Page 9 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 9

S TEPHEN —W HITE’S G ENTLEMEN’S C LUB

I t takes an eternity to find Benny. He hasn’t parked at the closest mews, but one further down the river. When I finally find him, I fall into the carriage mumbling about Scarlett and White’s.

So tired . . .

I think that is when I died. All I see is darkness, and something feels like it’s shaking me.

“Mr. Carew! Mr. Carew!”

“Yes, Lord!”

“Sir, wake up.”

I open my eyes, ready to see angels . . . hoping for angels. “Benny?”

The sun has begun to lower. There are pinks and reds in the darkening sky.

“Sir, yuh need to go home. Yuh been up too long. Yuh saying daft things about Scarlett Wilcox.”

Oh goodness. “What did I say?”

“That she’s a man and yuh wished she was a lady.”

Well, that’s true.

“And he smelled nice.”

I sit up straight. I have nothing to correct. Scarlett as Scotland did smell nice. “Are we at White’s?”

“Yes. But, sir, yuh need to eat, to sleep. Yuh don’t need to be chasing Miss Wilcox.”

“He . . . she is under my protection. If I tell the Duke of Torrance that I lost her to Livingston, he’ll kill me.”

Benny jerks me to my feet. “Yuh didn’t say Torrance was involved. He’s got people everywhere snooping, looking for scandal. Yuh lose the Wilcox girl, yuh lose him as a funder for yuh hospital project. Yuh lose him, yuh lose the two investors yuh’ve secured.”

I don’t mention that I’ve already lost the others because of my delays.

My man-of-all-work panics. Benny looks unhinged, talking of loss while he paces. He points at me. “Yuh always saying how smart Miss Wilcox is. Could she truly be in dat much danger? Are we in trouble?”

I grab his arm to stop him going back and forth. “She’s in there with Livingston. I’ll go get her.”

“With the drunk earl? So she truly dressed as a man and went into White’s? That wasn’t tired babbling? Yuh know yuh say the craziest things when yuh’re exhausted. And yuh faint. It’s wild.”

“Yes, Miss Wilcox is in disguise.” I say. “It’s a gentlemen’s club. She’s not a gentleman and none of us are white. Can you not see how many problems can arise?”

Benny howls with laughter. “It’s White’s. A gentlemen’s club. A brown lady in breeches has infiltrated.”

When he put it like that, it’s even more terrifying.

“Boy, sir. She’s bold. No wonder yuh always talking about her.”

Well, at least he’s not pacing anymore. “You finished? Please park at the close mews or stay here and be vigilant. I’m going to grab her, and we’ll need a fast getaway.”

“Be careful grabbing the gentlewoman, sir.”

I shake my head. I leave my hat and gloves on the seat of my carriage and head into White’s.

Could Livingston have picked up on Scarlett’s disguise? The earl is a smart fellow. If he hadn’t driven Scotland, I’d have taken that girl to Anya House. And I would have enjoyed every minute of telling her how foolish her actions are.

Scarlett has robbed me of the immediate opportunity to set her straight, but I will get to it before the night is over. “Yes. Stay close. I’m going to get her. Over my shoulder, dropped into the carriage, and then back, to the duke.”

“Stay calm, sir. You can do anything.” Benny yells this as he drives past me.

I stand on the pavement outside the oldest and most famous men’s club in London. It’s probably packed in there. Flexing my fingers, preparing to wrench her scrawny neck, I hope and pray she hasn’t already been exposed.

I want to curse under my breath, but I need too much favor. At the door, about to go inside, I’m struck by the notion that something must be causing her to be reckless. Maybe whatever made her stop talking to me is related to this irrational behavior.

I rub at my eyes. I feel irrational. Maybe I should’ve told Benny to follow behind the magistrate’s cart when they send me away for throttling the wild woman.

Trying to remain calm, I count my steps as I enter White’s. A man at the vestibule asks, “Are you a member?”

“No, but I’m meeting Lord Livingston.”

The man nods. “He said to expect you.”

The greeter is dressed as a gentleman, but I feel as if he’s truly a tall footman ready to toss out all who are unwelcome. He flips through papers, and I wait for him to tell me where to find the earl.

Every moment, every second of delay that keeps me from seeing Scarlett—ensuring she’s fine, not exposed—tortures my soul. “Excuse me, where might I find Lord Livingston?”

The fellow clears his throat. “You don’t have a hat or coat?”

“My carriage. I left them there. I don’t intend to stay long.”

He nods. “Next time, if you bring the hat, I’ll give you a marker. If you bring the coat, I’ll give you a second marker, Mr. . . . ?”

“Mr. Carew. Please tell—”

The attendant flips through a book on the table he stands behind. “Bring at least a hat next time.”

Time is ticking away. “Yes. I’ll bring one.” I must’ve lost my mind. This delay is hell. “Yes, I’ve learned my lesson. Help.”

The fellow killing me slowly leans a little over the table and points into the club. “The earl and his party are upstairs.”

With a nod, I move deeper into White’s. The pale walls are washed in candlelight. Tables and elegant sofas are all around. Men lounge and drink and make wagers over the silliest things. One just said something about hot-air ballooning.

This place is for the ton, the highest peerages. In the choice seats like next to the bay window sits the august Duke of Wellington, the man who defeated the nasty Napoleon.

I’ve been here in the company of Torrance and a few other members. I’m not a member, have never sought to be one, not that this place is looking for or hurting for new blood.

No one’s looking at me until I reach the stairs. I like that I’m mostly invisible. That means I won’t be asked awkward questions on how I’ve become a gentleman. No one will assume or pretend to assume that I’m part of the waitstaff.

The invisibility means I’m protected from the anger of those hating the changes that the world has thrust upon their doorsteps.

Livingston makes jokes of plantation money. Many here have no need to joke about it. The transactions and trades of the islands pay for their lifestyles—those Mayfair homes and expensive White’s memberships.

My palm is tense as I grasp the baluster. This trembling feeling isn’t invisible. It’s tight, holding on to my gut, squeezing, wishing I wasn’t becoming more and more embroiled in a scandal which will give everyone license to mock me and question everything about my existence.

Midstep, halfway up, I hear a loud raspy voice, betting on which island will be the next rebellion to rebel .

I bristle.

I know that noise is for me. Trinidad has only been under British rule for less than twenty years. It might as well be us, the latest to rebel. I stand a little straighter, hoping the fool takes no comfort in my invading their space.

At the top of the stairs, I see Scarlett. Carefree, drinking with the men. When did she begin drinking? Well, maybe not drinking. There’s a goblet in front of her but she hasn’t touched it.

The sight of her puts me at ease. Her masquerade hasn’t been discovered. She sees me and waves at me like the infernal duke. I’m ready to deal with Scarlett, calmly and rationally. Though I detest falsehoods, I’ll pretty much say anything to get her out of this gentlemen’s club.

I proceed to their table and claim one of the empty high-back chairs. “I’m sorry to be late. I trust you carried on without me.”

Livingston chuckles. “Hadn’t even noticed. The conversation has flown.”

“My cousin doesn’t get out much.” Scarlett’s voice sounds heavy and strained. “Thank you for entertaining my questions, Lord Livingston.”

My heart rejoices, seeing her unexposed. The breath I didn’t realize I was holding releases. The scent of cedar and cigars fills my nostrils. “Finding a mews took a little longer than expected.”

“Well, White’s has plenty of distractions.” Her head turns and the hair pulled back by a ribbon sweeps her lapels. She sort of looks the part of a young English soldier heading off to war on the Continent.

I didn’t quite realize how long her locks were. They’re usually pinned up.

“I’ve heard the game of faro described,” she says, “but I hadn’t actually seen it. Fascinating. Winning and losing differs by a few points.”

“Well, don’t waste a learning opportunity, young Carew.” Livingston is preening like a true mentor. “Did you know this one was so talented?”

“Of course.” I didn’t know, but her feat of pretending to be a man and getting away with it shows a perverse sense of accomplishment. “What skill in particular are you admiring, Livingston?”

“These sketches.” He points to pages in her notebook. “These are remarkable.”

Scarlett’s eyes are bright. “You should’ve seen earlier. We had a crowd of admirers.”

“I must say we did. It was large. My peers in the science community, peers of the ton, all came to bow and pay homage to such brilliant sketches.”

Livingston cuts short his praise. He looks dead at Scarlett, and I hold my breath again.

“Carew the younger, perhaps you can illustrate the next paper I wish to publish on eye health?”

What? I pry the notebook from his hand, and I’m shocked at the talent and the descriptions. Scarlett Wilcox has drawn the eye with such detail—showing the cornea, the white sclera, the thin conjunctiva and lens.

The image of the eye and all its parts seem lifelike, a true dissection. The window, also known as the cornea, bears a proper label. The colored diaphragm, or iris, has a different shade of charcoal, all done so that the differences are easily detectable.

The notations on the lens describe different types of cataracts. “These are masterful.”

Scarlett smiles, a true one, like when I answer her questions about medicines and herbs. How many times have I seen her hovering in a corner with charcoals and that notebook?

I’m shamed; I didn’t know her capable of this. “It seems you’ve drawn a patient with advanced cataracts. The rate of growth will have to be measured, but eventually, sight will diminish until it’s gone.”

Her face blanks. It’s as if I questioned her abilities or kicked a dog or something.

Oh no. This renegade is trying to draw me in. I refuse to give in; I won’t indulge another scheme.

“Don’t look so upset, Carew,” Livingston says to me. “Your cousin has been a delight to talk with.”

“That’s because every word has been about you,” another man says as he joins us. This fellow, with gray hair and spectacles, sits at our table. “You must be energized to have your fame spread to the young.”

The earl salutes the man with a raised glass. “Lord Flanders, you cannot be jealous because my research has admirers and yours does not.” Livingston sounds very conceited. “I’m sure fungal species in the wild are very exciting.”

Yes, an arrogant scientist the earl is, but this is normal behavior for him.

“You know Mr. Carew, whom we’ll now call Carew the Elder, and you’ve met his cousin Scotland Carew, wisely to be known as Carew the Younger.” Livingston looks at the sketches again.

Scarlett glances at me. “The advanced ca-tar-acts, as you say, cousin . . . have you ever found it treatable?”

She’s mocking my accent. This is probably one of her wordy traps. Something to tease me. I must proceed with caution.

“Cousin,” she says looking at me with those I’m-getting-away-with-this jet eyes, “what treatments can there be?”

“If it’s soft and milky, there’s not much that can be done but to wait,” Livingston interjects.

“I agree,” I say. “Not much but make the patient comfortable. Prepare them for loss of vision in that eye.”

“But in the research I’ve seen from France,” Scarlett says, “their men of science suggest a lenticular cataract can be treated. Lenticular meaning very hard. Hypothetically, it has made the lens clouded and crystalline. Some sight has been regained by pushing the lens deeper into the eye cavity.”

The earl looks stumped. “That sounds painful.”

Lord Flanders takes off his spectacles. “Any procedure involving jabbing the eye like what young Carew describes is risky.”

“Every procedure has risks,” I add. Realizing this is not a jest, I decide to become more serious. “The pain of such a procedure must be high. Is the patient awake or asleep when this is done?”

“I don’t know.” Scarlett’s voice is soft, almost ladylike again.

“It’s important,” I answer. “One may have to make modifications to the lens based on a patient’s comfort.”

Conversations on techniques continue, but Scarlett looks dejected.

“There may be other procedures.” Livingston picks up another of her sketches.

“Your esteemed colleague has given his opinion on displacement of the crystalline lens. Carew, share yours,” she says. “We all know my cousin’s word is as God’s.”

Scarlett’s tone wants to be dismissive, but her eyes beg for my opinion. That must be our problem. She needs a mentor. I wish to keep her a friend or friendly enemy. Yet, there are times like now, I question if I hunger for more. Do I want her soft voice to ask for more—more care, concern, maybe love?

“Carew?” Same tone, same wanton eyes. Same questions I’ve had since last year’s ball about her and what I feel, what I’ve tried to ignore.

“I am not God, but I’ve not seen this condition in many patients.” I lean over and examine those perfectly black smoky eyes. Seeing them sad, even aching, makes my heart unexpectedly race. I want to know whose eyes she has drawn. Who has this condition?

The earl taps the table. “I think the new research you have discussed earlier, young Carew, has merit. It might be worthy to try, given we find the patient.”

“Do you, cousin, have someone in mind?” I glance directly into her eyes.

Scarlett takes up the papers. “It’s immaterial. The earl has given me his opinion. He’s the renowned expert on the eye at this table. Thank you, my lord, for listening. Now I have much to think about on ca-tar-acts.”

“Cataracts.” Livingston’s tone is more forceful in pronunciation, but I seethe . . . well, I seethe a little more. The nerve of Scarlett trying to pretend she has an accent. And to value the earl’s opinion over mine.

And then I scold myself. I’m jealous.

How many times has Scarlett wanted to show me something and I ignored her? Her not talking to me, avoiding me, tells me that I want her attention. And this need is different. I’ve known her forever. I swore to her father to be a protector and mentor. Now I swear to my awakened weary soul that I want more.

With a sigh, I sit back. They discuss more body parts while I observe the burgundy tapestry running the length of the room. I see body parts all the time. That’s why I must escape to Shakespeare or a novel. With this one, will she want to discuss dissection when I’d rather compliment her complexion? Could she be my respite? Or will she drain me with questions and talk of procedures? Does having more with Scarlett Wilcox mean no escape from work?

The rooms goes black for a moment. When I open my eyes, I focus on the moldings. They are ridged and dental cut about the room. A glass chandelier sparkles over my head. This picturesque setting is a haven for rich men, ones of leisure who can describe fanciful operations they’ll never perform.

I wake up a little and notice my cousin, the renegade, impresses me. She can hold her own with my colleagues. Part of me laughs on the inside. They’ve let Scarlett invade this world and hold court. The brown young lady pretending to be a gentleman has infiltrated White’s.

Deep down, I must thank Scarlett for forcing me to be a rebel. I want to tell the rude man downstairs that the war is over. The invading forces have won a place in White’s.

Blinking, I see Livingston lifting his hands into the air, tracing womanly curves, probably telling jokes no woman or man of decency should hear.

My anger rises again.

I’m not a renegade. I’m someone who’s protective of a woman who shouldn’t be here. A glance out the window shows the sun has set. Except for the reflection of a link boy’s fire torch directing carriages out front of White’s, darkness covers the panes.

The duke has entrusted Scarlett to my care. How have I bungled this? She should be at Anya House safe and sound in her bed, not giving me such sad eyes because I gave her the truth about cataracts.

Livingston’s arm waves to a servant who begins to pour a new bottle of some Bordeaux. He says to Scarlett, “These are the best detailed sketches I’ve seen on the subject. You are masterful at illustration.”

Illustration or illusion? Maybe both. Glancing down, I see again why all are amazed. How did she get so good at human anatomy?

Why must the fool Livingston discover this, instead of me?

I notice Scarlett looking at me. There’s a shy quality, almost fearfulness in having me review her work. Alas, I’m a bad mentor to her. What type of friend have I been to her?

When she sips from the glass . . . the way her mouth touches the glass, seems . . . well, accomplished, playful.

I’ve never noticed that before, the fullness of her lips. It’s disturbing to remark this now, when I’ve started to decide we shouldn’t be more. This is like my new favorite, Sense and Sensibility . It’s by A. Lady, and her character, Marianne Dashwood, starts to like Colonel Brandon after deciding they shouldn’t be together. Except I’m not sure who’s Dashwood and who’s Brandon, me or Scarlett.

My thoughts are scattered. Sleep is coming for me. I blink my eyes, happy that Scarlett’s unharmed and relatively in the same condition of rebellion as she was in Somerset House.

Her brazen eyes briefly meet mine, before they are again on Livingston. “Sir, repeat what you were saying. I think it profound.”

Okay. Now I’m glad she’s a man. Livingston would eat this attention up, if he knew it was coming from Scarlett.

“Thank you, Carew . . . the Younger.” That brilliant fool is eating up the attention regardless.

I want to drag Scarlett out of here, but I’ll stay if it means she won’t be angry when I take her to Torrance. There’s something going on between Scarlett and me, something beyond the costuming and lies. When I take her to Anya House, we’ll hash things out.

I pop to my feet. “Cousin, we’ve taken up enough of the earl’s time we should—”

“No, Carew the Elder.” Livingston says, “Relax. I like this conversation.”

“Perhaps you should have something to eat, cousin. I’m not sure you’ve had anything today. I do believe you often skip breakfast.”

Why is Scarlett telling my personal habits to these men? How does she know so much about me? I fold my arms and sit back in the chair. “I’m fine, but as we each have full days tomorrow, we should consider leaving.”

“You can go, cousin. I’ll make my way home.” Her eyes cut a defiant gaze. She’s daring me to expose her. Instead, I’m forced to back down and brood. Watching Scarlett act like a sycophant to Livingston, I burn that she ignores my counsel.