Page 24 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 24

S TEPHEN —M EET THE G UARDIANS

F riday has arrived. A mile or two from Anya House, I eagerly await being alone with Scarlett. Sitting in my carriage listening to the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, I hope she’s brave enough to accompany me to Wesley’s Chapel and the picnic today. Her response to my note arrived late last night but made no mention of either. Her response to my whimsy didn’t give me encouragement at all.

Nonetheless, if she dresses as Scotland and comes with me, I’ll take the opportunity to introduce my cousin to the community and hope the aunties don’t consume all our time introducing him to eligible young ladies.

Chuckling at the foolhardy notion, I pray I can make Scarlett feel comfortable with me, to accept me and to want me as badly as I want her. If my dreams of her are any indication of the level of my desire, then I’ll take her any way I can have her.

Her response thanked me for sending my overture, but she sent no poem or romantic words of her own. The vixen sent pages of research notes, a request to review her sketches of the eye, and a formal solicitation to return her source material.

Not what I wanted.

Though the work is intriguing and brilliant, there’s nothing to convince me that she’s changed her mind and will marry me. If anything, it’s a plea to be her science colleague. I’m not Livingston. I have nothing to add or a judgment to offer. Yet, I’m sure there’s much I can teach her, but I don’t want to be research. I don’t wish to be a resource on medicine. I need her to be an escape for me. I want her to be my joy . . . not more work.

But if research is what wins her heart, isn’t it worth it to try?

Knowing us, a few moments alone, and we’ll fall into compromise number five thousand. Oddly, that does brighten my spirits. I shall work to make her want me again.

The carriage stops and Benny holds my door. I bound out, but my feet feel icy in my slippers. I adjust my cravat, plucking at the barrel knot. Then I clutch Scarlett’s parcel to me.

“Sir, is there de problem?”

A big one. “I’m not saying I’m nervous, but what if I am?”

Benny grabs my hat and dusts the brim. “She responded to your note? You didn’t seem unhappy.”

“Yes. She sent something.” I clutch her answer, the pages. “Her sketches.”

My driver smiles. “Da woman trusts yuh. She’s protective of de sketches. Why yuh fretting, sir?”

Benny’s brown eyes don’t detect the many problems awaiting me behind the duke’s doors. Out here, and in my community, I’m a big deal. I own land and my own home. I have clients throughout the city, even the ton. I can win a fair divorcée with my credentials, but maybe not a Wilcox daughter who’s protected by a duke and a feisty viscountess.

Benny gives me a quick nod. “Yuh want to come up with a signal? In case yuh need to run for it?”

“No. I don’t . . .” Maybe that isn’t a bad idea. “What do you have in mind?”

Benny struts in front of me. “Well, yuh don’t have a flower to cast off.” He taps his hands together. “I come up with something.”

The harder he’s thinking, the more foolish I feel. “Never mind, Benny. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Mr. Carew, de lady very smart. If she’s changed her mind, yuh know quickly.”

This is true. Scarlett Wilcox is not Miss Eveline Gray, now Baroness Derand . . . maybe.

“If di lady don’t want yuh, yuh know straight away. She don’t play.”

It was that directness about Scarlett that I both admired and fretted. Yet, if she’s changed her mind about liking me, would she allow me a little room to change it back?

Delaying, I rub my neck, then readjust my cravat. “Maybe you’re right, Benny. We need a signal.”

He squints at me. “Fine. What if I say there’s an emergency?”

“What emergency, Benny?”

“I don’t know. Something good. Like last night. You had to go to that shop on Bond Street.”

“Last evening was terrible. Those burns on the watchmaker’s daughter were horrible.”

The salve I made of lard, turpentine, honey, and chamomile will make the burns to her lower extremities heal faster. An island remedy. “People need to realize how dangerous a hearth can be. The poor child’s apron caught fire. My salve might prevent bad scarring. But Benny, I don’t want to frighten Miss Wilcox or myself.”

Benny has that look, sort of dazed, eyes narrowing. “Okay, Mr. Carew, not sure what yuh said, but if I see yuh in distress, I’m gonna come up with something.”

Wishing I hadn’t brought up an escape plan to Benny, I leave my driver and head to the doors. If I make a bigger fool of myself, so be it. A dependable fool is who I am. Clutching Scarlett’s parcel, I step into her world.

Walking into Anya House, everything looks normal—polished marble, servants going about their duties. Yet, there’s a feel of magic in the air. Suddenly, I’m more hopeful. Something special is about to happen.

I give my hat to the eager set of hands of Torrance’s silver-clad footman. I glance at the steps that lead to the upper level and turn to the closest servant. “Can you let His Grace know Mr. Carew is here?”

Before this young man can leave, I hear commotion and a winded whinny. Around the corner comes the Duke of Torrance on all fours. Lydia is on his back and the two are playing. The child has his cane, whipping it in the air.

“Again. Horsey!” She’s laughing, tossing her head back. The child’s the picture of health. And the duke doesn’t look too shabby. His pallor is normal, not yellow or a weak-looking gray.

“Whoa,” I say. “You two are making quite a ruckus.”

“At last, someone with common sense has arrived.” Lady Hampton looks radiant and frustrated. She comes down the stairs, but her face is happy, only her tone sounds cross. “They’ve been at this for over an hour.”

The lady before me seems transformed. Her luminous face is trying hard to suppress a smile. Lady Hampton is a beautiful woman. Though we are close in age, she could easily be mistaken for her early twenties . . . Scarlett’s age.

Nonetheless, where is my science inclined, always serious friend? My heart sounds loud. I bow my head to the viscountess. “Lady Hampton, I think both my patients can have a little fun.”

“Both? Jahleel. Have you been ill again?”

The duke takes his time getting up. “Nothing to fret about. The dust from little fixes about Anya House has made me unwell.” He glances at her like he’s just seen this woman. Then his lips curl up. “Thank you for being concerned.”

What has happened here?

Is this the right Anya House?

Oh, my goodness. Torrance has worn her down. They are civil. The rascal might win her after all.

“Katherine, it’s fun.” Lydia catches his hand like he was getting away from her. “And Duke don’t hurt that much, not today.”

“And how was I to know that old Mr. Wilcox never did this for our Lydia?” The duke dusts his hands on his dark trousers. “A man must be willing to be a fool for such a precious child.”

“Well, you have the fool part right.” Lady Hampton covers her mouth. “I mean you’re effortless with Lydia.”

“No mean to Duke, Katherine.” The little girl hugs him about the leg. “He’s my bestus friend.”

If Torrance is about to launch a sarcastic barb, it melts on his tongue when he looks down at the child. “It is time for your nap.”

Lydia says, “No nap. I want to play.”

He stoops again and glances at her eye to eye. “I heard you’ve been very good now that we are back to our regular visits. Isn’t there a birthday coming—”

Lydia’s eyes grow big. She runs to Lady Hampton. “Nap time. I don’t want anything to spoil my birthday.”

Something whips across the viscountess’s face, but she takes the child up the stairs. “You will take a restful nap. Then I will come downstairs and talk with the duke about future plans.”

Her tone again is tight and harsh . . . a return to normal.

At the top of the stairs, Lydia yells down. “Be nice to Scarlett today, Mr. Carew. She doesn’t need a pony, just some nice words.”

The child runs to Lady Hampton, and they continue to Lydia’s room.

I pat the duke on his shoulder. “So close. But keep working, old man. You may get things right and have a more permanent truce with Lady Hampton.”

His countenance changes. “You think so?” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s truly too late.”

He sees me staring at this rare slip in the mask he wears. The cheery hopeful expressions—are they merely disguises for Lydia?

“Now, Carew, don’t reprimand me. Whenever I’m up to it, Lydia and I will play. She will have all my time for as long as that is.” The duke glances at me. The unanswered question of how long I think he’ll live is in set in his blank countenance.

I don’t know what to say. I wish I was more medicine man than physician. Then I’d have a cure or restorative to give him, to offer the duke continuous strength and all the time he wishes.

Wouldn’t mind a little bit of that potion myself.

“Well, Torrance, is Lydia correct? Is Miss Wilcox going to join me today for church and the picnic?”

“Perhaps you should ask her companion.” He points to the stairs.

Craning my neck so I can view the upstairs, I expect to see Lydia doing some sort of skit to gain a little more time before taking her nap, but it’s the elderly woman who serves as the child’s nurse.

Mrs. Cantor carries a deep reticule with knitting needles sticking out. When she comes down, she says, “Miss Wilcox will be ready in a moment. The modiste and maids are almost finished.”

The duke nods to her. “Mrs. Cantor will be coming with you and Miss Wilcox, in case you remember that my Scarlett is of age and feel the need to visit flowers.”

The insinuations are heavy and . . . accurate. I come with the best intentions, but rolling about on my carriage floor is never far from my mind. I fold my arms. “I’m a gentleman. I know Scarlett Wilcox is no longer a child and needs no nurse. We’ve a scheduled day of entertainments. I wager we’ll be out past midnight, if not longer. The aunties’ celebrations go long, like a party in Mayfair that can end as late as four the next morning.”

Nonetheless, since the woman in question didn’t respond to my romantic gesture with an equally whimsical gesture, I’m now quite certain that tussle in my carriage was induced by too much sugary ice and not the romantic feelings I seek.

Sigh. I’ve read too many novels. “Your Grace, I’m the family physician. I’ll keep her safe.”

“Remember that, for she’s nervous and eager to please.”

Eager? Scarlett? I squint at him, not understanding.

“You sly d’yavol. I told you not to see her, and you send her a note that has her giddy.”

Scarlett? Giddy? “But she responded by sending me sketches of an eye? How is that . . .” It hits me like lightning. How many times has she told me I’m stupid? “She only shares her research, her meticulously labeled sketches, with people she trusts and admires.”

Torrance shakes his head. “I think that’s quite romantic for our woman of science to do. I believe she’s taken with you. If you can convince her to marry you, you will meet no objections.”

My pulse quickens. “Your Grace, I never thought—”

“It’s probably for the best, Mr. Carew. It might lead to difficulties.” The lilting voice draws my attention to the top of the stairs.

My heart stops. Scarlett?

Full cardiac arrest seizes my chest. I can’t breathe, but in the very best way. My gaze has been captured by a goddess. The most beautiful creature in the world wears crimson. The gown designed by angels heightens the red in her light olive complexion. She shines with the brilliance of diamonds.

An ivory fichu covers her bosom and sweeps into the square neckline of her dress. What she’s wearing is respectable for church, a little much for the picnic, but this nymph is more suited for dancing under the stars.

Silk swathes her hips. The fabric skims noticeable thighs as she descends from the upper landing. Ruby pins gather her long tresses into a delectable bun. The woman glides in satin slippers.

I’m beside myself. She’s an angel.

“Scarlett?” I can’t believe my mouth still works. “Is that you? Of course it is. I’m amazed.”

My throat begins to close up as she floats to Torrance. My heart starts again, pounding, fearing that this is a dream and I’ll awaken alone and hungry, starved of this beauty.

The duke leans closer to me. “Close your mouth, Carew. Flies and pollen can come from nowhere.”

This vision wanders away to stand in front of the mirror. “I hope I’m acceptable . . . to meet the aunties. I trust that they’ll not recognize me from Somerset.”

Scarlett’s voice is always cultured, but there’s a slight tremble. I’ve never seen the lithe thing without confidence. I take comfort that she’s as nervous as I.

“You are beautiful. No one will, can . . . We are on this road to discovery together.”

I pinch myself, and it hurts. I’m not dreaming. This is true. I’m well, well rested and have eaten. This feeling of euphoria is no delusion or figment of exhaustion.

Her eyes, glittering black mirrors, shine as she asks, “You received my note? Will we have time to discuss it along the way?”

“Of course. We’ll make time.” I’ll command it to stand still. “Anything you wish, Miss Wilcox.” I step to her and offer a deep bow, for such beauty demands it. “It would be my honor to take you today . . . to church and the aunties.”

“Mr. Carew,” the duke says, “your current enthusiasm is why, even as a trusted family friend, there must be a chaperone. Mrs. Cantor will make sure there are no incidents.”

“Torrance, you can’t think I’m going to take her to a brothel. And there will be no ice, unless—”

“Unless I’m very good.” In her eyes, there’s laughter and joy.

I’m drawn to those lips, and goodness—everything else. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Manage what?” Lady Hampton comes down the steps. “And what’s this about a brothel, Mr. Carew?”

“Poor joke, sister.” Scarlett’s voice is smooth. It’s like she’s singing a hymn of respect and love. “Stephen Adam Carew would never do anything untoward, unless I’m very good.”

The affection in her voice, that’s what I wanted in her letter. But hearing it, viewing it in her countenance is more wonderful. I shall become learned on Scarlett Wilcox.

I take her hand, and everything slows. “I’ve been kicked in the head, Lady Hampton, Miss Wilcox. But I’ve survived. I can attest to the truth, a mule can learn. A mule has learned.”

Scarlett smiles. “Then there’s hope for us.”

“Jahleel, do something.” Lady Hampton’s harping sounds a little hysterical. “He’s practically seducing my young sister here in Anya House.”

“Lady Hampton, calm yourself. Mr. Carew is respectful. Miss Wilcox is sensible. They both understand what is at stake. Our family just escaped scandal a year ago.”

I retreat when Mrs. Cantor puts Scarlett’s matching crimson cape upon her shoulders. Lady Hampton’s pitch gets higher.

“You are doing this to win a bet. Jahleel, this is my sister’s happiness. Do something.”

Scarlett flutters past them like they are nothing but noise. She gets closer, her gaze pinned on me. Those jet mirrors billow with smoke and fire. “I’m ready, Mr. Carew.”

I claim her, her palm, and kiss her fingers. It would be too bold to kiss her mouth. “Me too.”

I hear a shriek. Lady Hampton’s pointing and waving. “He’s mauling my sister.”

I wasn’t . . . was I?

The shadow of the crystal cane clouds my vision.

The next thing I know, the duke hauls me away, dragging me toward his study. Guess I should expect Torrance to find the strength of giants to protect one of his Wilcoxes.