Page 8 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 8

S CARLETT —S OMERSET H OUSE , C ARIBBEAN E SCORT

H urrying through the crowds, I turn down a corridor and hear my boot heels clacking against the bare marble floors. I’m again at the entrance. Before I turn back, I see the duke. Torrance stands by the marble River God meeting with a man—a nice-looking, tall one with warm brown skin.

In London, seeing dignified Blackamoors is not rare, but ones who are barristers with a nearly perfect record of wins for the Crown and often drawn in sketches for the newspapers is. “He’s a lot better looking than in the cartoons.”

“What? Who’s better?” Carew is at my side, looking left and right.

“Keep your voice down.” I point to the duke and the famed Earl of Ashbrook.

The physician snarls and glances at me, like he always does, with heated contempt. Carew will never see me as an equal or as someone with valid opinions or a mind for science. Just a silly little woman. Now a spoiled woman in men’s clothes.

“No explanation, Wilcox? I’m waiting.” He wants my words, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to listen.

Ignoring him, I turn back to the River God, but the duke and Lord Ashbrook are still talking. Is it a meeting? Does the duke need legal advice?

Carew bumps into me. “Sorry.”

“Go home and sleep. I’m quite fine navigating Somerset House. Probably better than you.”

I turn and his long arm clasps my shoulder. “Not so fast.”

The slight accent ramps again. When he’s not self-conscious, he lets it be free. Then, his words, that of the Trinidadian medicine man, are as potent ever.

“Please, Scarlett. Be reasonable.” There’s a low begging quality to his voice that makes this tone irresistible. “Come away with me.”

“Why?”

“You’re heading the wrong direction.”

“I know—” Before my response has fully left my mouth, I trip and fall into the physician. For a moment, his well-muscled arm wraps around my padded chest. Sadly, I feel nothing.

He keeps us both upright. I’m grateful for my padding and the hope that my heart has moved on from wanting the impossible Stephen Adam Carew.

I shake free. “Thank you.”

His gaze falls to where my bosom would be. Frowning, he says, “I’m not sure why you’ve made a misstep, but you smell nice, Wilcox.”

Mark’s eau is the scent. “It’s a gift from a real man.”

“What, Wilcox?” he says. “I have difficulty hearing you. Your sideburns must be muffling things.”

The physician yawns and follows me as I walk closer to Torrance and Ashbrook. Perhaps I can read lips.

“Why do you care about Ashbrook, Wilcox? He’s married with two children. He’s not someone the duke can foist on you to win his bet.”

If I turn and slug Carew, I’ll probably hurt my knuckles along the hard palatine bone of his nose, or the maxilla of his jaw. So, I settle for menacing bluster. “Must you talk? Can’t you just follow me around like a lost puppy?”

The physician gets to my side and sighs so loudly I think the statue of the River God might awaken. “If you give this up now, I’ll take you to get an ice.”

A sweet dessert?

That’s what he thinks will fix everything. “Stephen Adam Carew, you’re stuck in the mud. I refuse to be stuck with you. I won’t let you deter me from my mission. While you wait, the world still turns.”

His brow furrows like he’s heard me, but I know the stubborn man only hears his own thoughts.

“Nothing wrong with being deliberate, Wilcox.”

“Deliberate or snail-like? Sir, you’ll always be too slow in making up your mind. I’ll act and live.”

“Didn’t hear anything about you being a thinker. You’re quick to jump to conclusions but slow to apologize. Consider reversing these stances.”

“No more advice.” Like the duke, I flick my wrist at Carew. “I have no use for you. Be gone.”

“I’m not your servant, but Torrance has appointed me your guardian today. Do your sisters know you have such a rude mouth?”

“Yes. They all do.”

His handsome face of deep bronze, like roasted cocoa pods, shakes in laughter. “I missed you, Wilcox.”

I . . . I’m stunned.

The man notices nothing but illness. The old me realizes that this singular moment of Stephen Adam Carew being kind or thoughtful will pull me back into a dark place—reading into words that mean nothing, sharing glances that leave me bereft and alone.

So, I can’t be kind to him. Ever. “How does one miss the bane of her existence? If I seek anyone, it will be one who’s daring, not a fool who refuses to give his opinion unless it is a barb.”

“That’s harsh, Wilcox. Don’t pout, little one.”

“You’re a Neanderthal who’ll continually make my age or station in life the butt of his jokes. You’re not someone I’ll ever miss. In fact, these moments with you make me ill.”

While he gathers his face from the floor, I notice that the duke and Ashbrook have left. I turn and walk the other way.

The duke’s dealings will be a mystery to figure out later.

Carew steps into my path. His height towers, but I’d feel his presence from across the room.

“You need to convince me why this costume is necessary. Women and children can come to the exhibition, Scarlett.”

He’s said my name.

He’s the only one who lets it hang in the air for at least a second longer than it should. His voice sets my teeth on edge, and I feel like he wants to punish me for being naughty. For some reason the notion is exciting. The proper torture would be his ashy lips against mine.

“You’re perspiring, Wilcox. Are you having a reaction to the paint on your face? It does give you a very good shadow of a beard, but the cosmetic or coal paint can’t be healthy.”

He bends down. His face is close. His breath smells of delicious medicinal peppermint. “Scarlett?”

Blast it. “I’m fine. Bye.”

“Scarlett,” his tone sweetens—all honey, peppermint, and accent. “You’re the person I wanted to see. Not like this, though.”

He blathers on, but I ignore everything but the word person . Not woman, or beloved being, and with the way I’m dressed, not even man. I’m forever a nobody in his eyes, forever unreachable or touchable.

I offer him what I hope is a manly smile. “Thank you for your concern. Now run along.” Again, I give him the duke’s dismissive wave again. “So long.”

“Now, Wilcox, don’t be like this.”

I toss him a whatever look, turn and leave.

But his hand clasps mine.

Not sure what happens to my brainbox, or any one’s brainbox when feelings, unequal or unrequited or unimaginable, rage.

My mind blanks.

My skin warms as his fingertips, gentle firm ones, skilled with a scalpel or suturing needle, find the slim unprotected spot on my wrist.

Skin to skin contact—not my leather gloves or dancing gloves—but person to person, man to woman.

We’ve held hands once or twice, if dancing counts. Sort of . . . maybe. I know I held his, once.

I took charge.

The man was having the worst day. The strumpet he thought of marrying got tired of waiting and married someone else. I offered the foolish hurting man comfort, hoping my touch would say all the things I couldn’t. That he was worthy of honesty. That he deserved better.

When he got up from the duke’s table, his eyes met mine and he offered me a pat on the head. I have hated him with the passion of a thousand suns ever since.

But he is still holding my fingers in his.

A noise draws his attention away. He lets go. I’m free.

His glance returns. And I know the brownish almost black eyes see me as nothing but a fool in a waistcoat. Is ten years’ difference in age an insurmountable distance?

Then he says, all pepperminty and smooth, “Reporters are here. I won’t let you get caught. I’ll cause a distraction. I’ll save you.”

There’s no saving me, not from danger or waiting on miracles. I have nothing but science. That’s enough. “Walk away. Let the wayward soul suffer consequences alone.”

I start to the lecture room. My notebook of sketches is in my satchel. I have paper and pencil to take notes.

A shadow soon overtakes me. I stop, and he keeps going for a moment. It’s a lovely view—squared shoulders, thick twists of curls on top, low on the sides. Warm eyes turn to glower at me. He’s furious. “I won’t do that. I’m a gentleman. Though I’m not indebted to your minder, I do feel protective of the Wilcoxes. I’ll help you and hope my name and aspirations won’t burn to the ground for you.”

Can I be simultaneously horrified and joyful at such a grand gesture? This is why I can’t be around him. I’m supposed to be a logical woman of science. I refuse to let an accent infused with peppermint distract me.

“Thank you, Mr. Carew, but I shan’t keep you. Lovely to see you again.” There, that is said with the calm and the coldness of ice. Katherine would admire my hateful tone. “Good day.”

I turn from his stunned expression, but his voice won’t leave me. “Now, Sc . . . Scotland. I might’ve been too hasty. Don’t go.”

Stupid me. Stupid heart. I fight myself and spin back to him.

There’s no need. He catches up to me and extends that sweet brotherly smile. We get to the lecture room and it’s still empty. I can sense Carew’s growing pleasure at my disappointment.

“Come, Wilcox,” he says. “While we wait on Livingston, let’s view more art together. And then I’ll take you for an ice. You do like Gunter’s pineapple. This I recall.”

He nudges my shoulder, and I see people are looking. I’ve probably acted too much like a disappointed silly female, one who can’t resist a pineapple ice. “Fine.” I plod next to Mr. Carew, remembering to walk like an uptight male and to keep my hips stiff. As I’ve gotten older and wider, they love to sway and betray me.

Funny, Carew doesn’t walk like the others. There’s a bit of rhythm in his steps and, like the duke, there’s a confident swagger. Most men don’t have that. They are too busy observing others.

We duck into the Great Room. Among the hanging canvasses, I see one that seems out of place. A couple with hands entwined, one finger has a visible gold band. “Look at that, Mr. Carew. Such an odd and showy painting.”

His brow furrows. “You think it wrong?”

“Wrong? No. But maybe I’m offended by its snobbery. It’s bragging of domestic bliss.”

He laughs a little, then holds in more. “Let’s see what the card says. Hmm. The Wedding Band .” His chortle sounds sharp. “Speaking of wedding bands, you’re not seriously going to let the duke or Lady Hampton choose a mate for you?”

A quick glance shows me no one is listening to us. “Never Katherine. She made a wrong choice.” A fun-loving, husband-that-burnt-up-all-your-money choice. “I’d never let her pick.”

Carew’s face sobers. “But you’d let the duke?”

“As far as I know, he’s not had a bad marriage.”

“That’s not an answer.” Carew’s head tilts and he begins to flatten my collar. “Please tell me you’ve not agreed to this.”

Agreed to what? That his fingers shouldn’t be near my neck? Agree that he must oil his hands in lavender and cocoa butter, but not his lips?

He finally pulls away, and I breathe more deeply.

“Get your tailor, Wilcox, to . . . What am I saying? This charade needs to stop.”

“What charade? I come to Somerset House for the lectures. That has nothing to with the duke or my sister.”

“Good, then you’ll not let Torrance—”

“The duke and I have an arrangement. I’m allowed under supervision to go about my research in any way I see fit. He’s allowed to choose who I’ll marry this year.”

That mouth of his forms the biggest frown I’ve ever seen. “That’s not right, Wilcox.”

“I think it is. And he knows me well enough to choose wisely. Marriage after all is nothing but a name change. My want of a mate is the use of a name to publish.”

Carew blinks so fast I think he’s about to faint. “Torrance doesn’t know you. I’ve known you longer, and I don’t think—”

“Carew?” The Earl of Livingston comes over. “That is you. Now, here, I didn’t think you were much of an art lover.”

Stephen Adam Carew quotes Shakespeare beautifully. What would give the earl, or anyone else, the impression that the physician doesn’t like art?

The earl gawks at me. My pulse panics. I fear he can see through my disguise. “Who is this? Wait, I’ve seen you in my lectures.”

“Well, I enjoyed your past lectures. They’re always so insightful. Today’s lecture is late, I hope it’s not canceled.” I make my voice deep. “I came specifically to hear your lecture on eye anatomy.”

“Because of the large crowds for the Annual Exhibition, the committee canceled my lecture. They sent word late last night. They had a time finding me.” Lord Livingston grins, waggles his thin brows. Then his chest puffs up like a hot air balloon. “So, you’ve been to past lectures. Have we been introduced?” The earl taps his chin. “There is something familiar—”

“No, not possible,” Carew says. “I mean, he’s just returned to town recently.”

This starts the earl looking at me more intently, but I’m greatly disappointed at the canceled lecture. Up early for nothing. Arguing with Carew is also worthless.

“Do we know each other, sir?” The earl taps his chin. “I’m good with faces.”

Uh-oh. I must distract him. “Well, everyone knows the research of Alexander Melton, the fourth Earl of Livingston. Your knowledge of the eye is superior to everyone. You are renowned.”

Smiling widely, the earl puts a hand to his buff coat. “Renowned? Well, I don’t like to brag.”

“Yes,” Carew says, “don’t.”

“And so, Carew, who is this, and does he come with a large purse? Since you won’t risk your money in card games, perhaps this gentleman can.”

I lean forward. “I’m Scotland—”

“Scotland Carew,” the physician says, “my cousin visiting for the summer.”

What? Why the lie? Mr. Carew hates lies, but once a thing is said, there’s no changing it. “Yes. Just taking a break from Inverness Academy. I wish to be a physician like my dear cousin.”

“A student.” Livingston frowns, looking much less impressed. “Well, that means low funds. Where are the visitors, the ones coming with the plantation or habitation money from their fathers? Or does that wealth only happen for the daughters?”

I cringe at his statement and begin to reconsider the notion of Livingston being a great man. Nonetheless, he’s one of the few who knows the intricacy of eye anatomy in London. Beggars can’t be choosy.

Mr. Carew looks bothered. “Sir, I think you have to go to the coastal communities for that type of money. I hear from a friend of a friend that the author of Sense and Sensibility is working on a novel about a woman from the islands who bring deh kind of money.” His accent becomes stronger. It’s intentional, putting emphasis on his d’s, adding rhythm to consonants. “Meh. I believe there’s a boardinghouse there for women of color. Deh sez taking in women of large fortunes.”

I don’t believe Stephen Adam Carew just said that with a straight face—no laughter curling his lips. And I have to keep my humor to myself. It’s another fun discovery about him. He’s a reader of frivolous novels by A. Lady. Carew has the same taste as the Prince Regent.

“Bath, you say?” Livingston nods, then chortles. “You kidder. Carew, you get funnier the more we become acquainted.”

I don’t want to be more acquainted. I want the lecture. “But, sir, when will be the next time you present at Somerset? I must learn eye anatomy from the best.”

“It will be some time, Scotland Carew.”

I’m heartbroken. Mr. Thom doesn’t have long. The cataracts will progress and destroy all of his sight. “Oh, I see.”

The earl nods. “I see your cousin is disappointed. I have an idea. A few of us are going to White’s on St. James. A card game will be afoot, and then a couple of blocks away is one of my favorite places for evening entertainment. I’ll take the time to share my lecture and answer all the questions you have if you come.”

“I have sketches, my lord. I’d love for you to annotate them.”

“Like an autograph?” The earl’s chin lifts.

He’s a brilliant fool, but I’m desperate, so I say, “I’d love you to.”

Carew shakes his head and sighs in peppermint. “We’d love to, but not today. Cousin, we have to go to that thing. We can catch Livingston’s lecture another time.”

My alleged cousin tilts his head trying to motion for me to leave. He’s looking over the crowd for a path to escape. “Come along, Scotland Carew. Since Livingston is not teaching today, he must be here for the art.”

“Yes, but I’m bored. And when the Royal Society meets next week, they’ve invited anatomy models from Henry Fuseli. They will perform a study of muscular and skeletal concerns in the nude. I’m not sure why the special effort. One can just go to Madame Rosebud’s.”

The earl is giggling like a schoolboy, and they have the nerve to think women are silly.

“I’d rather talk about ocular health today. Lord Livingston, let’s go to White’s.”

The earl claps. “Excellent. White’s it is. Bring that island money.”

“A little.” I jingle my coin purse. “See you later, cousin.” I dip my head and proceed to leave with Livingston.

Then I hear a cough and a grunt. “It would be rude to not go with my cousin on his first time at White’s.”

I turn and see an expression on Carew’s face I’ve never seen. He looks in pain. The agony he feels, fretting about what I’ll experience in Livingston’s company, makes me . . . happy.

Stephen Adam Carew, my new cousin, may not see me as an equal, but he will learn that I can be a great terror to someone short on patience.

By the darkening of his cheeks and his eyes, I think the good physician is about halfway en route to an implosion.