Page 4 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 4

S CARLETT —S AME O LD , S AME O LD

June 2, 1817 One year later . . .

L ying in bed, waiting for the acceptable time to rise, I see the sun brighten the drab curtains shrouding my window. My room is utilitarian except for the exquisite clock in the corner. My father’s longcase clock. It’s one of his possessions that gladly fell to me. I had it moved from his office at Wilcox Coal the week after he passed, when my sister began considering giving her husband control of the business.

A slow but bitter chuckle falls. That’s probably why the clock is still in our possession, not sold off to pay Tavis’s bets.

The clock’s hand says six forty-five.

Footsteps. They are light with a clacking sound. Those are Katherine’s heels. She’s typically up by five doing the books for Wilcox Coal.

Sighing, I think of her spending all her energy to resolve a debt that doesn’t need to be repaid, but my sister wants nothing from the duke—no kindness, no friendship, nothing. I love my sister. I admire her determination as much as I love Katherine’s unruly nature. She lets people know what she feels, and she doesn’t care if they are offended by her words. Not everyone is as secure as Katherine.

She works too hard. The poor dear is trying to double the company’s profits so that she can prove we don’t need the Duke of Torrance or his money. Her pride blinds her to all the reasons he should be in our lives.

Katherine’s footfalls stop outside my door. That’s different.

“Scarlett, are you up?”

Oh dear. Has she found out about my secret visits? Did she hear I spent time caring for the women at Bridewell prison? Did she discover one of the disguises that I use to attend lectures? I try to slow my rising pulse. I cough to make sure my voice works and doesn’t sound guilty. “Yes, you can come in.”

My door opens and my sister comes inside. She’s in an indigo dress, which one might say indicates half-mourning. It’s been well over two years since she became a widow. No one needs to be that devoted to foolish Tavis. “You are staying over at Anya House tonight?”

She knows this. “Yes, Katherine.” I don’t light a candle. I’d rather she not see the difficulty I have hiding my annoyance. “Monday through Wednesday, we’re supposed to stay with the Duke of Torrance. We meet with members of society. Playwrights or musicians come. It’s delightful culture.”

“Yes, and you’ve made yourself at home there. Your room there has color. Here, it’s dull, the same—”

“The same as when I was six? I shared a room then. Hadn’t thought about much except my clock.”

“The longcase is nice.” She comes a little more into the room. “I know Anya House seems wonderful, and the duke is introducing you to gentlemen. Do not be fooled. Those are potential candidates. He’s trying to pick a husband for you. You don’t want that. You want your freedom, Scarlett.”

Freedom is a wonderful thing. But what do you call someone caught in a war between two people who should have more common sense? “Katherine, if the duke finds someone who fits my criteria, I will marry. Then I’ll be free from you trying to manipulate me.”

“You don’t think the duke is trying to manipulate you? I know he’s turning each of you against me.”

Katherine does a fair job of that all by herself. She pushes me to exasperation, acting as if her judgment is better. “I’ll act in a manner for my own happiness.”

“Don’t go quoting that novel to me. Who feeds you such frivolity? I’m serious, Scarlett. I only need a little more time, and I can pay him back. Then, as wealthy women, we can have our pick of society.”

Wilcox Coal will never earn enough to put us in a respectable sphere. We’ll only attract more fortune chasing men like Tavis, the late Lord Hampton. It’s been a year since I gave the duke the power to choose my husband. It was my bargain to have freedom to do research and go to men’s lectures. Through his science meetings at Anya House, I’ve met some of the brightest minds in England, but the duke hasn’t made any picks. He doesn’t feel I’m ready. In a way, the Duke of Torrance acts more noble than Katherine. “Sister, why are you so desperate when it comes to the duke? Are you still trying to kid yourself that you’re not attracted to him?”

She leans against the threshold. Her silhouette looks proud. “Torrance is not ugly.”

“Katherine, women throw themselves at him. Mr. Steele has had to chase away two widows, three young ladies in their first season, and one mama and daughter combination. I don’t think either cared who trapped him.”

“Women?” She sighs loudly. “Fine, he’s handsome.”

I light the candle and sit up. I’m too agitated to pretend anymore. “He has one friend trying to get him a courtesan. You keep pushing him away, and he’ll be caught in the arms of someone who won’t let him be kind to us.”

She shakes her head. “They can have him. I don’t want his kindness.”

“You don’t have to marry him. Be his friend. Let him honor whatever promise he made to Tavis on your husband’s deathbed.”

Katherine fumes. I see her hands fist. She punches my clock. “When someone shows you who they truly are, when they hurt you, you can never trust them again.”

“When did that happen, Katherine?” I pull out my pencil and trusty notebook. “When? I need dates and facts. For nothing makes sense.”

The longcase chimes. My cuckoo comes out and does his broken dance. Seven o’clock on the dot.

A frozen expression forms on her countenance. She looks like she’s about to burst into tears. How can she look so hurt?

“Sister, what has he done?”

She pulls her hands to her mouth. The palms are clasped together as if she’s praying. “He’s too extravagant. Lydia’s birthday will be here soon. He brought elephants to her party last year. Live elephants. How do I compete with that?”

“Can’t you both love her? He is far too invested in Lydia to abandon her. And how would she feel if he just left? Do you want to hurt her?”

Katherine seems to be shaking. “No, I’d never hurt that little girl, not on purpose. Talk to the duke, let me have this one birthday. Then I’ll be easier.”

“Why can’t you share the one day so important to Lydia?”

My sister’s lips tremble. When she finally glances at me she says, “Watch after Lydia when you are at Anya House. I need to leave for Wilcox Coal before I’m late.”

“Of course, Katherine. You’re entitled to your secrets. You can continue to act illogically and harass a man who wants nothing more than Lydia’s well-being and the Wilcox name restored. But I’ll not be swayed by what seems to be an irrational response to a friend to whom we are indebted.”

“Scarlett, he’s not good. It’s all a trick to humble me.” She swipes at her eyes. The motion is fast like I’m not supposed to see how emotional any mention of Lydia and the duke makes her.

“What are you hiding, Katherine? Tell me. Trust me.”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. You need to trust me. Jahleel Charles, the Duke of Torrance, is not the good person he’s pretending to be.”

“You’re wrong. And you’re being unreasonable. And, sister, I’m old enough to form my own opinions.”

Katherine leaves, closing my door. Whatever the problem, it’s big. I pray she can handle the consequences, but I have a feeling it will be exposed and the Wilcoxes will again be left destitute. The sooner I’m married, the more I’ll be able to help my family when our world collapses.

In the interim, I have a friend to save. I push out of my bedclothes to engage in my secret life. By the time Katherine or anyone other than the duke finds out, I’ll have accomplished my mission. Yet, I wonder if my being exposed will be worse than the secret Katherine’s trying to hide.

With a sigh, I part the curtains, and let the light inside. My window, its position on the wall, isn’t large enough for me to see my small herb garden. Last year, the year without a summer, made me believe I’d lost the plantings. Mama and I had kept that garden alive for so long. I took it on completely when she could no longer leave the house. From her bedchamber, she saw the greenery and flowers. I like to think they gave her comfort when her health failed.

Making the divide in the curtains a little wider offers the needed brightness to apply the theater cosmetics. I have a transformation to begin. Errors cannot be tolerated. Trudging to my closet, my bare feet grace the rya, the Russian rug, gifted by the duke. He’s thoughtful. The kind of man I wish Tavis had been.

Feeling sentimental, I square my shoulders. Tossing off my pink robe with silky ribbons, I pick up the basket of linen bandages. They are wide with very little stretch. I suppose a broken limb could be isolated with them, but these will be used to wrap and flatten my bosom. Round and round, I sweep the cloth about my chest. I keep going until all seems smooth and flat. A year ago, this took less time. I suppose I’ve grown. One might say my charms afford me a curvy figure, but that’s the last thing I need for this disguise.

My white shirt slips over my head and covers the bandages. A glance in the mirror shows me to be flat and stocky. I have Lord Mark’s build, somewhat, but my sister Georgie’s husband is taller. Rooting in my closet, I pull out a pair of black breeches. I slide them up my thighs and carefully stuff my shirt inside. Then I button the flapping fall of the pants.

I steal another glance in the mirror once I don a burgundy waistcoat. Button after button, I close it, then pull on an onyx woolen tailcoat. Every curve is concealed, swaddled in fabric. My body’s a manly rectangle in need of a cravat. Heading to my drawers, I dig underneath stays and corsets and find a nice ivory strip. Slipping it about my neck, I make a barrel knot.

A peek at the longcase shows seven thirty. I’m behind and quickly drag on stockings and my father’s boots. More buttons close the pants to my shins. Tying a garnet-colored ribbon in my hair, I pull back a long dark braid. It isn’t until I dab the dark black cosmetic on my chin to offer a hint of a beard’s shadow and a little more along my brows to make them thick, and glue long sideburns along my ears, that I no longer look like Scarlett Wilcox.

Hanging a silver pocket watch from my burgundy waistcoat, I think I’ve done it. It’s fetching. I’m fetching. I feel like Father. I’ve become the picture of a debonair young man.

When I put on a masculine hat, a slick jet beaver dome, my ruse is complete. “Father,” I whisper, “don’t roll over in your grave. Pretend I’m the son that should’ve lived.” Scotland Wilcox, my twin, would’ve gone to defeat the horrid Napoleon. My brother would’ve distinguished the Wilcox name in battle. He would’ve inherited the coal business and never have let lousy Tavis run it into the ground. “Pretend, Papa, that I hadn’t let Scotland down. And it’s him here with me fighting for change.”

I cover my mouth, making sure my hands do not smear the cosmetic, but I said his name aloud. None of my sisters say anything about my brother. They act like he never existed, like a stillborn who never had a name.

I swallow the rocks in my throat.

“You were supposed to have a life, Scotland. You mattered, and you’d still be here if I were smarter or if there had been a doctor available on this side of the Thames.” I fan my face, then scoop up leather gloves.

Men don’t cry, not over a long-lost memory. If I don’t pull myself together, I’ll be exposed. Never.

When I’m sure I’m not going to fall to pieces, I go into the hall. Stepping over to Lydia’s room, I put my ear to her door. Little snores sound. She sounds good, her lungs clear. Every time I hear her sleep with ease, I feel it’s a miracle.

The longcase chimes. It’s eight o’clock. Time to go.

When I head downstairs, I hear a smattering of off-key notes. Then what sounds like kissing. Groan. The newlyweds are at it.

My sister Georgina’s voice is light and flighty as she tells her husband how to speed up the crescendo.

Hmmm. I think they are talking about music. I hope they are.

It’s illogical that two people pretending to court should fall so deeply in love. I’m convinced it’s some sort of reaction to sudden embarrassment or coal fumes or maybe baking powder. Lord Mark did love my sister’s biscuits, even before loving her.

Can love make anyone happy? I wish it were so. I pray those two are always in love.

I cover my eyes and walk into the parlor. “Lord Mark, Georgie. I’m leaving.”

“You can open your eyes, sister. I’ve not ravaged my wife . . . yet.”

Georgie blushes and taps his arm. His elbow lands with a plunk onto the pianoforte keys, striking a chord. They look at each other and say at the same time, “A minor. That’s it.”

He works the high notes, while she plays the low ones. Together, the two have finished composition after composition. It’s a beautiful thing. It’s also a financial thing, for these works sell.

“Scarlett, must you be in a disguise today?” Lord Mark keeps playing. “I know I’m new to the family, but isn’t this dangerous? Shouldn’t I be more insistent that you not do this?”

“It’s only dangerous if I get caught, sir. I don’t intend to be caught. Do not be concerned.”

Lord Mark plays a few more bars. “I am. But the disguise is good. My sister-in-law is leaving the house looking like my brother-in-law. Oh, this feels wrong.”

Georgie kisses him on the cheek. “We must trust that she knows what she’s doing and that she knows we only speak up because we care.”

He nods and begins to play more earnestly. “I care. Scarlett, I don’t want you hurt. I don’t want scandal to be a part of your world.”

I dip my head the way the men bow. “Yes, Lord Mark. I understand. This is something I must do. I’m glad I can trust you.”

“You can, Scarlett,” he says, “but call me Mark, and please try harder to trust.”

They want me to believe that they are ridiculously happy and that I should become a trusting fool again. Over the merry, heart-racing tune, I say, “Lydia is still asleep, but she’s to go to Anya House. I’ll meet her there. And Lord . . . Mark, I’m taking your shift with Mr. Thom today.”

He stops playing and turns around. “Scarlett, he’s not . . . Mr. Thom is having problems seeing. I’m not sure how long he can continue to drive for Wilcox Coal.” My brother-in-law looks sad and concerned. “Sorry to stare, brother. But be careful.”

I offer him a smile, a small one so my sideburns don’t move. “I know about Mr. Thom. I’m working on a plan to help him.”

Mark seems about as convinced about that as I am about love. He spins around and starts playing the pianoforte again. “Dearest wife, escort our brother to the door. Perhaps she’ll listen to your caution.”

She shrugs and leaves the pianoforte’s bench. Tying up her peach-colored robe, she moves to me. Yet, as she gets closer, she gapes—and then starts bawling.

Mark leaps up, gathers her in his arms. “Hey, she looks quite good. If I didn’t know Scarlett, I’d be fooled.”

“No, dearest,” she says. “She’s dressed as a man before to get into science lectures. But with this makeup . . . you’re Scotland. Oh my goodness. You look how I imagine he’d look.”

Mark holds her a little tighter. “Who’s Scotland?”

“Her twin. Our late brother. The makeup and the hat.” She wipes at her cheek. “That’s Scotland.”

“At least you said his name, sis. And Mark should know his name.”

I’m not sure who reaches for me first, Mark or Georgie, but I am sure my jet-black cosmetic and tears are all over his white shirt and her robe.

The strength in Mark’s arms, for a moment, feels sent from the brother who isn’t here. I hug him back, and I mean it.

“We need to say his name,” Georgie says. “We stopped for Papa’s sake. He was devastated at the loss of his only son.”

“Mama was, too. But she had to keep it all inside to be strong for him. It made her weaker.” I step away and swipe at my eyes with the handkerchief Mark hands me. “But we all let Scotland disappear. I, most of all, let it happen.”

“No, you didn’t,” she says, “But Scarlett, you’re right. We need to say Scotland. That’s how we honor his life.”

I give her another hug, then check my reflection in the small mirror outside the parlor. “Sideburns in place.”

Mark runs past, vaults up the stairs, and comes back. “A gentleman needs a fragrance.”

He hands me a small bottle of eau de toilette that smells of sandalwood and citrus. I dab a little on my cravat. I hand back the fragrance and offer him a true grin. Starting to leave, I pivot to them. “Katherine is trying to have Lydia’s birthday without the duke. That will produce nothing but another fight.”

Georgie drops her hand into her palm. “I’ll talk to her. She should treat him better.”

Why does it sound as if Georgie knows that the duke is the injured party?

“You’ll be late,” she says.

I want to ask what she knows of the duke and Katherine’s history, but I can’t miss the anatomy lesson on the eye. Fix one problem before becoming embroiled in another. However, I can’t resist. “Please, sis, tell me what’s going on. I can’t stand not knowing.”

She shakes her head. “It’s Katherine’s truth, her problem. She has to fix this. But I’ll see what I can do. And I’ll take Lydia to Anya House later.”

Georgina Wilcox Sebastian, the Lady Mark Sebastian, is very good at keeping secrets. Patting my top hat down, I head out the back door. Trudging fast, I walk to Ground Street, then to a spot at the corner of the house.

The noises of barges sound like an invading army waiting to come ashore. The sulfur smell of the Thames further reminds me of how close we are to the river. I flip up the lid of my pocket watch. It’s a little past eight thirty. I’m five minutes late. I may not finish the coal route and get to the Royal Society lecture.

Panic ensues.

Katherine is down the street at the Wilcox office. She could see me. Her fury would be on me and, of course, find its way to the duke.

The noise, the smells, the heat of all these clothes, my beating heart—I might faint before Mr. Thom gets here.

Finally, I see his dray. It’s moving at a leisurely pace. An infinity passes, and then he stops in front of me. “You there, Wilcox.”

“Yes, Scotland Wilcox, here.”

He shakes his head. “So, another day risking everything to watch a group of men cut up an animal. Will it be another rabbit? Maybe a pig?”

“It was a pig.” The last lecture on circulation used the dissection for illustration. Poor wrinkly fellow gave his all.

I walked to the other side of the dray. “I’m not sure what it will be. Seeing a pig cut up for research hasn’t dampened my appetite for bacon. All in all, it will be good.”

“Might not be anything. I hear the Mayfair set talking about some art thing. I think it’s the Annual Exhibition again.”

I climb in and almost want to fall out. Last year, the exhibition disrupted the meetings of the Royal Society, since both meet at Somerset House.

“Lord Livingston’s going to lead a discussion on eye anatomy. It can’t be canceled.”

Blinking wildly, Mr. Thom holds the reins out to me, almost shoving them at me when I climb beside him in the driver’s seat. “You drive. Sc—”

“S. Wilcox, or Mr. Scotland Wilcox.”

“Fine. But drive,” he says. “I need the break. My eyes are tired today.”

The man never tires.

Waving my hand to his left doesn’t make him flinch or move at all. “Your eyesight seems worse.”

He nods. Both brown eyes have silver scales, and Mr. Thom looks pale. His rich brown skin seems dull. And when sick, the fellow wouldn’t say a word until he was ready to drop to the ground. “I’m going to tell Lady Hampton I need to retire.”

No. Someone healthy can’t retire because he can’t see. Science should be able to fix this. The duke is helping to get me tools. I need to learn everything and be able to practice medicine on this side of the Thames.

I will save his sight and life. I’m just the man—the woman—to do it.