Page 33 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

K ATHERINE P ALMERS , L ADY H AMPTON —T HE B ET AND C ONSEQUENCES

June 30, 1817 22 Ground Street, London

I still can’t believe the news. Mr. Benjamin, who came to retrieve the longcase clock from my sister’s room, delivered the London Morning Post with the announcement. SCARLETT WILCOX HAS ELOPED WITH MR. STEPHEN CAREW.

I take a breath and read it aloud to Georgie. The soft sweet smell of chamomile greets me as she sips her tea. “Good for them.”

“Does the paper say if he gave her a pony?” Lydia comes into the parlor. She’s spinning in her blue butterfly dress. It’s one the modiste made while designing Scarlett’s. She spins, the muslin floats about her ankles. “I think Mr. Carew should get Scarlett two ponies, ’cause they love each other and they married.”

A loud noise, multiple horses trotting, pounds close to the house.

Georgie looks out the window. “Unless Mark has magically turned the coal dray into a barouche with six horses, looks like we shall have company.”

“It’s obviously the duke. Coming to show off his new carriage. Probably wanting to take you, Lydia, for a ride in it.” I smile at how her little face brightens. “You are dressed for an elegant day.”

The little girl dances. “Oh, I love how he thinks of me. Bestus friend. Katherine, can you come with us, too? You said you would be nicer to my bestus friend.”

I keep my frown at this new spectacle to a minimum. I need to do better. Jahleel didn’t badger me with questions or accusations when Scarlett told him about our son. He was gentle and kind.

That was so unexpected, for I would rail. I would blame me. I would make me feel as low and as dirty as possible. A woman has one job, to protect the baby growing inside. I failed our son. Jahleel. Me.

Georgie looks up and catches my glance. “Perhaps you should go. Maybe make a list of what the Duke of Torrance likes and dislikes. You did promise to be his special friend if he found matches for your sisters before you could.”

She’s smirking. And I am a little giddy. I shouldn’t’ve let Jahleel hold me. The way his hands have always found ways to remove my angst should be studied. Can one hate a man and be desiring of his touch?

“Katherine!” Lydia is getting more excited. “Please come. I want us all to be the bestus friends.”

“Very well, if he asks, I’ll go. But don’t you have a bed to go make up? I don’t know if you can go if you have—”

The child runs with the speed of the wind. The bouncing of her feet echoes.

“Check on Mr. Thom. He’s now in Scarlett’s old room. I believe that his eye surgery will be next week, when the lovebirds are back from their wedding trip.” Georgie smiles. “Yeah, my little sister’s going to be happy. And my older one will be a mistress. How exciting.”

I sink onto the bench of the pianoforte and plunk keys. “This is not how I wanted things to go. I hope Scarlett is happy. I wish we could’ve seen them off.”

“Boy, your smile is gone. You know she’s liked Mr. Carew a long time. You just hate losing.” Georgie sips her tea, then she looks up with doe-like eyes. “Perhaps with Scarlett having to manage her own household, maybe she will have more sympathy for the difficulties you’ve had to endure, managing our household and a business.”

I want my relationship with Scarlett repaired. I want us close again. I don’t want to be the stern one anymore. Frustrated, I sigh and pour myself a cup of Georgie’s tea. The pot feels warm to the touch. “Mr. Carew. He was here when everything started. I feel sad and guilty when he’s around.”

“Not at the beginning of everything. You and the duke started in St. Petersburg.”

Georgie has jokes for my plight. I know she means well.

Then my sister gazes at me with a sweet, sad expression. “Mark has sold a set of songs for an upcoming opera. We now have money to buy a house. Though he and I love this side of the Thames, we will be looking for our own.”

“No.” I put my cup down onto the saucer. “This great big house just for me and Lydia? That doesn’t seem right.” Less stern, more hopeful—I caution myself and ease my tone. “But I understand.”

Relief sweeps across her face and she sags against the sofa like a weight has fallen from her shoulders. “I’m glad you’re taking this well.”

“Am I such an ogre?” I dash to the mirror in the hall. “Am I?”

Pushing at my lean cheeks, I don’t see youthful ignorance. The beauty of resolve and strength stares back at me. I’ve aged, become wiser, but I’ve yet to dream my biggest dreams.

Georgie comes to me and takes my hand. “You’re beautiful, Katherine. And you’ve spent too long mourning.”

I reach for her hand and draw her close. “I want you happy, you and Scarlett. You both deserve that.”

“Someone else deserves happiness and the truth. It’s time to tell him. He and Lydia need to know. That little girl is healthy now, but that can change. How will you feel if we lose her and we still have all these secrets? Scarlett hates how we don’t talk about Scotland. It would be very sad if we do the same with Lydia.”

Pulling both her hands about my neck, I need her to throttle me so I will act. “The duke vexes me. Even now he’s sitting outside in that grand carriage to make the biggest entrance. He will forever rub my nose in all my failings.”

“He doesn’t actually do that.” Georgie turns to look to the window by the door, but all I see are those monster-sized horses.

“Look at how he’s arrived in a big carriage. That is to taunt me. He’s won the bet. I hate him. I hate that I hate him, especially when he’s so good to Lydia. Then I hate myself, that I have to be the strict one. Then I loathe me for not telling him the truth.”

I swipe at my eye. “I keep fearing that Jahleel will get bored and leave . . . but he doesn’t. How do I console Lydia if I relent, and the man becomes bored and leaves?”

“You hate that perhaps you’ve been wrong about him, Katherine. Why can’t you enjoy the man who should love Lydia? You must tell him. He needs to know.”

“He’s stubborn.”

Georgie taps her foot. “Pot. Kettle. Katherine, he’s been here three years. He’s loved her every minute. Can’t you see this? Why are you so afraid of letting the duke be a permanent part of her life?”

Tears begin to clog my throat. I’m back in St. Petersburg, thinking I’ve found my other half, but he wants more than that. He wants it all. “I loved him desperately. I lost every bit of me. Then he left and I continued to lose. I can’t be made desperate again. I need him gone. I can’t love him again.”

“Sister.” Georgie grips my shoulders, her fingers slipping on my plain gray gown. “What do you mean again? That would mean you stopped.”

A knock sounds on the door. I’m actually thankful for it. “Coming.”

I dry my eyes. “Well, let’s get this done.” I open the door and bow. “Let the bragging commence.”

“Lady Hampton, I’m Lord Ashbrook . . .”

Popping up, I school my face. “Excuse me, my lord, but tell His Grace that though his presence is everywhere, he’s not allowed to invite strangers to my house.”

Lord Ashbrook looks confused. “Lady Hampton, this is not a social call.”

“Make way for the princess.” A footman in a silver mantle and a tall hat with feathers bellows outside our house. “Make haste for the princess.”

“Princess?” I bow and retreat deeper into my house.

“Yes, Lady Hampton,” the old woman says. “Do you remember me?”

My knees knock, then I bow again. “Yes, Princess Elizaveta. Do come in.”

The regal woman enters, and I pull back almost into the parlor.

Georgie comes to my side and holds my hand. “What is the meaning of this? I mean, to what do we owe this honor, Your Highness?”

One of the princess’s servants carries in a framed portrait. I look at it, the innocent face, the silver dress. The tears I’ve suppressed return. It’s a trickle, then a full flood.

“Then you recognize her, Lady Hampton.” Though her English is pristine, her Russian accent is strong. “This is my Anya, Jahleel’s sister, painted the year she died.”

Lord Ashbrook steps forward. “We do not wish to take up your time, but I’m here on behalf of the Duke of Torrance. You have been protecting his minor child. He’s now in a position to make her paternity known and afford her all the benefits and renown she’s due. The child, the daughter of a duke, shall now be called Lady Lydia Jahleelovna Charles.”

The famous earl, one of the few Blackamoors distinguished as a barrister in the king’s courts, I recognize. The sketches in the paper, even the favorable ones, do not do him justice.

He hands me documents which I know will change everything. Ashbrook’s record is legendary.

He convicts wrongdoers.

He’s here to convict me.

“Torrance would be here to do this himself, but he’s fallen deathly ill. Please read them, ma’am.” The earl’s expression is sullen. “The nature is sensitive. Time is of the essence.”

Ill? Always dramatic, Jahleel. Nonetheless, my hands tremble as I break the seal. Unfolding the fancy parchment reveals lines and lines of text. Legal words that must be Latin scatter the pages. But in very large, very clear print, are the words stating Jahleel and I were married at the time of Lydia and Andrew’s birth.

The ink is bold and black, blacker than the darkest indigo.

An ounce of pride comes to my soul knowing Jahleel actually named our son after his father, a man I know he loved. That’s an honor, especially for a woman who hasn’t been to Jahleel.

I break a little more inside, thinking of the emotion, the loss that swept between us over our son. He offered no blame to me. For my sorrows surely killed the babe.

My tears fall on the papers that Jahleel has made come to pass. He’s protecting Lydia. She’s legitimate, not born out of wedlock. She’s a Charles. There will be no shame or ostracization that comes from the snide ton or the gossipy aspects of the Blackamoor community. “Jahleel’s done this, even though I’ve . . .” I can’t say aloud how I’ve deprived him of our beautiful girl. I’ve been too fearful of him taking her away. No one can undo my lies. “How sick is he? I must see—”

“Bring my grandchild . . . to me.” My wicked, shameful heart begins to throb. I’m more frightened. There’s ownership in her voice. The princess has come to take my daughter.

Georgina moves to the stairs. “Lydia.” Her voice warbles like a baby bird’s. “Lydia, please come.”

The child bounds down the treads. “I stopped in Scarlett’s room. Mr. Thom says he’s sleeping. And . . .”

Her beautiful eyes of black and bits of gold grow wide. She runs to the frame and claps. “Duke. Duke. He’s had me painted as a princess. Look, Katherine. Look, Georgina, I’m a princess for my birthday.”

I’m breathless.

Princess Elizaveta, the severe woman who stonily disapproved of me years ago, looks as if she’s about to crack like a dropped porcelain doll. Dignified and stiff and shaking, she steps closer to Lydia. “The likeness is uncanny. Your hair’s a little darker. Anya’s was a lighter brown. My daughter’s eyes were hazel like Jahleel’s.”

“Why does everyone look scared?” Lydia’s little lip pokes out. “Where’s the duke? Who took my duke?”

“Lidochka, my dorogaya. My Jasha’s letters, his tales of you have made me so happy, so hopeful to meet you.”

“Jasha?” Georgie looks confused. “Who’s Jasha? Who’s Lidochka?”

“Those are diminutives,” I say. “Lidochka is Lydia. Jasha for Jahleel.”

“Dorogaya is ‘darling,’ but only the duke calls me that.” Lydia frowns at the princess. “Did he tell you you could say that? My duke?”

“He’s mine, too. I am the duke’s mother. Jasha would come to explain things himself but he’s very, very sick.”

“You keep saying that to scare me.” I fold my arms, knowing he’s done this on purpose. “I am already a thousand times sorry. He is in the right. He does not need to pretend to be ill. He doesn’t have to go missing to announce this. Oh, please don’t let him go to the papers.”

Lord Ashbrook’s neck, his chin jerks. “Torrance has no intentions of making the scandal more public. We just left him. He wants this discreet. He doesn’t want his last actions on this earth to bring pain to the Wilcoxes, but he must protect Lady Lydia. She’s his legacy.”

This is too fast. “Lord Ashbrook, you’re acting like Jahleel is dying.”

“Ma’am, we just left him. He may not live through the night. He suffers the blood sickness. The duke has had a painful, chronically ill journey. I pray he survives.”

“Nooo,” Lydia begins to whimper. “Did he not wear his stockings? He tells me to wear mine to stay healthy. I haven’t been sick in months.”

The princess looks at me. Her rich skin pales to ash. “She suffers, too?” Her face blanks, the expression changes to one of rawness and pain. “This is the reason I wanted no marriage. The sickness is in my bloodline, his father’s, and yours. When you told me what your mother suffered, I knew this was possible. More generations dying from the ancient curse.”

Lydia begins shaking her head. “No. No more dying. The duke can’t die. He loves me.”

I go to comfort her, but the princess holds her hand out to stop me. She kneels to Lydia and wipes the child’s tears on her white gloves. “The duke is your father. I’ve come to bring you to him. Your father wants to see you.”

“I don’t want to go to the cemetery. Papa’s in the cemetery. Mama’s there, too. I don’t want to go.”

The princess looks horrified. “My son still lives. We must pray and hold on to the hope he recovers.”

“But my papa is gone. He’s not the duke. Katherine. Georgina, tell her. I mean, I’d love for the duke to be my papa. ’Cause he actually loves me. Georgie? Katherine?”

My sister looks at me. She doesn’t have the I-told-you-so look but something much worse. Her countenance reads we shall now lose Lydia because of all the lies.

I go to them and kneel. “Lydia, the duke is your true father. My papa was your grandfather. My mother was your grandmother.”

“Katherine.” Her chubby little fingers swipe at a tear. “You are just trying to make me laugh. You know I’m scared for my duke.”

Hugging her like this might be the last time I am ever able to, I tell my daughter, “The duke is your father, Lydia. That is no lie.”

Shaking her head, making herself dizzy, she backs up to the portrait. “Truth?”

She plops down on the floor beside the painting. Her legs are tucked under her light blue dress.

“I have a daughter whose voice melts my heart,” Lord Ashbrook says, glancing down at Lydia with a sorrowful smile. “I’m sure Torrance’s melts as well.” He clears his throat. “I have a duty of service to my client. Jahleel Andrewovich Charles, the Duke of Torrance. The Court of Chancery, or what’s left of it, has voted this morning to confirm unanimously the marriage of my client and Katherine Charles and upholds its validity to the time of the birth of their twins.”

“Katherine, why is the man saying my mother is another woman named Katherine? And I’m not a twin. Scarlett’s the twin. But you don’t talk about him.”

Georgie starts to cry. She runs into the parlor. From there she says, “We thought we were doing what was right.”

I stand up straight. “I am . . . was Katherine Charles. Jahleel, the duke, is your father. You are my daughter. We’ve been lying to you. I’ve been lying.”

Ashbrook steps forward. “It was to protect you, little one. The duke instructed me to make sure that’s clear. I’m also to hand you this, Lady Hampton.”

Fearful to take the papers, I draw my arms to my back. “State what these are.”

“As payment for taking care of Lydia and keeping her hidden from gossip and harm until the duke was in a position to protect her.” Ashbrook removes his spectacles for a moment. “I want to get the language right. As payment for the care and lodgings of Lady Lydia, all debts are considered paid in full. These documents show that all of the late Lord Hampton’s debts and liens against the property and business have been cleared. Everything is again in the Wilcoxes’ possession.”

“If he’s buying our daughter, she’s not for sale.”

Ashbrook folds the papers again and slides them in the crook of my arm. “There’s some odd language about a bet. He was very clear that he won, and that he expects nothing from you.”

The earl shakes his head. “That must be the pain medicine speaking for him.”

Then Ashbrook holds out a final paper. “This is a divorce decree. I suspect it should be dated to your marriage to Lord Hampton. I didn’t know what date you wanted. Please return it to me when you’ve ascribed a date.”

“We shall leave.” The princess says, “Come along, Lady Lydia. Your father must see you. I think it will make him better.”

“Duke . . . Papa? Better. He needs to be better.”

I step in front of them and block the door. “No, I shall bring her.”

“No, you won’t,” Lydia starts to cry. “You’ll make excuses as to why we can’t see him. You don’t like my papa. He’s my true papa.”

Lydia turns and hides in the old woman’s skirts. She’s sobbing.

The princess bends down to her. “You come from a line of greatness. I know you are small and hurting, but you’ll overcome. Lift your head, Lady Lydia. Come with me to be with your father.”

My child, my Lydia, glances back at me, then up to the princess. “You don’t lie. I want to go see Papa Duke. I want to be with my father.”

They walk out of my house.

Dropping all the papers, I clutch Lord Ashbrook’s coat. “No, don’t take my child. We . . . I had the best intentions. I—”

“Ma’am, I work with my aunt to restore children wrongfully withheld from their mothers. While I feel for your circumstances, you’ve defrauded a man of his relationship with his child. He may succumb and never hear his daughter call him Papa. That would destroy me.”

“This is destroying me. We thought we were doing our best.”

He sighs and stops at the door. “If the duke recovers, find a way to make amends. Torrance is reasonable, and I know he will do all for his daughter.”

“And if he does not recover?”

“Princess Elizaveta Abramovna Gannibal is Torrance’s guardian, and now Lady Lydia’s. She has full authority over how his child will grow up and where she will live.”

The Earl of Ashbrook leaves.

Georgie comes to my side. “This is a nightmare. Do something, Katherine.”

What can be done? Nothing if Jahleel dies. How can I fight the courts when we’ve lied so much? And who takes precedence over his mother? No one but a wife.

With assistance from a footman, the princess steps into her large carriage. Lydia looks back at me, the house.

I see tears falling down her baby cheeks.

I want to run and scoop her up and beg, beg, beg forgiveness.

But I’m just the mean lady who kept her from her duke, not away from the hatred his position bears, not the broken promises he left me with, or fickleness I assumed was Jahleel’s character. Well, what I wanted to believe was his character. For he’s good, more than I wanted to accept.

Jasha may die. I’m the villain. I am the villain.

Every second, I hope my child will run back to me. I sob, stand frozen in time, watching her turn away. Lydia climbs into the barouche. The stiff old princess, who I thought hated me, has my child on her lap.

Both hold onto each other as the carriage drives off.

I drop to my knees, weeping at my handiwork, all the harm my lies have done.