Page 20 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 20

S TEPHEN —T HE B USINESS OF D ISCRETION

L ight streams through the window of St. Margaret’s Church in Westminster and falls upon me and the prostrate minister I’ve been called to attend. The cross of Golgotha, big and wide, from the brown-tinted window, places a mark on his brow.

“Don’t make it hurt too badly, sir.” The fellow is desperate. “You fixed the arm up pretty well last time. I hate being so clumsy.”

Allegedly, tripping over a stack of hymnals has made the minister this way.

“Glad you could come so quickly,” he says.

I nod and know it’s not so quick. He’s the third patient I’ve seen since sunrise, but I will keep his secrets as I do others.

Hands on my hips, I take another glance at my surroundings. I don’t think it wise to move the patient from the church floor. Being in the shadow of the raised pulpit and baptismal font is sort of comforting.

“Can you fix me, Mr. Carew? I hear you’re the best at this sort of thing.”

Stooping low, I return his praise with a confident smile. “Of course, but we must do a reduction. That will require you to be held down while I twist your leg to get the bone realigned. You’ve snapped that femur in two.”

Biting on his lip, he nods his consent.

I hold his hand. For a moment, my dark hand covers his light one. “I will give you laudanum to dull the pain, that is if you wish it. I recommend it. The pain will be worse before it’s better.”

“Laudanum?” He sort of cracks a little smile. “Sure. But there is brandy in my office, if that will help.”

I nod to his assistant, a young page in flowing white robes and a dark collar, who runs off to get it. Then I look up at faithful Benny. “I’ll need your help.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Carew. Anyt’ing.” He takes my indigo tailcoat, laying it over the sidewall of a walnut pew over the choir loft, making sure my small copy of Sense and Sensibility doesn’t fall out.

That would be something Scarlett knows about me. What have I gleaned from her over the many years that I’ve known her?

“Mr. Carew, weh need tools from the carriage?”

“Bring the braces.” Responding to Benny, I try to push away my distracting thoughts. “I have laudanum in my bag. Though I have faith in the brandy, I think a little laudanum will be more helpful when I align the bones.”

As the minister winces, Benny leaves. The page returns with an amber-colored bottle, and I motion to him to give some to the minister. The hurt man greedily gulps from the glass rim.

“There’s no bleeding,” I say, “and no bones protruding through the skin.” When I tug on the femur, I can easily feel the separation. “You’re sure that it was a stack of hymnals that did this? It’s a significant break.”

“Not going to lie to you, Mr. Carew, not in a house of God.”

His words sear. As a man grounded in faith, I can truthfully say mine is at an all-time low—low in myself, my fellow man and precisely, a fella-woman.

Rooting through my leather bag, I look at what I can use—clamps, knives, bottles of medicine—but my mind is drowning in a sea of Scarlett. It’s been a day, a mere twenty-four hours since our kiss and compromise, and I can’t stop thinking of her.

What is she doing? Is the activity in menswear? Or in nothing at all?

I rub my troubled brow. I’m slow and deliberate, but my dreams are not. They race through my mind bringing memories of her—her smile, her laughter, her witty barbs. The woman is clever. Why haven’t I noticed before? Why is my logical mind the last to know?

Was I out, dashing between patients, when this metamorphosis occurred?

When did those mirrored eyes that could cut a bloke turn to smoke, turn to fire? When did that harsh wit become desire? What miracle has made her the woman I want?

“Sir, di braces. Also brought di splints. Mr. Carew?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks, Benjamin.”

Gawking at me, he shakes his head. “Oh, meh boss have it bad.”

“What’s bad?” The minister rises slightly from the floor. “You said—”

“He’s not talking about you, Reverend. It’s me.” It’s me, me, oh Lord. Standing in the need . . . Never mind.

The man strokes his silver hair and settles back onto the floor. “I’m not going anywhere, son. You can talk about her.”

“I didn’t say it was a her.”

Benny and the minister look at me as if I’ve lost my mind, but truly, I have. “Let’s get on with this.” I take a small glass from my bag and fill it halfway with laudanum and top it with brandy. “This will burn a little.”

The minister drinks my mixture. “Go on. Talk to us.”

While my manservant and the minister wait for me to confess, I struggle with the sleepless nights this situation has caused. How can I rest when my mind keeps sending me to dangerous places, of her and me and that terrible, no-good carriage floor?

Oh goodness, she deserves so much more. She’s not meant for a harried moment, but a lifetime.

“Mr. Carew.” Benny nudges me.

“Thank you, Scarlett. I mean, Benny.”

My man-of-all-work gives me that yuh-a-fool-but-my-boss look.

He hasn’t mentioned catching an eyeful of me and Scarlett. “Don’t ever bring her a banana ice again.”

The minister, writhing on the floor, looks up. “A banana ice would be good right now. Cold and sweet.”

“Was pineapple flavored, just shaped like de banana.” Benny is trying hard to keep his accent low. But there’s a rhythm to his scold. “Pineapple is de favorite of Miss Wilcox. But yuh know that, sir.”

Did I? Of course, I did. “Let’s get started, Benny. I need you to hold his shoulders.” I turn to the young man. “You can help, too.”

“A pineapple ice sounds good,” the page says. “Tart and sweet.”

Oh goodness, that description, sort of like sharp but soft, is Scarlett. I get down on my knees.

I grasp the distal, the lower part of the leg, and begin to apply pressure.

The minister cries out. Tears well in his eyes. “Say something. Distract me.”

Benny and the page look at me with my driver saying, “Tell de man. He’s close to God. Could help yuh.”

“There’s a friend. My poor attitude has made her hesitant to marry me.”

I begin my pitiful story as I add traction to the minister’s upper thigh, aligning the broken bone. When I’m done, I carefully splint the leg and bind it tightly with bandages, bandages similar to the ones Scarlett uses to hide.

After leaving a grateful minister at St. Margaret’s Church, who, like Benny, believes me to be an idiot when it comes to my love life, I head to Cheapside. I try to read my novel to keep my hand from hitting the carriage ceiling and signaling to Benny to go to Anya House. I want to see Scarlett. I can’t sleep for thinking of her. I barely eat. I’m sick missing her.

If I don’t show myself and explain, I’ll be driven insane by Friday.

Yet, two things keep me from going: the promise I made to the duke, and that small problem of not knowing what to say. Apologizing for being an idiot seems, well . . . reductive, at this point. I need to offer her something, something that shows I’ve grown up. Asking for marriage wasn’t the answer. Or maybe, it wasn’t the right question.

Heated at myself, I fling my hat to the other carriage bench. I’m fevered. Clearly, I’m ill. I’m definitely not thinking correctly. Something other than my pride is broken, destroyed.

Soon, we’ve turned onto Watling Street. The traffic has lessened, so we’ll arrive at Three Watling, the home of my aunt, Telma Smith, in minutes. She lives in the heart of Cheapside, immigrant side. Her home sits grandly among the two-story houses along the spacious street. Blocks over are warehouses which provide numerous shopping opportunities. The wide street has a mix of wood and of limestone construction. It’s very different from Port of Spain, but now that Trinidad is under British control, perhaps it will change to become this. My dada would hate that.

The notion that foreigners wish to come and transform the island’s culture is odd. Coming to London, the immigrants want to add to the fabric of society, not change it. My stomach becomes queasy as I think of the constant friction that exists—the dueling pride of where I come from versus the city I now call home. If only everything could be as uncomplicated as straightening a broken limb or bolstering a diet. Funny. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable I am with change, or the wanton disregard of how beautiful a house of wood and a thatched roof looks in the moonlight.

The carriage stops, and soon Benny opens my door. He takes one look at me and laughs. “Oh, yuh are not prepared for the aunties. Yuh already flustered.”

I tug on my tailcoat and straighten my wilted cravat. “Funny man, tell me what to do. You be the boss. How do I win Scarlett Wilcox?”

Benny’s face becomes serious. He takes a step or two. “What Shakespeare do? Yuh always reading. Miss Wilcox reads.”

“Not sure Shakespeare is the right guide. His plays often end with death for the couples. Romeo and Juliet, dead from youthful indiscretions. Othello and Desdemona, dead, by indiscretions, lies, and war.”

Mouth dropping open, Benny gawks at me. “’Bout the book now. The Sense and Sensibility . Do dey die?”

“No. Hmmm. I’m not Edward, and Scarlett is not a patient, long-suffering Elinor. Livingston is more Willoughby, wild and stupid. That leaves Colonel Brandon and Marianne. Reserved, handsome older man and a romantic girl given to whimsy.”

Benny’s giving me that look again, the mix of you’re stupid but you’re my boss. “Doh Brandon get rest and eat? Yuh know how yuh get.”

“Benny, not now. I’m fine.”

“Whimsy sounds like yuh need sleep. Otherwise, bad idea. Maybe your tantie—”

“Whimsy as in puce curtains. Benny, you might be right. Whimsy! I can’t see Miss Wilcox until Friday, but you can deliver a note, a note with whimsy.”

“Mr. Carew, not following. Don’t matter. She smart. She get it.”

She’s brilliant. And too serious. “I almost won the ladies’ challenge last time with the Shakespeare I quoted in Anya House. Perhaps if I offer Miss Wilcox a little Sense and Sensibility now, it will show her I understand. Maybe she’ll welcome opening her life to a little of my sensibilities.”

“And yuh get some sense. If you say so, Mr. Carew.”

Benny is not convinced, but he isn’t the audience I’m looking for. Scarlett Wilcox needs to see that I’m unpredictable and vibrant and can be an excellent partner for her. The Marianne in her will like this.

“Yuh smiling. Yuh have a plan?” He closes the door as I put on my hat. “Perhaps the two of yuh can be less serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“’Member when yuh had to go get Lord Palmer from a gaming hell?”

“Yes. Miss Scarlett Wilcox advised me.” I’d forgotten that. She sent me after her brother-in-law. The fool was in a gaming hall. Even when she was younger, she was forthright, trying to save everyone. With Scotland’s death and Lord Hampton’s troubles, Scarlett has had to be serious, too serious. “More whimsy is what we both need.”

Readying to see my aunt, I calm and smooth my cravat, making sure the loops of the barrel knot are in place.

Barrel knot. Scarlett used barrel knots on her cravat. Did she choose them because of me? Her father rarely wore cravats. The duke’s fashionable knot is the smaller trone d’Amour. I shake my head. Scarlett might’ve selected it from something she read or heard about it from my talkative driver. “Benny, make sure you’re not disclosing to anyone about the scandalous situations I find myself in. People must trust me.”

My driver squirms. “I don’t tell a lot of people.”

“Benny!”

He waves his hands. “Sometimes, too good to keep quiet. Sorry.”

I pull my hands together. “Please, Benny. Lives could be ruined if what I’ve rambled to you becomes known. Discretion, Benny.”

“Yes, sir. Discreet. Sure, Mr. Carew.”

His face seems fretful. I hope he doesn’t tell anyone about the vicar’s mysterious fall. St. Margaret’s has a history of having difficulties with their rectors. In 1806, one died mysteriously caught in the bells. “Well, wish me luck. I’m going to check on my cousin Mrs. Halland. I know that she has an accoucheur for the pregnancy. But . . . I want to check on her. Childbirth is not easy on women.”

I’ve seen the horrors and heartache when what looks like a perfect birth goes awry. Benny’s frowning. He’s read my thoughts. He’s been with me when things have gone wrong. He’s stayed close and has dragged me away when the grief feels all-consuming.

“Sorry, Benny. I don’t mean to imply that anything is wrong with my cousin, but I want to do all I can to make sure all is well.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice is low, but confident. “Mrs. Halland, all our women, deserve de best care. Her husband ah big man, an important sailor. Don’t he report to Miss Gray’s . . . the former Miss Gray’s . . . Well, the now—”

“Benny, it’s Lady Derand, until further notice.”

He nods. “Don’t let them push yuh back to Miss Gray. Yuh got a girl . . . sort of. Very handsy with Miss Wilcox. One woman at a time for Friday.”

I sigh, long and hard. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Then I will have a note for you to deliver this afternoon.” With my leather bag in hand, I leave my man and head up the pavement toward my aunt’s front door hoping this can be a quick, uneventful visit without gossip or something being said that I’ll regret.