Page 28 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 28

S CARLETT —R ACING F EET , R ACING H EARTS

G eorgina bangs on the door to my bedchamber. “Come out, Scarlett. It’s not your fault. Scotland—”

“I need a minute.” My heart races. I feel stupid. I’ve wasted so much time on this. I gave Mr. Thom hope. That procedure is supposed to help, and it can cost him his life.

“Please, Scarlett, let me in. We need to talk. We should talk about everything. I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you the truth about Katherine’s baby.”

That’s what she thinks I’m upset about? My sisters don’t know me. That’s the greatest tragedy of all. “Let me be. Tell Mr. Carew to go to the aunties without me.”

“Scarlett, it’s Stephen, we need to leave.” The knock on the door is no longer gentle. “Scarlett, we need to go now to be on time. You know me. You know I hate to be late.”

“How can I go? I’m a failure.” I blow my nose on one of Mama’s lacy handkerchiefs. “Go without me.”

“Dearest Scarlett,” he says. “I just sent your sister back to Mr. Thom for your cape. You will need it, and I need to see you.”

“I’m terrible.” I plop on the bed. The crimson satin contrasts my white bed coverings. Honestly, I want to be back at Anya House where I can be a recluse, but in style.

“Scarlett, please.”

Stephen is sweet, but I can’t be around him. I don’t want to hear that I was good enough for a woman. Or that this is a minor mistake. “A fever can kill. It killed Scotland. That’s my fault.”

“Scarlett, are you near the door? I need this unlocked.”

“What was I thinking? A woman doctor. You, and even Livingston, tried to tell me. I can sneak into every lecture and still learn nothing.”

“Sweetheart, back away from the door.”

“What? I am. Why?”

Wham. Stephen Adam Carew crashes into my door flinging it open wide. He tumbles and lands beside me on the bed. “I think I hurt myself.”

Georgie’s in the threshold. Her mouth is open. She has the tray of biscuits in one hand and my cape in the other.

Stephen points at her. “Stay, Georgina, outside. Give us a moment.”

She leaves and closes the door.

Stephen lies beside me, catching his breath. “Miss Wilcox, I need you to come with me.”

His tone sounds harsh. When he sits up, the way he rotates his shoulder with jerking motions, I know he’s injured himself.

My tears flow. “I don’t want anyone in pain or blind or hurt. I think you—”

“No. No thinking, Scarlett. That’s when we both get into trouble.”

He stands up and massages his arm. As I sit on the bed, he towers over me. “This is your room? It’s bland. No fancy curtains? I saw you have some at Anya House.”

“You broke into my room there, too?”

He waves his hands. “No. No. I saw from the outside.” He slaps his forehead. “Now I sound as if I’m a stalking horse, watching from afar to learn about you.”

“That’s not you, Stephen. You aren’t aware enough for that.”

He starts to laugh, then lifts me up. “I had this vision of breaking the door down and tossing you over my shoulder. But my arm really hurts, and your dress is too lovely to wrinkle. So much for this grand gesture.” His thumbs wipe tears from my eyes. His neck swivels. “This room doesn’t seem like you.”

“It’s Scotland’s. It will always be his.”

The longcase sounds. Stephen’s gaze remains on me. “That’s loud and odd. Was it your brother’s favorite, too?”

“Not as much as Papa’s, but Scotland was supposed to get it and the coal business, if he’d succeeded our father.”

“The odd clock says we need to go, but I have a spot in my parlor just for it. And when you decorate my blank and very boring house, you decorate for us, but particularly you. I need you comfortable. I need you.”

“Is this a new proposal?”

He doesn’t answer with words, but a kiss—slow and gentle. I lean into him as he tilts me toward heaven.

And I sob.

Suddenly, I’m off my feet. They dangle as he carries me into the hall. “Lady, get your cape from your sister.”

I do as he commands, but tell Georgie, “Put Mr. Thom in my room. I guess I won’t be back for a while. Knowing Katherine, she’ll be away from Anya House as quickly as she can.”

Stephen stops at the front door. He yells for Benny, and I look at this old house while hanging down Petruchio Stuffy’s back.

Clip-clop. The clock chimes. I almost hear Mama on the pianoforte. I whisper goodbye. I don’t want to be here with the lies.

The carriage stops in front of the house. I let Stephen put me inside as he dashes back for his bag. When he climbs in, he signals Benny to make haste.

There’s no more pretense between Stephen and me about being respectable in front of our chaperone. He pulls me onto his lap, in his arms, wrinkling my gown as he cradles a teary me.

“You don’t need to coddle me.”

“Yes, I do, Scarlett. It’s best to think of something else.” Stephen leans over and places my sketches in the cabinet under the opposite seat, then pulls out a copy of Sense and Sensibility . “And since I can only think of you, we shall both find out what the beautiful brown Marianne is doing. Or perhaps Elinor has become wiser and found her friendship with the regal Colonel Brandon should be more.”

“Stephen please.”

“I’m done with medical discussions today. I find novels helpful. They help me relax and have happy thoughts when I hurt for my patients. Scarlett, I want our home life to be an escape. I need you to wrap me up in your love so tightly that I gain distance from the pain of not being enough. Working with the sick gives rise to the caregiver needing care.”

He begins to read, but I repeat to myself the best line Stephen quotes. “I will be calm; I will be mistress of myself.”

I keep listening and urging Stephen to whisper words to me until the hopelessness subsides.

It feels like mere minutes basking in the warmth of Mr. Stuffy-Petruchio’s voice, but I know at least an hour has passed. One more turn, and the carriage stops on City Road in front of Wesley’s Chapel.

Mrs. Cantor’s asleep again. I do not want to wake her, but her assisting me while Stephen escorts me is the height of fashion.

I crawl off Stephen’s lap and gently shake the nurse.

“Oh, we are here.” She stretches and climbs out. “I do like this chapel.”

The wrinkles in my skirt seem endless. “I don’t think this is the effect the modiste and the duke wished for this outing. Being emotional has its costs. I’ll not impress the aunties.”

Stephen pulls my face close to his. “I must have you . . . free. You’ve taken a lot upon these delicate shoulders.”

It would be wrong to start kissing him and miss church. “I’m fine. Wrinkled, but resolved.”

“Know that I want you . . . to walk in the chapel with me. It means a great deal, but you mean more. Let’s show our faces, then I’ll make excuses and take you back to Anya House.”

Demure, quiet, born of island pedigree, an impeccable dresser, and beautiful—that is the man holding me by my shoulders, giving me an excuse to hide.

“No,” I say, and kiss his hands before pushing them away. “The aunties must see how you’ve wrinkled my gown.”

Stephen smirks. “I’ve created havoc caressing you fully dressed. I’ll have to remember to fix my approach. This will require research. You will help?”

The mirth in his warm eyes lessens the nerves I feel. “Seeing Mr. Thom was important to me, but so is this outing for you, but I’m all wrinkled.”

“You, my dear, all will love.”

What of you? I sigh and pack my hopes back into my heart. “The aunties will reject me. I can hear them now. The ragamuffin Wilcox woman has taken Cheapside’s finest. Are you prepared for the arm-twisting they will do to send you back to Eveline Gray?”

Stephen’s grin becomes a full toothy smile. “You’re jealous. I like this turn of things. What can I do to keep this irrational side of logical Scarlett Wilcox at the forefront?”

There was one thing, but I knew he’d not say it.

It shouldn’t matter. He’s attentive. He’s passionate. He broke a door to get to me. That should speak to his feelings. What does him actually loving me have to do with anything?

He tugs on his hat. “If you’re seriously concerned about me straying, remember you are my fiancée. And I’ve claimed you before seeking the aunties’ permission. I am a d’yavol.”

I straighten his cravat, tweaking the barrel knot. “You didn’t quite ask for mine either. I believe your aged memory is faulty.”

He pulls me close again. His dark eyes dance with laughter and more. His hand of fine dark caramel snuggles my cheek. “You gave permission in the best possible way, darling. You love me, and you can’t take that back. Remember, I’m an only child. I don’t give things back. I don’t share well.”

“Those sound like areas in which you should seek personal growth.”

“Scarlett, you’re stuck with me.” He steps out of the carriage. “We can run in front of the crowd now and be married in the Cossack style. Right now.”

He’s serious, I think. And his mood is light and frothy. Guess reading his novel has done so. Maybe they aren’t so frivolous.

Helping me out of the carriage, he whirls me around and around until my slippers tap the ground. “Just so we are clear, I’m never letting go.”

The man has always been arrogant and confident. I’m thrilled at the possessive turn. Is it enough, or is Katherine right?

My smart brainbox says words don’t matter, not when you’re mistress of yourself and Stephen Adam Carew will break down doors to get to you. My nurse pulls and straightens my gown. I smooth my cape to hide some wrinkles, but the crimson color screams look at me .

“Well,” I sigh. “My hair? The pins. Is that perhaps presentable?”

Stephen spins me around again. “You’re beautiful, Scarlett. Just as you are.”

Mrs. Cantor hands me my satin gloves. “It’s true, ma’am.”

As Stephen tugs on his, he leans over to me and whispers, “You don’t have to pretend or be someone else today. You’re going forward, straight ahead in life. That will honor Scotland.”

I wish to believe Stephen, and maybe I will tomorrow. Looking at the parishioners heading into church, the women following behind husbands, chasing after children while fathers stand at the side, I’m still stuck in a world where women can’t do many things without the benefit of a man.

That doesn’t change because I have one.

Holding his arm out for me, Stephen escorts me across the street to Wesley’s Chapel. We follow behind Mrs. Cantor to the large brown brick–framed rectangular building. I remember attending with Mama long ago.

People enter under a small portico. When we get through the facade, I see a poster. Stephen groans as he reads, “The Missionary Society has stationed over a hundred missionaries in Brussels, Ceylon, Bombay, Sierra Leone, Nova Scotia, and in the West Indies, Antigua, Nevis, Jamaica, and Trinidad.”

He leans down to my ear. “At least this poster doesn’t call these missions necessary to ‘tame the savages,’ as other church posters have. Perhaps the aunties’ complaints have made changes.”

Power from women? I must know more. Yet, that persona of confident Scarlett, of not being self-conscious, is again teetering on the ledge as I see women in colorful bonnets follow their husbands inside.

Stephen leads me into the sanctuary.

People point. Fans flutter. I assume the talk is about Stephen’s mysterious woman.

The physician doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, he lingers, waving here, talking to men there, making eyes at folks on the opposite side of the choir loft.

He takes me and my chaperone to the front. With a clear view of a baptismal font and platformed pulpit, he seats us on the second row, for God and everyone to see that Stephen has brought guests to the chapel.

Carefully, he takes my hand. Palm to palm, the union he lifts high pointing at the architecture of the old church. “Those columns, my dear Miss Wilcox, the ones that hold up the gallery above, are sturdy jasper wood. King George the Third, himself, had masts from some of his retiring ships dispatched for John Wesley to use to build this church.”

He seems very proud of this. I suppose he has many interests other than showing us holding hands to the congregation.

“An Anglican king supporting a Methodist church is fascinating.” Mrs. Cantor yawns. “And to use ships that have sailed around the world as part of the construction seems fitting for our king. He rules many colonies.”

Stephen acknowledges her with a short smile. New tension comes from her statement, that I think a man from Trinidad particularly feels.

Then he begins to shift his gaze to the crowd. He’s trying to be discreet but he’s searching for someone.

I see one of the ladies from Somerset House barreling up the aisle toward us. With a large ivory bonnet sprigged with purple and pink flowers, this auntie is colorful and dressed in a fashionable gown of light yellow.

“There’s my Stephen,” she says.

He stands and this woman gives him a big hug. “Tantie Telma. I’m here, and I have brought that someone special. Miss Scarlett Wilcox, this is my aunt Telma Smith.”

“Wilcox.” She whacks him on the arm, like I want to do sometimes, but harder. “You were not kidding. You truly do have a young woman in your life.”

I wait for him to say more, to use the F word, like he did with Lord Mark and Georgie.

“Scarlett Wilcox is a special young woman. I’m pleased for her to meet you.”

I keep a smile. I don’t want to react. I’ve given him and this day too much of my power. I want mine back. I’m mistress of myself, after all.

Can I relearn how not to love Stephen Adam Carew in the span of a sermon?

Another woman comes up to us. More hugs are exchanged.

“Miss Wilcox, this is Mrs. Theodora Randolph. Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Smith are affectionately known as the aunties. They influence everything on this side of town.”

Mrs. Randolph wears a wide-brimmed blue hat. Her carriage gown, the same shade of sky blue, matches. “Oh, she is lovely, Stephen. I knew after you lost Miss Eveline last year, you’d stop with these fairy tales and become more serious.”

“What fairy tales, ma’am?” I’m curious.

“Some sort of hospital. Wesley’s Chapel has plenty of missions for the sick. A young man must build his practice and fortunes before he can turn to philanthropy.”

Oh goodness. It wasn’t just losing Eveline that stopped Stephen’s dream. It was the aunties.

He offers a nervous chuckle. “Miss Wilcox, the aunties are about protocol and establishing—”

“Establishing their own ton, just like Mayfair. How sad.”

These words slip out before I can stop them, not that I want to.

“Miss Wilcox is such a kidder. Such a wonderful sense of humor.” Stephen tries to clean up my directness. The way Mrs. Randolph is now looking me over, I don’t think it possible.

“Miss Eveline, the Baroness of Derand, is here somewhere, Stephen.” Mrs. Smith glances at me and then does another fast look.

Oh dear. She’s recognized my disguise. “You’re . . .”

Ready to explain, I brace, cut my eyes to slits. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Smith nods. “You’re one of Cesar Wilcox’s daughters. Good on you, Stephen. Peers like to descend and steal our eligible girls. You’ve taken one back.”

“You know me,” he says with a little bit of breeze, accented relief releasing in his word. “I’m de ole tief when it comes . . . to this one.”

The begging in his eyes to be easy cools my anger a little. These women actually make him nervous.

Mrs. Randolph waves to a young woman entering the chapel. “Here comes Eveline. Perhaps she will tell us the name she has chosen, now that she’s free.”

Mrs. Smith grins and claps my hand. “It won’t be Carew thanks to dis one.”

Stephen’s old love, the newly divorced baroness, walks down the aisle with her head up. Her motions are light, like a bird or ballerina. “Good to see you, Mrs. Randolph. Mrs. Smith.”

Even dis one’s voice is airy . . . and effective. I see Stephen stiffen.

It’s the scent of rose water radiating from her extended hand that affects me the most, and I know exactly the name this woman wishes to be called. Well, at least the name she went by at night. Chrysanthemum.

Eveline Gray—the young woman Stephen wanted to marry last year, the one with the surprise public elopement to a baron, who has returned from Scotland with an annulment—is earning her keep at Madame Rosebud’s on 18 Half Moon Street off Piccadilly as one of the prized courtesans.