Page 7 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 7

S CARLETT —T HE L AST P ERSON ON E ARTH

M y heart begins to tick a little faster. My face feels hot. These pasted-on sideburns may slip or fall off.

The duke saw me earlier, but he carried on like nothing unusual had occurred. He knows I sneak into these lectures at Royal Society all the time, but I don’t think he’s ever seen me in my full disguise—sideburns, boots, and breeches.

Yet the duke’s glance isn’t what’s dumped hot coals on me. That blasted Carew has seen me. He’s here, and I’ve been pointed out. Why did the Royal Society lecture have to be delayed, today of all days?

I know he’s crafting barbs to condemn me or tell me why I’m wrong. Maybe I’m too bold, but I have a debt to pay and I’ll follow through. I’ll save my friend’s sight no matter what Stephen Adam Carew says.

The duke waves for me. The imaginary steam I see coming from the physician’s head is surely enough to burn me alive.

I steel my courage. Plodding like an indignant man of science, I head to them. “Your Grace, a pleasure to see you and your company.” I dip my chin, resisting everything that’s been ingrained in me to curtsy. “Will you introduce me to your friend?”

“Why don’t you start with your name?” Stephen Adam Carew grouses at me. His tone is tight and grating. “Tell it to me with that horrid fake accent.”

I have no accent. Carew’s the one with the accent, one he tries to suppress. His quips are said to provoke me, to make me do something rash or stupid. He thinks I’m impulsive.

“Your Grace, it seems your belligerent friend has not learned manners. Good day.”

When I bow to walk away, I see the anger in Carew’s face turn to panic.

“Torrance, stop her—”

“Wilcox, do not be in a rush to leave.” The duke seems calm, not rattled in the least by my appearance. “Come, tell us what you’ve learned. I’ve watched you enjoying the exhibition.”

“The canvasses are everywhere, as are the newspapermen. They snidely stand side by side making notes of visitors as well as writing down observations of us as much as the art. I was just chatting with one who works for the Sun .”

Carew’s rich skin turns pale. He mumbles about columns and scandals. His words may have even become French, or is that Spanish? Maybe a mix, a special Trini dialect.

Then I clearly hear him call me a d’yavol. That’s Russian—and rude.

The duke gawks at him. “Carew, you clearly owe Wilcox an apology. It’s obvious that he knows what he’s doing. Haranguing him about methods would be counterproductive, and perhaps too revealing for the Great Room.”

My cough hides my laughter. My enjoyment of the physician’s agony exposes my youthful zeal. That’s our thing: antagonism. “Let me show you two my favorite.” I lead them a little to the left, point them to a painting of two boys, standing in front of an angelic-looking lady. The boys tie the sad-looking woman to a bull. “According to the card, it’s the Punishment of Dirce .”

The duke leans a little closer. “By Howard. I saw a bronze of this in Glasgow. It’s quite powerful. I want to say poor Dirce, but she probably deserves the punishment.”

“Your Grace, Mr. Wilcox, are we to pretend nothing has occurred?” Carew looks as if he’s going to rip up the hat in his hand. “This is wrong.”

“No, you are wrong.” I love saying that aloud. “The painting is exquisite. Look at the curve of the muscles, the tense stance of two wanting justice, even the rope around the bull’s head, tightening, tightening . . . is so lifelike. That’s power.”

The duke opens then closes his mouth. “Such a way with words, Wilcox.”

“I see curves, sir.” Carew grinds his teeth. “Ones I shouldn’t. Your breeches are too formfitting. Everyone can see everything.”

Taking the hat from his hand, I reblock it, shaping the felt with my hands. “I could say the same of your attire, but you’re the one complaining.”

He colors more.

But his legs—very muscled, very toned—seem solid. My throat tightens a little. I hadn’t noticed what good shape my physician stays in.

“That’s enough looking, both of you.” The duke snaps his fingers to raise our gazes. “Any more of this and one might think you’ve compromised each other. Perhaps that is why you two have had a falling-out.”

“No. No. No.” Carew and I say this together. We even sound alike.

“Well, at least you can agree on something.” The duke turns back to the painting. “While reporters circle, let’s talk of the technique the painter demonstrates. Such bold strokes, Carew. See the woman in the background, Wilcox? She looks so innocent, but it’s she who’s causing her twins to exact revenge.”

“Twins? Tw . . .” My voice falters and I sound like old Scarlett, the one waiting for men with vision to fix things. No more waiting for the world to make a place for women in science, to pay attention to the plight of the sick. As my mama used to say with her bold Jamaican accent, “If yuh waan good, yuh nose haffi run.”

She’d run her nose, celebrating the good I do, because Mama believed that if you want something done right, you do it yourself. I look Carew in the eye. “If yuh waan good, yuh nose haffi run.” My voice is bolder. I’m honoring Mama and I’m making change any way I can. “Guess the two sons are fixing things.”

“You’re sure that it’s two sons?” Carew asks. “One can never be too careful.”

“They’re in tunics, sir. Not breeches. I feel confident you’ll make minimal errors assessing their sex. Well, no more than usual.”

Carew’s brownish-black eyes shrink, becoming more pitiful. “What are you implying, Wilcox?”

“Not enough, if you don’t understand.”

“Monkey doh see he own tail.” His accent sounds thick as he recites this adage from Trinidad. He collects himself. “It means you’re quick to criticize and can’t see your own flaws.”

“Did you just call me a monkey?” Oh, if I had a banana or plantain, I’d smash it in his pretty face.

The duke steps between us. “Gentlemen, the painting. I see you’re taking sides. Who’s for the innocent mother, Antiope? She’s maligned and tricked by Dirce, the woman in the front. Antiope is forced to give up her twins. That’s years of separation. So much wasted time.”

“And the obvious solution for women is to go to extremes. Typical.” Carew frowns more. “Made her poor sons tie Dirce to an angry bull.”

The duke shifts his hands like they are a scale trying to mete out justice. “Don’t think vengeance is exclusive to men. My friend, look at the power. We are moments away from Dirce being dragged to death for her crimes.”

I’m a little stunned by the glee in his tone. “Your Grace, that’s sinister. Must Dirce die? Can’t there be another outcome?”

The patient man stares at the beautiful but horrendous painting. “I don’t know, Wilcox. It’s a crime to deprive a parent of a child or children.” The duke sighs. “Dirce’s lies caused great harm to Antiope. Time is the one thing you never get back.”

The tension radiating from him feels like an inferno. It’s in the air, in the room filled with newspapermen. It’s as strong as I imagine the rope wrapping about Dirce. “Your Grace, you’ve told me art is personal. Who do you see yourself as in the painting? Are you the wronged mother, or the wicked but helpless Dirce?”

Carew shakes his head. “Torrance is not . . .” He closes his mouth, then perhaps thinks. “Torrance, are you creating a metaphor to explain your revenge?”

The duke shrugs. “My view shifts. It’s very dependent upon how I feel. I suppose I’m fickle. And that’s why I need both of your help. There are some things I must do.”

I fold my arms across my bosom, then immediately drop them to my side. “I’m not helping you rope any bull.”

The physician groans. “I hate to admit this, but I agree with Wilcox. I think it’s best to forgive and forget and let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Mixing metaphors?” The duke chuckles. “I told you you were funny, Carew.”

The laughter is false. Anyone who’s been around the duke and seen the newspaper articles reporting about the resignations from Court of Chancery knows Torrance is the bull. Unfortunately, he’s not done trampling his enemies. “Your Grace, where do they hang the mercy paintings?”

Mr. Carew glances at me. I know he agrees. I hate that I know him so well.

The duke folds his arms and hangs his cane from the crook of his elbow. “I believe they are yet to be painted. And if this is to be personal, I shall not be Dirce. I’ll not be the one begging. Weakness has never been profitable.”

Carew steps in front of the duke. “What’s with you, man? Are you not feeling well? Your tone is too sinister, even more so for you. I demand to know what has occurred, other than the present Wilcox foolishness.”

The duke looks vulnerable for a moment, almost cornered. He leads us to a private alcove. “My mother is coming.”

“The Princess Elizaveta Abramovna Gannibal Charles is coming from St. Petersburg.” Carew seems shocked. He covers his mouth, those full ashy lips. “Your mother, the one who never leaves her city of rivers.”

“Da. She’ll leave her cozy dacha by the river and come to dreary old London in a few weeks.”

“Torrance, I’ve known you a long time,” Carew says, “even before your elevation, when were you just Jahleel Charles. Why would the Blackamoor Russian princess who vowed never to let her slippers touch such an evil city as London come now? Is she coming for revenge, too?”

“My health is good for now.” He bites his lip. The duke does look a little thin. Though his light olive skin seems warm, I detect no signs of illness. “You both know I can’t stop another episode of my sickness from returning. The battle back to health gets more difficult. I need to be prepared. I need someone to advocate for me and those I love. A caretaker to protect what I hold dear.”

I suppose it would be terrible to mention my sister’s plans to exclude the duke this year.

Carew puts a hand on the duke’s shoulder. “The conversation about making provisions for illness is one I have too often with patients. Often, it’s too late, when they’re on their sickbeds. But, as stubborn as you are, I know you’re not giving up.”

“My instructions are being written. They will be carried out. But like you two when you talk, I fight every day. I fight to be strong for my little Lidochka. I fight for the Wilcoxes, even the one who hates me.”

No. I definitely won’t mention that Katherine’s trying to exclude him from Lydia’s birthday party. I try to lighten the duke’s tense mood. “Remember you have a bet to win, which will force that one to be nice.”

Carew frowns again. Such a shame his mouth has no lotion or coconut butter to smooth away dryness. The man is either forgetful or working too hard and showing signs of exhaustion. Either scenario is a crime against such beautiful lips.

“Your Grace? Please let there not be another bet.”

The duke shakes his head. “There are things to look forward to, even if Lady Hampton wishes I crawl back to the rivers of St. Petersburg.”

I want to tell him not to leave, but I need to be as good of a friend to the duke as he’s been to me and my family. “You could spare yourself more heartache. Think of how everyone teases Carew to move on from perfect Eveline. I mean, Lady Derand.”

The duke cuts his gaze to me as if I’ve betrayed him. “It’s not that simple, Wilcox. I’m too invested in Lydia’s care to walk away. I love her as if she were my daughter. Pity her own father is dead.”

His tone sounds dramatic, and he looks at me as if I have something to confess. I have nothing. I know he loves Lydia, all of us.

For some reason, Carew looks to the ground like he’s unsure of where to step, even though none of us have moved. When he finally looks up, he says, “It’s good that you care for the little girl. I was there when she was born. It’s been a struggle for her to live, but you’ve made a difference. I’ve never seen Lydia livelier.”

The newspapermen begin to leave.

The duke puts the tip of his cane on the floor. “Carew, I’ll get to the point. I have things to take care of. Wilcox here needs a chaperone, and Mr. Steele can’t do it. He’s on his way to St. Petersburg.”

“Scarlett Wilcox needs no chaperone. She needs to go home.” Carew blinks like his head has become light. He gets like that when he works too much.

With a firm handshake, I grasp his cold fingers. “S. Wilcox. Scotland Wilcox to be sure. Respect the name.” I make my voice sound extra deep. “The physician can go. I need no supervision.”

“It’s trouble,” Carew says. “It’s a scandal. It’s a Scarlett.”

“Keep your voice down, sir.” The duke leans closer to me. “I need you to keep Wilcox in your sights.”

The physician waves his hand from my top hat to my boots. “Exactly how am I to miss this? When she’s dressed—”

“By not pointing.” The duke glares at him. “Wilcox needs a chaperone. I need this favor.”

“Your Grace,” I say, “I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll catch a hackney to Anya House when I’m done with the lecture, that is, if it ever begins. Lord Livingston is supposed to be teaching on eye dissection. The start is so late, that I fear it might be canceled. I should be gone by now. Mr. Thom—”

“I’ve sent him away to rest,” the duke says. “He’s overworked. That can lead to problems.”

Carew rubs his eyes. “I’m your friend too, Sca—Scotland. I believe you have forgotten this.” He pauses trying to lower his voice. “And this disguise is terrible. Torrance, you’re good with her dressing up like a man?”

There he goes again. Because he’s a gentleman, Carew thinks I have no right to an opinion or breeches. I almost put a hand to my hip and call him Mr. Stuffy . “I can take care of myself.”

“But that’s not our bargain, Wilcox,” the duke chides me. “We stick to the rules.”

“Bargain? What bargain, Torrance?” Carew sounds wound up like a tight spring. “It’s another crazy bet? I walked into the last one blind. I want to know what it is.”

“Blind is correct,” I say. “I think you’re always in that state. When will you and others join Lord Livingston’s work to fix these conditions?”

“Livingston’s not solving anything except waiting times at brothels. Too much book smart, no street smart.” Carew says, “You’re supposed to be a young woman. You get caught and the Wilcoxes will face ruin again.”

Can’t back down, even if he has a point. So I laugh. “You act like this is my first time. Hardly.”

“What do you mean, not your first time?” Carew’s brownish-black eyes scatter.

“Not a virgin to troubles, I see.”

The duke holds up a hand to him, almost like he wishes to punch the physician. “Is this how you two argue? And you complain about Lady Hampton and me.” He shakes fingers at both of us. “This is unprofessional behavior. I need you both to calm.”

“Carew should go. He’s trying not to yawn, Your Grace. Perhaps if he weren’t out trying to find the replacement for Miss Perfect, he’d get more rest.”

“Don’t be concerned about my sleep, Wilcox. I don’t have a false beard or have to falsify my attendance anywhere. I’ll take no advice from you.”

“You should.” I force my tone to lower. “Last week you could hardly stay awake for bunny dissection.”

“Well, it’s bunnies, Scarle . . . tt. You were here last week too?” He steps closer, and if I didn’t know him like the back of my hand, I’d think he’s about to throttle me.

“Scarlett, you’re reckless.” Anger lives in the tightening muscles of his jaw. So handsome and stupid, working—or carousing—too hard. Why are men stupid?

“Sirs, I’m going to find the room for the Royal Society meeting and just wait. Hopefully the delay won’t be too much longer. Lord Livingston won’t disappoint me. He never does. Good day, Your Grace. Mr. Carew.”

The physician clasps my arm. “Wait. This isn’t settled.” He won’t let go, and tells the duke, “Yes, I’ll babysit. I’m one born to suffer fools. This one I suffer gladly.” Carew fixes a smile on his lip, stretching the ashy corners of his mouth. “See, I live to serve Scotland Wilcox.”

Torrance glances at me. “Please, S. Wilcox, indulge me.”

When I nod, the duke turns to the physician. “It’s agreed. Return Wilcox to Anya House when you’re done.”

Another wave of newspapermen fills the Great Room as we leave. The duke disappears, leaving me with Mr. Carew, who refuses to let go.

“Listen, spoiled one. Do exactly what I say or I’ll put you over my shoulder and take you out of here and drop you to your sisters at Ground Street.”

“Isn’t that just like you, Carew? Making promises you can’t keep.”

With my thumb, I smudge the ash from his mouth. The fresh polish of my leather gloves does the trick, making those lips smooth. “There, something nice to look at, if you must stay.”

I turn, walk against the crowds to go to the lecture. My physician fusses and follows. I think he’s rambling about being Antiope, and that he’s the innocent one. Seeing more peers and newspapermen gather at Somerset House, I know I’m the one who’ll get trampled by bulls in this male-dominated world.