Page 22 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 22

S CARLETT —M ODISTE D IVINE

S tanding in the threshold of the room assigned me at Anya House, I appreciate the elements of practicality and whimsy. The dark stained wood of bookshelves surrounding the bay window would make a fairy proud. I picture her as Mama with a crown, sitting there casting wishes or rocks at the heroes or stubborn physicians passing by.

That’s silly for a woman of science. Yet, as I look at all the scraps of silver, crimson, and blue fabric, I want magic. I want the joy.

I step further inside, carefully navigating the thick ivory rya edged with majestic gold threads. Fallen dressmaker pins are scattered everywhere. The battling modistes, as I like to call the ladies the duke hired to create the perfect walking gown, have left my tidy space cluttered.

“You deserve this, you know.”

I turn to see the duke propped against the doorframe. He’s in a white, flowing robe, like a priest.

Bending, I pick up a silver pin. “I think it’s a lot of fuss, which could poke out an eye, if I’m not careful.”

“You will be careful, Scarlett. You always are. But you don’t have to be.”

His tone sounds sarcastic to my ears. “I think I’ve taken enough risks.”

“In disguises, yes, but never as Scarlett Wilcox. You exist. You can stretch your wings, take as much space as possible. It’s not wrong to do so.”

Pointing to the fabric scraps everywhere, on my table, over the cream-colored blankets and bedsheets, all over the floor. “Seems like the modistes are doing that, not much room for anything else.”

He stoops and picks up another pin. The sharpness gleams. “I find it fascinating that this tiny bit of metal can enter silk, bunch it into gathers, and never leave a mark. No evidence remains of the help it gave to bring something into existence.” The duke looks at me. “Leave your mark, Scarlett. Don’t be afraid to try.”

Katherine comes inside. She slips to his right. For a moment, they are close enough to dance. Their gazes fight or twirl about a past neither speak of.

“Excuse me,” she says.

He moves quickly, like Katherine has commanded him to fetch something. When she’s fully inside, he dips his head back in. “I’ll go get a maid to tidy up this creative process. Oh, and the special tools you wanted, they arrive tomorrow.”

After offering a bow, he disappears.

My sister and I stare at his retreating form.

“That’s odd,” she says, still looking into the corridor.

“What do you want him to do, Katherine? Sweep you off your feet? Make some sort of compliment so that you can retort willfully, hurling something sharp and hurtful.”

“I’m sorry.” She looks up at the smooth ceiling and folds her arms over her modest light green gown. Its high collar and neckline scream hide, ignore. Hard to do, with someone so pretty. “The duke knows how to upset me.”

“Apparently, he does that by just breathing.” I find a pincushion on the bookcase. I pick it up on behalf of the absent fairy and start collecting the pins. “Katherine, when are you going to forgive him?”

“When he lets me out of this silly bet.” She moves to the book wall, adjusts the gauzy muslin curtains and fans herself.

Katherine looks at the door. Is she hoping the duke will come back to fight with her?

Isn’t that why I look out the bay window, to see if a physician’s carriage is heading to the mews? It’s silly; I can’t truly see it from here.

“What tools, Scarlett?”

“Special scalpels.” She squints at me, but I am mum. I know she wants to know what they’re for. She has her secrets. I have mine.

“This is a very pretty room. We could do something like this at Ground Street. Then, Scarlett, maybe you’ll like it better.”

“No. It must stay the same. It’s not my room. Well, it wasn’t supposed to be.”

Her eyes grow wide. “It’s your room, Scarlett. It’s been yours—”

“Since Scotland died.”

She comes to me and cups my cheek. “He’d want you to make it your own. It’s good you’ve memorialized everything he was, but you have to keep moving forward.”

Katherine hugs me. I want to believe her.

“I didn’t know you were still mourning.”

“How do you stop?”

There are tears in Katherine’s eyes. “I lost a stillborn. I think of how gray his skin was.”

“I remember how you cried, how we all did. But is that the same as losing your twin? Scotland and I played and fought and told stories at dusk. We wished on stars at midnight. And my brother was the only one to tell me I wasn’t crazy for having dreams.”

My sister turns away. “The duke’s modistes have exquisite taste.”

That moment of vulnerability is gone. Katherine picks up scraps that match the yellow-striped walls.

“This is very untidy.” She schools her voice to show none of the emotions from before.

I give up. I release myself from trying to be more attached to her. “The modistes are good.”

She moves to the bed and flips through the sketches. “Do you know which gown will be made?”

“Not sure. The duke will probably choose a few. He’s nice taste.”

Katherine keeps looking at the pages, adding comments about buttons and hems. It reminds me of Mama fussing about the outfits my sister would take with her on her trip to St. Petersburg.

My sister was to represent Papa’s efforts to expand. Her governess taught her culture. She was the perfect ambassador for Wilcox Coal. So beautiful. She’s still absolutely lovely. Her existence is large. She exists to take up space. People notice her when she lifts her head and smiles. “Katherine—”

“Yes, Scarlett.” The frown on her face silences me. “You were going to tell me who the duke has picked for you.”

“What?”

“He has to have picked someone because of the ridiculous bet I made. Why else would he have new gowns made? He doesn’t need to work this hard to buy your affections. He won you with the library, and now these special tools.”

I put down the cushion full of pins. “Unlike you, he listens, and he answers questions. He treats all of us, especially Lydia, like we’re precious.”

“You are precious.”

“Never felt like that. But I didn’t deserve to, I let Scotland down.”

“No. No, you didn’t.” She runs to me and, for a moment, it feels like we’re wrestling. But it’s just us trying to figure out where our hands go. We embrace as friends who haven’t seen each other in a while. And maybe I haven’t seen this side of Katherine in years.

There’s no control. She’s frenzied, trying to convince me I’m not to blame.

“Fevers are dangerous. That’s why I’m so scared when Lydia has one.”

“Scarlett, it’s not your fault.”

Again, I want to believe her, but I’ll live with the image of Scotland’s red face forever. “We need more physicians. There needs to be learned men and women who can care for people, our people. The duke’s science meetings let everyone come. That definitely will help.”

“Well, don’t count on him to continue to be helpful.”

I jerk away. “What has he done? Help me understand why you are so bothered by the nice things the Duke of Torrance does for our family, and now London.”

She spins on her low heels walking away from me. The action is fast. Her hem swishes from the motion. “Sooner or later, he will grow tired of making me look bad and move on to the next situation to exploit.”

“It’s been three years. If he didn’t want the best for us, I think we would know by now.”

Her lip quivers. “I know I don’t seem rational, but Torrance is a strategist. This is merely another chess game.”

I want to ignore this circular logic, but Katherine seldom opens up. “You tell me to forgive myself. That Scotland’s gone, and it was years ago. Yet in the same breath, you want to pretend the duke is the same. That nothing has or will ever change. Which is it? Haven’t we all grown and changed?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she picks up a piece of bobbin lace. I actually like this one: not too puffy, not too old, not something I’d expect on women sent to the nunnery. She holds it up to my face. “Time passes whether we like it or not.”

“Now that sounds like something the duke would say.”

Katherine groans and balls up the lace. “It’s part of some plan. I knew him before. He does nothing by chance.”

“You can’t see he’s changed. Have you ever looked into his eyes and seen the hurt in his soul?”

“Can’t. If I stare, I’ll fall for his charm. And if he’s good, then I’m the villain. I can’t be made wrong for protecting my heart. I’m not wrong, just a woman who’s learned to survive.” Covering her mouth, she turns toward the window and squints as if she’s trying to read something off a bookshelf. “The print on these leather spines is tiny.”

My sister is wrong and scared. I need her to be Katherine the Brave. “If you want to know something, you have to go and seek it out.”

She closes her eyes. “I’m out of time, aren’t I, Scarlett? Has he chosen someone for you? Will you be meeting candidates to see if he’s found a man to marry you?”

Maids enter. “Ma’am, and Lady Hampton, we’ll have this tidied in a moment. Please step outside.”

The ladies have brooms and baskets. Another has dust rags. My room shall be orderly in no time.

We move into the corridor; the duke and Lydia sit at the top of the stairs.

“Baba Yaga sounds terrible.” Lydia’s in her nightgown and pink lacy robe, a match to mine. “How could your mama tell you of a story about a mean ole woman who lives in a house with chicken legs?”

“Well, there was usually a moral attached to it.” The duke sounds humored and unguarded. “Maybe it doesn’t translate well into English.”

Lydia stands up and puts her arms about his neck. “Then you teach me Russian. I want to know everything.”

He hugs her. “I will, my love.”

Katherine coughs.

The duke sighs and releases his hold on Lydia. “Of course, that will have to be alright with Lady Hampton.”

“No. Then she won’t let me.” Lydia leaps like she is about to throw a fit and starts to fall.

The duke grabs her—and they fall back on the landing.

My pulse pops in my veins. The thudding is monstrous, hiding our steps as we run to them. My heart doesn’t slow until we reach them.

Our little girl, so fragile and sweet, is wrapped tightly in his arms. My new tools, the tiny scalpels, would be required to separate the child from his embrace.

“You both alright?” My voice is small, like I’m caught in wind.

He nods but his eyes remain closed.

A murmur, a whisper that feels like praise, is said in Russian. Nonetheless, this is another Wilcox disaster diverted by the duke, another thing for Katherine to twist and claim as his fault.

Another lesson for me that love isn’t enough.