Page 3 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 3

S TEPHEN —W HY D O F OOLS F ALL IN L OVE ?

T he duke’s chef wheeled out a silver cart with desserts. A plate of strawberry tarts looked tempting, as did the sugar-powdered kartoshka.

As I glanced at the cart coming closer, the duke leaned on one elbow. “Couldn’t find cassava, Carew.”

“Cassava, Your Grace? Why?”

“Miss Wilcox said that cassava pone is your favorite. I would like to reward you for the care you’ve given myself and Lydia Wilcox.”

“No bribe is necessary.” It was touching that the duke went to such trouble and that Scarlett remembered this small detail. Asking again for his support and funding for the hospital project seemed a natural thing to do. Yet, I hesitated. I would wait until it was just the duke and myself. No Livingston. And no eavesdropping Wilcox.

From the cart, the earl selected a tart. That seemed fitting. The man began again to ramble about some new courtesan or brothel or wrestling match. I realized I’d lost count and interest. I found myself looking again to the entrance. Was Scarlett Wilcox done having her say?

“Livingston, this Madame Rosebud is interesting,” the duke said. “But do you still conduct science, or are brothel women your experiments?”

The earl wiped fluffy cream from his face. “Yes. I’m working on a lecture on eye anatomy. I did some work before the war in Paris. I’ll do so again now that Napoleon is gone. It will be conducted after the Annual Exhibition.”

“What exhibition?” The duke lifted a second kartoshka onto his plate. The cream oozed from the crumbly texture. “What is that?”

“That actually might be the reason attendance to lectures at Anya House is down. The wild art exhibits at Somerset House are always a draw. Most love art over science.”

I made my voice loud to see if Scarlett would again interrupt, but she didn’t. Oddly enough, I felt as if she were listening.

“Torrance,” Livingston said, “the physician is right. The exhibition is drawing huge crowds. It’s hard to compete against.”

The earl swirled his champagne. The translucent liquid reflected the glow of fire from the gilded sconces rimming the room. For a moment, I waited for the surface of the champagne to burst into flames, maybe offer a specter’s voice to tell us what to do for Anya House’s meetings to regain public favor.

Then I chided myself, remembering the old tales and wonderment I grew up with in Port of Spain, Trinidad. Specters weren’t a thing the ton considered. Nor did they agree with natural medicines or foods to improve health like beetroot.

“Oh, Somerset House will be crowded for weeks.” Livingston smirked. “Torrance, you’ll have to wait until summer is over to draw people. But we can help you apply that zeal to something more substantial.” I began the countdown. Three. Two. One . . . “Let me take you two to Madame Rosebud’s. She has the cleanest courtesans.”

How on earth was this foolish man a leading scientist? Did he stand in some line? Maybe it was a heredity title or something.

“You need to have a mistress, Torrance.” The earl raised his arms, spreading them wide as if to welcome the duke to hedonism. “Men need someone to cater to our whims.”

“I have a staff and a French chef. These whims are fine for now.” Torrance sat back, his ring finger wiping up leftover cream from his kartoshka. “I’m working on the mistress part. I have a bet to collect.”

I’d heard snippets of the theatrics between the duke and Lady Hampton from Scarlett. Give the girl a bowl of pineapple ice and she’d confess to a crime. “Your Grace, here’s a thought. Find a woman that actually likes you. You’re a good man. It can’t be that hard. Come with me one Sunday to Cheapside. The aunties, Telma Smith and Theodora Randolph, will have you married in no time.”

Torrance offered a patient smile. “Time is something no one can count on.” He sighed, and I felt a small sense of his hopelessness. Of course, I didn’t know how he could’ve fallen so deeply in love with a woman he’d only known for less than two years.

I’d become acquainted with my special lady four years ago. This year, after the start of my hospital, I would propose.

“So tell us how, Mr. Carew. What makes these Cheapside women so good to you?” The duke tapped his lips. “I recall, though you are popular, that you are still very much a single man.”

“For now. But the aunties have introduced me to the perfect woman.”

“Auuugh!” Scarlett moaned as if she’d fallen in the hall.

I started to rise to see if she was hurt.

“No, Carew, sit,” Livingston said. “You can’t drop such a statement onto the duke’s beautiful table and run. Tell us about your perfect woman.”

Easing back into the chair, I fluffed the charcoal-colored tails of my coat. “This is why I don’t bet. I try never to lie and typically keep discussions of my romantic life to a minimum. If I talk too much, something will go wrong. A perfect woman is a figure of speech.”

“English is my second language.” Torrance frowned. He seemed genuinely lost. “I don’t know this expression. What is the perfect woman?”

Livingston shook his head. “You don’t know because there are none. All women are terribly flawed. It’s not their fault. They are built to be cruel.”

“And men are picnics.” An unhurt Scarlett stood again under the curved threshold. With a newspaper in one hand and little Lydia’s hand in the other, this young lady was prepared for battle. “Is this all you gentlemen do when alone? Drink and disparage the fairer sex?”

Before he could answer, the youngest Wilcox, Lydia, danced away and came closer to the table. “Duke, I have on my shoes and stockings. See?”

She hiked up her dress and showed off her knees. Scarlett ran and lowered the hem. “Lydia, we don’t do that.”

“Well, if I show the duke I’m good, he’ll come up to me at bedtime for stories. You will come, right?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I’ll be there. I’ll hire actors to perform a whole ballet for you.”

“Torrance.” I lifted my glass to him. “You put a man who loves grand gestures to shame.”

“No gest . . . gestus, just Duke, just you, my duke.” The child’s smile made Torrance sit up taller.

That little Lydia—his affectionate Lidochka, as he often called her—had His Grace wrapped around her finger. One little pout or sniffle and the duke stepped into action, making her laugh. He would solve anything, do anything for her.

Come to think of it, Scarlett pretty much had him doing her bidding as well.

The duke flexed a finger and servants stood at the ready to pull two chairs to the table. “Ladies, sit. There are plenty of desserts.”

Lydia ran and flung herself onto his lap. “Good. I think we can hear much better here than in the hall.”

“We weren’t listening. Well, not a lot.” Scarlett’s cheeks reddened.

Taking my eyes from her, I put my gaze on the earl. Livingston seemed more focused on Scarlett. Even sotted, you could see he approved of her. He, and a few others, had noticed her at the duke’s ball.

Truthfully, there wasn’t much to disapprove of—tall, but not too tall. Graceful in her movements but not flamboyant. Light olive skin and midnight eyes that appeared smoky, or like jet-colored glass that sparkled when her mood changed. No, there wasn’t much anyone could disapprove of, except the boots. She loved to wear men’s boots.

“That is my point.” Livingston wobbled and waved his arms like he tried to swim in place. “Now the two of you are distracted. The child and willful young woman will rule your world.”

“Woman?” I felt my hackles and brow rise. “This little lady is fresh out of leading strings and pinafores.” That sounded condescending but it was our joke. Scarlett and I traded barbs like this all the time.

But this time she didn’t say a word. She remained silent staring at the floor.

“She’s twenty,” the duke said. “That’s old enough to be presented at court. I think Queen Charlotte would enjoy meeting Scarlett Wilcox.”

Twenty. Truly?

Had that much time passed?

Eight years of being the Wilcoxes’ family physician had allowed me to see her mature and always asking the smartest questions, but I’d never admit to that. It was too much fun teasing her. “I find Miss Wilcox too opinionated for her young age.”

Snatched from her spectral trance, Scarlett lifted her chin. Her eyes targeted me, and I prepared to battle.

“Mr. Carew, opinions are the one thing I possess that are totally owned by me. Something you men should learn to admire, for I’ll never change.” Scarlett went to the table but waved away the servant waiting to pull out a seat for her. “I’d rather stand.”

“Look at this, my princess,” the duke said to Lydia. “You will see your British sister outwit a man from across the sea.”

“What of me, Torrance?” The earl hiccupped. “Can she outwit me, too? I’m from Hertfordshire.”

The duke offered a proud gaze toward Scarlett. “I’m afraid, Livingston, you wouldn’t last a minute.”

The earl frowned, but the good-natured drunk always had a little fight in him. “Well then, Miss Wilcox, what are your opinions on the perfect woman? The duke and, I daresay, Carew, think you are intelligent, so you must have a good answer.”

Drawing the newsprint to her chest like a shield, she folded her hands about it. Scarlett had long pretty fingers, which she kept very clean. Tomboys usually didn’t. “Before I give my say, I’d like to hear what each of you think. Do start, Lord Livingston.”

Caught in his own trap, he sipped from his goblet. It took a full two minutes for him to say, “Beautiful, wealthy, loyal. See, I have simple but necessary criteria. Though it will never come to fruition, I will never marry again.”

Scarlett turned her perfectly smoky eyes toward the duke. “And you, Your Grace?”

“Well, I don’t require a fortune, but I do hope the woman would be wise about money. A pretty face is a delight.” He rubbed his chin. “But Livingston is right about loyalty. It’s a very important characteristic. The perfect woman must be someone with whom I can have no doubts in her character. Long or short, I shall trust her with my life.”

Lydia grabbed his neck, pulled his face forward, then kissed his cheek. “Then you think I’m perfect, for I’ll protect you. I think you perfect, too.”

His arm wound about her. For a moment, I saw a man who would slay dragons for this child, for as long as he could. I smiled back, knowing how rare it was to witness such devotion.

Unfortunately, as a physician, I’d found many husbands who had no interest in their children or stepchildren until they were ready to arrange a marriage to advance their family’s stature.

“Carew,” the duke said, “let’s hear your answer. Let it be less jaded than mine or Livingston’s.”

Taking my time, I tried to find a fitting jest for the wonderful Miss Scarlett. I finished my champagne but lifted the crystal goblet into the air. “A toast to Livingston who has described his perfect woman, a reformed courtesan with looks and a well-earned fortune. And to the duke, a loyal beauty. I do hope that you find her, and I pray she be less cantankerous than the current object of your affection.”

Livingston took my gesture as a request for more drink. He beat a footman and lifted the champagne’s small cask, refilling our glasses. “Continue, Carew. Tell him one of those things Shakespeare would write.”

I ignored the fool and watched the Miss of Science.

“Bubbles?” Scarlett’s nose wrinkled.

Not sure how I felt about the bubbles either. I read . . . or I thought Scarlett told me the monks tried to remove them, before a vintner determined the bubbles helped with fermentation.

Did I argue with her? Probably. Did I admit she may be right? Never. I set down the glass, wondering why that memory of our fiery exchange popped up in my cranium.

“Don’t keep us in suspense, Mr. Carew.” Scarlett’s tone warmed as she tried to draw me closer to her verbal guillotine. “Well, sir? The perfect woman can’t be such a hard concept for a decisive man like you. I’m sure you will add some anatomy to your description . . . and pauses, oh great hesitater.”

Torrance chuckled and so did Livingston.

“Well, let me see,” I said, stalling. A quip for my friend had to be, well, perfect. “The duke’s ideal woman is more dignified than the earl’s. Yet they both demand some level of beauty and loyalty. I don’t think these ideas are enough.”

Scarlett offered a yawn. “I think Mr. Carew has not an answer. I’ve valued his abilities too highly. Hello, indecisive physician. I have a penny for your thoughts.”

Reaching out, I tweaked her flared nose. “Better ask Torrance for a loan. My opinion is worth a pound.”

“Pro . . . procrast . . . delaying.” Lydia said.

I chuckled, then grew serious. “The perfect woman is demure, quiet, born of pedigree, an impeccable dresser, and beautiful. She’s all of these things, and she’s loyal and wonderful.”

Scarlett tilted her head a little and stared. Her expression soured. “Quiet? Demure? She sounds as if she’s made of marble. Did you sculpt her to have such attributes?”

“Well, if a chisel will work to smooth a few edges, what’s a little dust?” I chortled and glanced at the stunned faces.

“So you wish to create the perfect woman? I knew you had a God complex.”

I waggled my finger at the girl. “You . . . are impossible. I have given you a reasonable definition.”

Livingston tapped the table. “Sounds like this is a real woman. What is her name?”

They all would know soon enough, since I planned to tell her my feelings this weekend. I wanted a long engagement, but I couldn’t let the jewel slip away. I’d even use the dreaded L word to secure her agreement. The L word was the riskiest spiritual word. In the past, saying it aloud made those I loved go away. “Eveline Gray. Eveline Gray of Cheapside. I . . . I love her. She loves and understands me too.”

My chortles stopped when Scarlett offered me a stunned, sad look. She bit her lip.

I lifted my hands. “Miss Wilcox. Don’t be upset. We tease each other all the time. You will like Miss Gray. I’ve told her of you. Miss Gray and I have slowly courted these past four years. She’s agreed to a long engagement. At the end of the year, I intend—”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Carew.” Scarlett looked troubled.

“What’s the matter? You know I like to tease you. We always tease each other.”

“But, Eveline Gray.” Scarlett’s tone was low. “That’s a familiar name. Are you sure of the name?”

I sat back and folded my arms. “Of course. I intend to . . . She’s . . . Scarlett Wilcox, what is it?”

The agitation in her cheeks disappeared. Her expression changed from sadness to something that felt like pity. “I’m so sorry.”

“Scarlett?” My heart raced. “What?”

She bit her lip, then set the newspaper in front of me. “I read—”

“Oh good, this one reads, too.” Livingston poured more champagne. “You know that’s dangerous in a woman.”

Mimicking the duke, I waved at him to silence, then turned my gaze back to Scarlett. “Please go on.”

“Well, I borrowed His Grace’s Sun paper to find out more about the Royal Society meetings and saw the Annual Exhibition at Somerset House. It’s happening now.”

“See, Torrance. I told you.” Livingston turned the champagne cask up to his face. “Why are the Royal Society schedules important, Miss Wilcox? Women aren’t allowed.”

This time the duke stuck a big kartoshka roll onto the earl’s plate. “Stuff that into your mouth and let Scarlett finish about Miss Gray.”

The girl pointed to an item in the paper.

Shock and shame filled me when I read the name. “Eveline Gray of Cheapside has eloped with Baron David Derand.” Eveline was now another man’s wife.

Silence.

The flicker and dripping of the candles drowned my slowing pulse. “Miss Gray never said a word about there being anyone else.”

But there was someone else. A peer . . . a man outside of our community.

“Sorry, Mr. Carew.” The brave lass was the first to speak. No sass, no spite, just comfort—that was what Scarlett offered me.

Still, I couldn’t understand this. Feeling discombobulated, I shook my head. “I just saw Miss Gray at Wesley’s Chapel last week. We sat together in front of the aunties.” Why did I say that L word? Why did I doom myself to hope? “She said nothing of an impending offer from Derand.”

“Guess you were right about the quiet part. She was so silent you didn’t notice you were losing her.”

Livingston’s words added an extra sharp kick to my gut. I slumped in the chair.

I didn’t know what to say. I kept staring at Eveline’s name in the newspaper. Then I felt an understanding hand on my shoulder.

Scarlett offered me a sympathetic smile. It eased my pain a little.

But I had to figure out how to survive the rest of the night and my aunties at church this weekend. They could be insufferable. Their pity would be awful.

“Saves me making a fool of myself, quoting Shakespeare in front of her parents to prove my love.” I lifted my goblet. “I wish her well. To Eveline Gray, the new Baroness of Derand. May she be happy.”

Everyone drank.

I sipped and found myself holding on to Scarlett’s hand a little longer. She kindly sensed the ache in me and didn’t cause more damage.

“Thanks, Miss Wilcox.” I whispered my praise and saw tears in her eyes. Like a patient being tended to, I held on to her fingers, clinging to her empathy and wishing everyone else could ignore the embarrassed fool I’d become.