Page 6 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 6

S TEPHEN —H OLD U P , W AIT A M INUTE

M y heart begins to tick a little faster.

Torrance sees me, but then motions for me to stand back. Oh goodness. It’s about to commence, his latest act of retribution. Who’s the peer he intends to wreak havoc upon?

With Prahmn’s downfall last year, the embezzling viscount in January, the fellow with the Lord Mayor’s wife, that would leave. . . the rest of London.

Oh no. The women? They can’t be here to witness a loved one’s fall from grace. The duke may have axes to grind, but he’s not cruel enough to upset women. Is he?

Casually, I search for the impending threat. Readying for a fight, I ball my fists. Words are wind, blows are unkind. That’s what my father said as he taught me to punch.

I forgo the scalpel in my coat; it’s too obvious and would escalate the situation.

Moments pass. Women laugh. Torrance remains affable. Furthermore, I don’t see any angry peers. Everyone is laughing and pointing at the art in Somerset House.

A minute or so goes by. Nothing happens. I’ve let my tired mind conjure up villains and shadowy figures. Even in my sleep-deprived delirium, I know Torrance is a man to keep as an ally.

Nonetheless, I gape at him, and then my own reflection, in an art piece made of mirrors.

The duke and the gentleman physician—two of us here in Somerset House, men of education, refined taste, with natural tints to our skin. I wonder if the Duke of Somerset, the hallowed Edward Seymour, the protector of England and the young king, had Torrance and myself in mind to grace these halls.

Probably not.

“Excuse me, ladies.” Torrance bows, and like the Red Sea, the ladies part allowing the duke and his crystal-looking cane come to me. “On time, Mr. Carew. Excellent.”

I take his extended palm. The grip is firm. In it there’s power and strength and control. His health must continue to improve.

“Your Grace,” I say, and dip my chin. “I wonder why I’ve been summoned. So naturally, I’ll be on time.”

“That is one of the things I like about you, Carew, your natural sense of curiosity.”

I take the compliment, but deep down, I suppose I enjoy that no one is shouting that they’re ruined, racist, or scandalized.

“Torrance, what do you want? You had your man duly summon me. And how exactly did you find me in Westminster? ’Twas a busy night. I was comforting a dying woman, after another visit where I set a minister’s broken arm.”

“Yes. The poor fellow at St. Margaret’s. He broke it in a most peculiar manner.”

Livingston said there were rumors that Torrance had spies all about the city, but that was just talk, right? Still, the duke knew where to send his henchmen, otherwise known as his footmen. Maybe he was more tsar than duke.

“I can’t comment on any of my patients, Your Grace. It’s my oath to each to maintain their privacy. I think it’s a good thing.”

“Punctuality is a good thing, too.” He looks over me and to the side. “It’s definitely something to count on.”

His Grace offers a nod to someone in the corner but stays with me. Well, he needn’t go after a thing. The duke doesn’t chase anyone but the alleged woman he loves.

Yet, the way the ladies flock to him, the way he seems to enjoy the small talk, I wonder how much longer the duke will wait for Lady Hampton to change her opinion of him.

“The Annual Exhibition has again brought out everyone,” he says, his gaze floating away. “I must say, if science must lose to another topic, I’d rather it be art.”

“Do you paint?”

“My mother. The Princess Elizaveta Abramovna Gannibal is a great portraiture artist. She’s making me something special for Anya House.”

I feel my brow rise. The duke rarely mentions his mother by her full name without adding her married one—Charles.

Does that mean something, or is this my overly tired brain looking for conspiracies? “Is it something you will show off at your next ball?”

He gapes at me over his flared nose. “If I give another ball, it will be for a special reason. Perhaps to celebrate an engagement.”

“Torrance, you sly one. You’ve moved forward. I saw you entertaining. Will you choose a new duchess soon? Is that why I’m here?”

His mouth opens, then snaps shut. “I wasn’t thinking of myself.” His gaze again floats away. “But surely you have, as you say, moved forward. The loss of that special someone last year seemed to affect you greatly. I’ve heard of no replacement.”

Why was he trying to remind me of Eveline? And replacement ? Is a woman like a shirt or a pair of shoes? “My practice has been busy, and I’m still having meetings about the hospital project.”

“Yes, the endless fundraising meetings.”

His tone sounds a little like Scarlett’s, a smidgeon too condescending. I know Torrance can fund the entire project. I know if I ask, he’ll do so without hesitation. That is the level of his gratitude for my care of his illness, but my vision of the hospital I want can’t be without patients because the future patrons fear the funder or think him mad.

It can’t be risked. “Soon, Your Grace. By next year—”

His attention has drifted to a conversation nearby. “That person mouthed something about rabbits,” he says. “How odd.”

“Probably rabbit dissection. That is what’s promised for today’s Royal Society meeting. Our friend, the Earl of Livingston, will be the man with the scalpel.”

“Carew, that sounds like a waste of a rabbit. The creature should be handled by a chef and made into a rabbit pie, a kouneli stifado, or a lapin à la crème. Each savory dish is delicious.”

My stomach rumbles. It’s loud like a French horn and too noisy to ignore.

The duke’s hazel eyes are on me. “Are you well, Carew? Perhaps you’ve spent too many nights on saintly pursuits.”

“Just suddenly peckish. The rabbit talk and the stew makes me think of my aunt’s cooking. The aunties usually cook a big feast once a month on a weekend. Missed the last three.”

“The women in Cheapside?”

“Well, I wasn’t speaking of the ones in Port of Spain, several seas away.”

He smiles. “Ah. The rapier wit, has it returned? No more sulking over missed and delayed opportunities?”

Sulking? Does this notion have anything to do with Scarlett and why she isn’t talking to me?

My head begins to ache. A cryptic duke isn’t going to make my temples throb less. “Your Grace, let’s get to the matter at hand. You summoned me, and I have cleared my schedule of all appointments as requested. What is it you desire, sir?”

I give him a little bow.

When I straighten, he’s staring at a group of men heading into the exhibition room. One looks familiar. I can’t place him.

“Follow me, Carew.”

I do, and we go to a room that feels two stories high. Like Torrance’s dining room, the ceiling is ornate and dovetailed corner to corner in rich molding. Nonetheless, there’s an oddness to it, as it sports an elongated dome of a church or some old building from Italy. I do like how the long oval windows at the top allow the sun to highlight the art—the walls and walls of hanging paintings. One on top of the other, framed landscapes and portraits sit for inspection. There’s no rhyme or reason in the placement. It would be confusing, if it wasn’t so beautiful.

“So this is the Great Room for the exhibition.” The duke walks deeper inside. “It’s grand, but cluttered.”

I eye a painted horse, then a landscape. “Where else would Somerset House hide its treasures, but in plain sight?”

“Where indeed?” The duke glances at the title card. “ The Archangel leaving Adam and Eve .” He leans lightly on his cane, which I’m sure is mostly for show. “Must be when the couple was turned away from the garden.”

Torrance dips his chin but glances at the group of men who’ve now entered the Great Room. “Was it an apt punishment for their crime, Carew?”

Adam and Eve ate the forbidden apple. A solitary apple. It wasn’t even a slice of my Tantie Telma’s tart. I shake my head. “No, Your Grace. I think the travail women experience in childbirth is particularly cruel punishment for a delicious apple. Pregnancy is often deadly for mother and child.”

“And you would know. I hear you’ve delivered many babies. You even helped the late Mrs. Wilcox.”

His tone sounds like a question. If he’s searching for something, I am bound by my loyalty to my patients to never admit specifics. I stick to the barest of facts. “I’ve been of service to the Wilcoxes for a long time. You would’ve enjoyed meeting Mrs. Wilcox. And Mr. Wilcox.”

“I did meet Mr. Wilcox. I showed up an hour too late to stop a wedding. He was a very gentlemanly man.”

What wedding? He can’t mean Lady Hampton’s to the duke’s former best friend, Tavis Palmers, the late Lord Hampton. I’m stunned at the possibility, but this is not a conversation for here. It’s too public. London is ever hunting for gossip.

Instead, I lift my hands and try to reframe the image, but all I see is naked folks and an angel. “I’m a book man. I prefer words to pictures. A novel or a play is my delight. Do you like the painting, Torrance?”

The sigh he releases is harsh. “Not particularly, but the artist paints the angel with no wings. What angel has none?” The duke seems to glance a little longer, maybe more deeply, at the painting. “But the interpretation is excellent. A spirit battling for the truth shouldn’t need them. A common man can be used for judgment.”

“With judgment, there is a need for punishment. That is the next step, is it not?”

He shifts a little and then offers a small smile. “We all must pay. I suppose that is true most of all.”

Why is the duke toying with me? He should just state my offense and be done with it. “Your Grace, I know I’ve upset Miss Scarlett Wilcox. You don’t have to be cryptic. Just tell me what I did, and I’ll fix it. She’s charming but sharp witted. Perhaps we throw too many barbs. Perhaps what I meant as a jest has hurt her. That is the last thing I want.”

He cranes his neck up to the ceiling. “If I knew something, not saying that I do, it wouldn’t be my place to say. I mean if you knew something that I’ve gotten wrong, you’d tell me, Carew. Wouldn’t you?”

Why has my question turn into an opportunity for one of Torrance’s cryptic inquiries? I’m ready to go. I can get a nap and a luncheon before having to make my evening rounds. “I’m your friend. I’ll always try my best to advise you. I do the same with all my patients. Now, please, tell me what this summons is about. Please say it has nothing to do with a bet. Lord Mark Sebastian disclosed the details of the last one when you tried to make me a match for Sebastian’s bride.”

Torrance starts to laugh and picks up his cane, the silver handle shaped like a rook from a gleaming chess set. An odd choice for anyone but the duke. I’ve seen his decor in his office—some of the rarest chessboards I’ve ever seen.

“How was I to know that you love Shakespeare? Mr. Carew, you bested all the clowns who came to Anya House to compete for the former Georgina Wilcox. Doesn’t matter. She’s happily married to the man she loves.”

Guess that’s some sort of compliment, to be able to read and like plays. I look directly in the duke’s eyes. “If not for you, I’d not be here.”

My friend offers a few chuckles. “Carew, we must make an art lover of you. That’s something the future Mrs. Carew will appreciate.”

“What?” I think I blink twice. “Have you been to Cheapside to visit with my aunts? All they talk of is marriage. They want me to find a nice girl, and when I do, they constantly measure everyone against Eveline Gray.”

Torrance puts both hands on his cane. He sways for a moment as he holds in his glee. “No. I haven’t sent my henchman, as you’ve called him, to spy on you. Mr. Steele has been very busy.”

Does that mean if Steele were free, I’d be followed? Oh, the many conspiracies that come to mind when dealing with a conspiratorial duke. “Torrance, what’s going on? I hate being late or feeling as if I’ve missed important news. That’s a habit I’d like to break.”

“Mr. Carew. There is someone for you to meet.” He points to the group of young men.

The one who seemed familiar glances at us. His beautifully polished boots, in a sea of leather slippers, are something I’ve seen. Taking a closer look, I note that the young man is smartly tailored with a great barrel-knotted cravat.

He’s shorter than I, the height of Scarlett Wilcox, the young woman who has stopped . . .

Cold sweat drips down my spine as I realize I’m witnessing a greater scandal than any I’ve ever known. Scarlett Wilcox is dressed as a man, and she’s mingling in this crowd like nothing is amiss.