the duke teases Katherine.”

“You mean how they both tease each other?”

She tilted her face toward me. Freckles on her nose. Big eyes with flecks of gold. “Katherine’s not kidding. She don’t like our duke.”

The little face looked so sad, I kissed her brow again. “They’ll make nice because of you, dear heart. You have the great power of bringing everyone together.”

She held my arm and leaned her soft cheek against me. “But I know Mr. Carew is teasing you. Just tell him you love him. I told the duke I loved him, and he gave me a pony.”

The high-pitched, squeaky voice echoed, and I glanced to see if Mrs. Cantor roused.

She didn’t.

That was good, because I didn’t know what I felt for the physician who believed he was always right, and I wouldn’t want the kindly nurse to offer opinions. And I couldn’t tell Lydia any more about Carew. How could one love a man who doesn’t leave room for anyone else’s opinion? What good was he?

Before I could sit beside Lydia, the child was up and dancing on the furry rya in her bare feet. The thick rug swallowed her toes with each step. The summer was warmer, but I didn’t believe in taking such chances. “Lydia, where are your stockings and slippers?”

She pointed under the table. “I can be without them for a little bit. Katherine says if I don’t air my toes, they’ll get stinky.”

Such a gentle soul with genteel soles. Why was I complaining?

Any day Lydia hopped around out of bed without a fever meant another day of her being healthy. I rushed to her and scooped her up. Then I swung her around and around. Her pink dress with frills at the hem flapped with the rush of air. I set her down and she descended like a hot air balloon. She bounced until her little legs steadied her along the floor like ballasts.

Her sweet arms surrounded my neck. “So are you going to tell him? That will make everything good. Mama used to say only love mattered.”

I remembered those words. I could hear our mother in Lydia’s voice. The little girl was so precious . . . and misguided. Being wrong about how problems were solved was a gift of childhood. She missed the arguments of our parents. Surely, she heard Tavis and Katherine’s. Love wasn’t enough.

“Let’s put on your stockings and slippers and go see what the men are doing. The duke will want to see you, Lydia. No shoes will disappoint him.”

Her big eyes, tawny and gold, were damp, like she thought she’d never see the Duke of Torrance again. Lydia panicked and shot under the table. One cream slipper flew out. Then I caught the other. “Help me, Scarlett. I must see my duke. Never let anyone take him from me.”

Mentioning His Grace in any circumstance solicited the best behavior from the child. “Of course.” I sat on the rya and the little girl flopped onto my lap.

“I’ll be extra good. Katherine’s been hinting at having my birthday without the duke.” She swiped at her wet face. “Tell her no. He’s a part of us now.”

Those eyes struck me like a fist. My chest caved from the punch. Our beloved patriarch, Cesar Wilcox, never had time for her. Papa was too busy building a fortune, the one my late brother-in-law made disappear. I was so glad Lydia had her duke. I wished Katherine could see this, too.

On my knees, I hugged Lydia again. That feeling of failing her filled my insides. I hadn’t found a cure to give her the longest of lives. The duke made her happy and made every moment she breathed joyous. He was becoming the father she never had. “I’ll try. You know Katherine can be stubborn.”

“My duke. Duke.” She sang this little chant until I had the final slipper in place.

Today, I couldn’t fight the feeling of dread from swallowing me. As long as the duke held up his end of our agreement, to find a husband for me, one who’d publish my scientific papers, the duke would win his bet with Katherine. Her having to spend time with him would mean Lydia would get to live with them, too. If my oldest sister could release the venom she had for the man who saved us from ruin, I knew she’d do the right thing and marry him. Lydia deserved to have a father and mother figure who adored her. Unless I found a cure, we truly didn’t know how many years the sweet girl had. Or how long the duke would be in good health and remain our protector.

Why was Katherine so afraid of a union with a man who claimed to love her and Lydia?

Swiping at my own eyes, I stood and went back to the table. My newspaper remained in place, not a mark of pencil or charcoal on it. I loved that Lydia respected my orders. The newsprint looked the same as when I left to go snooping. I checked it again and made sure I’d found a plausible reason for the low attendance at Anya House that didn’t have to do with scandal or color.

The girl nudged my arm. “Let’s go to the duke.”

“Wait, I have to bring them some new information. Just a moment.” I scanned the elopements, the acts signed into law by the Regent. There had to be another reason. “I know I saw something earlier.”

Flipping through the papers, I scoured the column inch by inch and found a noteworthy event, the Annual Exhibition at Somerset House. This had to be it. “Let’s go take this paper to the men. It will help in their conversation.”

Lydia clasped my hand. “I get to see the duke.”

Her warm fingers curled in mine, and I remembered another moment when my palm was about this small and I held a fevered hand. The world failed us . . . failed me, then. No doctor could be found. My other half, my twin brother, died at age six because of a fever. A hateful, evil fever. That was the d’yavol’s work.

If a hospital was available for people on the other side of the Thames, that would make physicians more accessible for people like us. More children like my brother, Scotland, could get their miracles.

“Scarlett, you alright? You look weepy.”

“Yes.” I forced the word out and caught my breath. Taking my time, I rolled the newsprint and stuck it under my arm. “Let’s go.”

Hand in hand again, the two of us tiptoed. The thick rya muffled the sounds of our shoes. We left Mrs. Cantor and headed out of the library sauntering toward the stairs.

As we approached the dining room, Lydia tugged my gown. “Mr. Carew is nice. Georgie and Katherine said he does well. Tell him you love him, and I’m sure he’ll get you a pony.”

There was something lovely and innocent about little-girl logic. But I liked a take-charge attitude. I appreciated the way the duke made things happen. That was not the physician.

Nonetheless, none of these tactics, truth or power, applied to a foolish man who’d let the opportunity to build a hospital die because he was too concerned about manners or the ton’s expectations to do what was right. Stephen Adam Carew, no matter how nice he was, didn’t have the guts it took to win.