A Wager at Midnight

Book 2: Betting Against the Duke

by Vanessa Riley

Genres: African American Romance; Regency Romance; Multicultural & Interracial Romance

Synopsis

The stakes are high in this dazzling and diverse Regency romance, in which a clever duke has made a wager with the now-widowed Viscountess who is the love of his life: To win a second chance with her, he will find husbands for her two sisters—or resign himself to a life of longing in this enchanting tale from award-winning author Vanessa Riley.

Scarlett Wilcox is willing to live out her life as a spinster if it means being able to continue her medical research to help a friend in need. After all, few husbands would tolerate her dressing as a man to attend lectures at the Royal Academy of Science. If the Duke of Torrance finds her such a specimen, she'll agree to a marriage in name only, much to the dismay of her elder sister, the Viscountess.
 
When she's unmasked at a lecture on ophthalmology, Scarlett prepares to be disgraced, but she's saved by Trinidadian-born physician Stephen Carew who claims her as a cousin. Dedicated to caring for his community, Stephen has no wish to marry a frivolous and privileged lady, no matter how many fall for his disarming accent and seductive charm. But Scarlett proves the opposite of any he’s ever met before. Yet the pressure to marry blinds them both to the chemistry growing between them, pitting their brilliant minds against their reluctant hearts—as the Duke and Viscountess await with bated breath to see who will win . . . A WAGER AT MIDNIGHT.
 
RAVES FOR VANESSA RILEY

“I'm a huge [Vanessa Riley] fan . . .  Her books are exquisitely written and painstakingly researched.”—Julia Quinn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Bridgerton books
 
“Riley gifts readers a sparkling love story.” —Entertainment Weekly on A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

If someone had bet me a fiver that I’d be sitting in one of the finest dining rooms of Mayfair, drinking champagne and conversing with peers of the realm, I, Stephen Adam Carew, would’ve offered to examine their cranium for a head wound or sign their admission into Bedlam.

“Let me tell you about Madame Rosebud’s bosom. Big and bouncy, strewn with pink blossoms and the fragrances . . .” Alexander Melton, the buffoon Earl of Livingston, again used the lull in the conversation to talk about women. The whoremonger was a brilliant man of science. How, I did not know. But research papers didn’t lie.

Even after getting to know him during my visits here, I still couldn’t reconcile his scholarly aptitude for eye anatomy with his abnormal appetite for courtesans.

Ignoring him, as I often did, I reveled in the surroundings. The warmth of the gold-and-silver-threaded Russian tapestries hung along the freshly painted light blue walls. I sat back in my elegant walnut chair and allowed the finely turned spindles to support my back . . . or more so my spine.

Why was I letting a lusty fool sabotage me? No more hesitation. “Your Grace, I think we were discussing my proposal for the hospital building project.”

Our host, Jahleel Charles, the Duke of Torrance, seemed distracted. He rubbed his chin. His pallor was restored from his last episode of sickness. No one could tell that this strong-looking gentleman had come close to succumbing after his triumphant ball. The diet of beetroot for anemia seemed to help. He made a soup of the vegetable and called it borscht. “One moment,” he said as he whispered something to his manservant, the wise Mr. Steele.

The ash-blond Scottish man’s secret reply made the duke laugh. “Carry on, Mr. Steele. Make sure Miss Wilcox and Miss Lydia Wilcox have dessert brought to them in the library.”

So, Scarlett Wilcox is here. Wonder what trouble that one will get into today?

Alas, whatever it took to get a patient to heed, including borrowing the Wilcoxes as his adopted family, I wholeheartedly encouraged it. The duke, at thirty-three, needed to focus on joy and listen more intently to what his body was trying to tell him. Chronic illness could be both painful and deadly.

With my own thirty-first birthday coming by year’s end, I needed to be more settled, more deliberate. Before the new year, I hoped to have a new hospital commissioned, and a wife—in that order.

With hazel-colored eyes darting between me and the earl, Torrance asked, “Before we discuss the project, I want your opinions on why attendance has dwindled at my science meetings.”

The earl wiggled and hemmed and hawed in his seat. “Well, the peers and gentlemen with courtesans as mistresses probably do not want to attend. They don’t wish to risk exposure.”

The statements made the duke chuckle. “Then they should know better than to be my enemy. There were four men who voted to invalidate my parents’ marriage. Prahmn was the lead.”

The way Torrance said this, without emotion, almost stiff, was more frightening than when his voice held anger. I tried to ignore it. I had a tendency to worry and, as Miss Wilcox said, think a thing to death.

But I couldn’t. Like nosy Miss Wilcox, I needed to know. “What does that mean, Your Grace?”

“Nothing. Or everything, for the three left who helped delay my hearing and cost me all that mattered, including my sister’s life.” His chuckles were bitter, menacing. “See? Almost nothing.”

Livingston tapped the table. “That’s the attitude which makes people wish to avoid Anya House.”

The duke looked away for a second. “It’s a flaw, sir. I’ll deal harshly with anyone who threatens me or those I care for. And when it comes to family . . . I can have the temper of a d’yavol.”

It was obvious from the ball Torrance held at Anya House he’d do everything in his power to expose and destroy his detractors. It took great fortitude to set up a scheme that caused a guilty person to confess publicly to their hypocrisy.

The duke’s skill was grand. He involved the papers to protect Georgina Wilcox and, to some degree, her new husband, Lord Mark Sebastian.

“It’s sad,” I said, “that these consequences of the Prahmn scandal have affected Anya House. Your science meetings were surpassing the efforts of the Royal Society.”

I set down my knife and stopped eating for this next bit. “But the impasse will not last. I mean the Marchioness of Prahmn has probably forgiven her husband, that is after he’s confirmed to not have picked up warts or syphilis or gonorrhea from his affair.”

“Can you please contain your language, Carew? There’s food present.” Livingston responded. “And no, the marquess remains unforgiven. His well-deserved embarrassment is legendary. It will be the talk until there’s a new scandal.”

My words were deliberate. Though the earl claimed he was careful in his dealings with courtesans and brothels, those dangers existed. He needed to be reminded. As a physician, I’d seen far too often the damage those afflicted suffer.

Picking up his coupe, turning it so the candlelight flickered on the pale champagne, the earl said, “I hear Prahmn’s close friends are very concerned. They’d love to know how to make peace with you. It’s a conversation I have at White’s.”

Torrance smirked. The short smile quickly disappeared. I’d have missed it if I looked away. “White’s, the club for gentlemen, landed gentlemen, that excludes our friend Carew. No White’s for you.”

The duke had a sense of humor. He straddled all communities—the ton, immigrant sections, and the parts of populous London where one found men and women with more color in their skin. Oh, the aunties of Cheapside, the women who bring together people foreign to London, would love to get a hold of him. My immigrant stronghold would have him married to a nice girl in no time at all. “Hypocrites need to be wary,” he said softly. “Kingdoms and heavens are shut to those who practice and teach hypocrisy.”

That sounded cryptic and threatening . . . and he’d shown London he could bring thunder and brimstone. Goodness, I was mixing up my metaphors like . . . Miss Wilcox. Well, her humor and criticisms were infectious.

Livingston gawked at the duke as if he’d spoken in Russian. “According to Lord Mark, the ton is also uneasy with his bride’s elevation.”

The earl eyed us as if he’d said too much, like he suddenly realized he was dining with men with tanned or darkened skin, men of color—Blackamoors, as we were known in London.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continued. “Georgina Wilcox is perfect for Lord Mark Sebastian. The man is deliriously happy. But with three Wilcox sisters left, peers might not be willing to risk their sons to Lady Hampton or Scarlett, or even Lydia Wilcox in due time.”

“Lady Hampton is still grieving. She’s not again on the marriage mart.” I glared at the earl. “The other two are children.”

The earl looked down into his glass like it would reveal a fortune in the rising bubbles. “One is a child, Carew. However, the other—”

“Careful, Livingston.” The duke had his cane raised like he’d strike the fool.

I would, too. Scarlett Wilcox was a handful, but she was a good . . . well, mostly good girl. “Settle, Your Grace.”

The duke cut his gaze at me. “When Scarlett and Lydia are ready, they will have substantial dowries.” He set down his cane. “I’ll ensure it. Nothing but their happiness matters. Carew, you’ll have to keep me fit to do so.”

Now that I had his attention, I returned Torrance to my initiative. “Your Grace, I want to know your opinion on building a new hospital.”

“Carew, are there not enough hospitals in London?” The duke flicked a finger to one of his servants. Instantly animated, the fellow in the silver livery changed from a statue positioned at the side of the room to a madman whipping from the chestnut sideboard to the table, refilling our crystal goblets.

Torrance’s thick brows came together as he savored the Veuve Clicquot, the best champagne I’d ever tasted—lemony with the sweetness of apples.

“A wealthy city like London,” he said. “It seems quite prideful of its efforts in the sciences and medicine. Why are there not enough hospitals?”

The earl smirked, then drained his glass. “Your Grace, our friend Carew is ambitious, very much wanting to change London. But there are many hospitals. St. Bartholomew’s was founded in 1123. Then there’s St. Thomas, which has served almost as long. I could go on.”

“There are many hospitals for those with connections,” a loud, Scarlett-like voice from the hall said. “Most of the operating hospitals need letters of admission from a benefactor. How are the poor to gain those?”

“How indeed, Miss Wilcox? Please come from the shadows.” The duke’s invitation sounded humorous. “I thought you were studying in the library.”

The pretty girl, with her light olive complexion and dark, dark eyes, stuck her head into the room. Her lithe body followed, and she centered herself under the curved entry of the threshold. A high chignon with tendrils falling sculpted her face. She was soft but bold.

And I prepared for her to say something outrageous.

“I was studying, Your Grace. But as I suspected, the gentleman’s argument for more care lacks a proper defense.”

The earl snickered. “That’s our Carew. Always garnering support from the ladies. And planning grand gestures to win them.”

Never tell a fool you read for relaxation. And if said fool was told about the powerful women in my life, the aunties, of course he’d get everything twisted. Sigh. Being considered a man of the world wasn’t awful.

As if he were conducting an orchestra, the duke put one finger up to silence any potential response from me, then curled the others requesting Scarlett to enter. “The physician cannot help but be charming. I think a Caribbean accent does better than Russian. But Livingston, you could learn much from him. And Miss Wilcox is learning not to hide her opinions. I hope, in some small way, I’m encouraging her.”

Yes, but to what end? Scarlett possessed a sharp intellect. She was learned, a gentleman’s daughter. Mr. Wilcox, by owning property, was one of the first Blackamoors to vote for parliament. Nonetheless, she, like all women, would have to conform to the way life was. I merely prayed she found a tolerant husband, one who could recognize her brilliance and had the patience to withstand her tongue.

Donning men’s boots as some sort of conceited sign of independence, she glided into the room, then curtsied. Head up, poised and balanced, she said, “Your Grace, I didn’t mean to interrupt. . .”

“Sure,” I said in a cough.

“But I was merely walking by, and I felt Mr. Carew’s reservedness. The need for more hospitals is great.”

Though she omitted eavesdropping, her excuse sounded innocent. Make no mistake on that one. Scarlett Wilcox was a minx, a vexing viper in training.

Attempting to take back control of the discussion, I cleared my throat. “Miss Wilcox is correct about the need. The requirement of a reference reduces access for sick people, particularly among immigrant populations. A new hospital such as what I propose would provide care for those communities.”

“Immigrants?” Livingston hiccupped. “You mean the Jamaicans? Or is it Trinidad . . . Trini . . .”

“Trinidadians.” My annoyance rose. “Livingston—”

“And the Dominicans, even Russians.” Scarlett folded her arms and glanced at the buffoonish earl as if he were refuse—old, spilled milk, or God forbid, cassava pone cake that spoiled. “London is a port city, known to trade with all regions of the world. Who else do you expect to come when British appetites are global?”

It would be rude to clap, so I sat still, admiring her fury while it was turned on someone other than me.

Older and wiser, this one would be stunning, setting the world on fire. Well, that would be if she could learn to navigate the world as a proper young woman, not a tomboy or an easily excitable miss.

“Mr. Carew is right, Your Grace.” Her tone sounded so arched, her chin lifted. “People need a place to feel secure when they seek medical attention.”

The gaze she offered the duke made me think the two had secrets. That was an unsettling notion. I wouldn’t want to imply that the young woman was sneaky or conniving but she possessed the same fearlessness that made her father, the late Cesar P. Wilcox, a coal millionaire. In a woman, that streak was admirable and frightening.

Though Miss Wilcox advocated for me now, in the next breath, she’d cut me direct. Her words will be sharp, slashing through my innards better than a scalpel. Heaven help the man who loved her. And please, let him be worthy of the Wilcox family and their duke.

“There’s a great deal to consider,” Torrance said. “When do you need an answer about investing and championing the project, Mr. Carew?”

His Grace hadn’t refused. His answer wasn’t a no or a yes.

“I’m still gathering investors,” I said.

The worlds barely left my mouth when the mostly angelic vixen turned on me. “Why delay? The need is now. The duke could fund the entire project.”

“Now, Miss Wilcox . . .” The room felt ten degrees hotter. All eyes were on me. “It’s not polite to count what’s in a man’s pocket.”

The silver fork in my grasp spoke to the duke’s great wealth. Though he could be over the top in his gifts and parties, Torrance remained levelheaded and—most of the time—without airs. He hadn’t changed from the person I knew when we were both struggling students in Inverness.

“Is that a Trinidadian saying that means to delay forever?” Her sharp tone stabbed. “Or is this just another idea you’ll start and not finish?”

Scarlett’s verbal scalpel went through my rectus abdominis muscle, slashed the oblique, and twisted.

“Carew is smart to delay, young lady.” The earl tapped his glass for more champagne. “He wants a wide base of support so that everyone will partake of the hospital. It won’t be a Russian thing—”

“Or a Blackamoor thing, or a people-with-natural-tans thing. That is your actual concern, isn’t it, Lord Livingston?” She put her hand on her hip. That meant Scarlett was seconds away from another lethal wordy attack. “Mr. Carew is not frightened by backlash, not when he sees the need. He’s a man of great principle and doesn’t require expensive liquors or brothels to give him false bravery or silly opinions of his self-worth.”

The earl shrank back into his chair.

The grinning duke signaled for more champagne to be poured.

Livingston finished one glass and waited for a second pour. “A mouth on that one. Almost as bad as the venomous viscountess. Lady Hampton still ripping into you, Torrance?”

“Da,” the duke said, confirming the intense relationship he had with Scarlett’s oldest sister. “Some habits are hard to kill.”

“Well, Mr. Carew.” One boot tapped on the polished mahogany floor. She stared at me, and I felt inflamed and shamed.

“Tell him that it doesn’t matter who invests.”

It did matter.

It mattered when the hospital hired staff.

It mattered which physicians would want to be associated with it.

There were even those in my own area of Cheapside who would be wary of a hospital that exclusively focused on immigrants and people with different backgrounds and skin color. Sometimes Blackamoors only wanted what the ton had.

Knowing I’d let her down, I sighed. “I want everyone to support the hospital. Beginnings are important, Scarlett.”

Her mirror-black eyes turned on me, then rolled up. I doubted she admired the ornately molded ceilings, but rather wished for the plaster filigree to fall on my head. “So, more delay. Can you be considered a champion if you never fight?”

“I fight, little girl. It’s just typically you. You and I bicker as I answer your medical questions while indulging your lack of decorum and manners.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I tried to defend you. Worthless.”

The earl scoffed and drank half his glass. “Torrance, please send the little lady back to the library so we can talk about more important things—Seasoned Women.”

Shaking his head, Torrance said, “My dear, go check on Lydia. Though the angel is with her personal maid, I like to continually make sure she is happy and well.”

“My little sister is very healthy, Your Grace. She’s drawing pictures for her official sixth birthday in a month. I know she can’t wait to see what you will do.”

The duke’s countenance brightened. “Elephants. It will be amazing. That is as long as Lady Hampton allows us all to have fun.”

For a moment, those fearless dark eyes grew small. Scarlett’s chin lowered. “I’ll go check, Your Grace.”

With poise, she curtsied and left.

“She floats from the room like a descended angel.” The duke raised his goblet to her.

“Then, would that make her Lucifer?”

The duke glanced at me. He looked confused, but I thought the metaphor was fitting. Scarlett Wilcox, the young woman I begrudgingly admired, was beautiful . . . a beautiful devil.

When a person, no matter how brilliant or handsome, called you out of your rightful name to be Lucifer, the fallen angel, the fool deserved hell. And with my boots, I’d gladly kick Carew into the flames.

I couldn’t believe he said that after I tried to defend him.

Sighing and hissing like a steam kettle, I walked away from the dining room. My boots echoed in the grand hall of Anya House.

Stephen Adam Carew probably knew I was listening, probably said it on purpose. Probably thought I’d do something undignified when I heard his retort.

Halfway down the hall, I still fumed.

Devil? Mr. Carew was the d’yavol, as the duke would say.

Fury roiling inside, I trudged forward and stopped at a gilded framed mirror. Did I look like a devil?

I wore one of my old shapeless gray gowns, something Katherine bought me when we mourned old Tavis, her late husband. It was one of the few dresses that fit without showing off my hips.

This was nothing like the ballgown of aurora red satin that I wore to the duke’s ball a month ago. That dress fitted to my waist and captured the curve of my bosom for all to see. The men at the duke’s ball, including that obnoxious physician, did not look at me as a child. I pushed at my cheeks. They were lean. No baby fat at all. They’d never mistake me for Lydia.

What had changed? Was I always to wear such extravagant things to keep a man’s attention? Well, then it wasn’t worth it. I didn’t sing. I didn’t exhibit. I’d burn a kitchen down before I baked anything. And never would I ever dress provocatively to gain any man.

If I returned to the dining room, I’d catch the smug physician either being waylaid by the Earl of Livingston or engaged with the duke about nonsense that did nothing to push the hospital campaign forward.

Ten years was the difference between me and the physician, but I’d never wait for calling. Would reaching his age make me timid? How terrible.

I pitied him. I hated Stephen Adam Carew. I hated his charismatic smile, the way he bit down on his lip when he was in thought. I hated when those lips were dry because he forgot to take care of himself. I even hated when he caught me being less mature.

And above all, I hated that he hesitated before acting. His current delay would cause the physician to lose funding for a new hospital. This dream of Carew’s was old. It was one of the litanies of things he and my father discussed whenever he visited our house on the other side of the Thames. Then Papa made him promise to be a protector and mentor for my curious mind.

I guess that meant Mr. Carew was to be a brother . . . not a lover or anything else. I hate myself for wanting more.

Shaking my head, I trudged up the carpeted stairs and went into the crisp whitewashed library. This room, lined with ivory bookshelves, was the happiest place in Anya House.

Lydia had her head down, drawing what looked to be a map, while the gray-haired matron napped in the corner. Mrs. Cantor was a nice woman, typically very attentive, but my little sister had a lot of zeal.

When I got to the table, I bent and kissed her brow. It was good to see her happy, fever and pain free. Lydia was so much healthier since the Duke of Torrance came into our lives. My sister Katherine, who acted at times like Lydia’s mother, had to start seeing him as a benefit.

To find a cure to keep Lydia illness free was my life’s goal. I’d do anything to learn about the sciences which govern the body. I’d be the best physician the world had ever seen, if given the chance.

“You look mad, Scarlett.” Lydia kept drawing. She didn’t look at me.

“I’m not, not anymore. The men are meeting in the dining room.”

She giggled. “You wanna be there. Don’t you?”

I moved to a bookshelf and fingered the leather spines. The duke surely possessed a fourth . . . no, a third of all the books in the world. “Well, if I’m there, I can’t be up here with you.”

The little girl shook her head. “Scarlett, I know you are mad. Mr. Carew probably teased you, sort of the way the duke teases Katherine.”

“You mean how they both tease each other?”

She tilted her face toward me. Freckles on her nose. Big eyes with flecks of gold. “Katherine’s not kidding. She don’t like our duke.”

The little face looked so sad, I kissed her brow again. “They’ll make nice because of you, dear heart. You have the great power of bringing everyone together.”

She held my arm and leaned her soft cheek against me. “But I know Mr. Carew is teasing you. Just tell him you love him. I told the duke I loved him, and he gave me a pony.”

The high-pitched, squeaky voice echoed, and I glanced to see if Mrs. Cantor roused.

She didn’t.

That was good, because I didn’t know what I felt for the physician who believed he was always right, and I wouldn’t want the kindly nurse to offer opinions. And I couldn’t tell Lydia any more about Carew. How could one love a man who doesn’t leave room for anyone else’s opinion? What good was he?

Before I could sit beside Lydia, the child was up and dancing on the furry rya in her bare feet. The thick rug swallowed her toes with each step. The summer was warmer, but I didn’t believe in taking such chances. “Lydia, where are your stockings and slippers?”

She pointed under the table. “I can be without them for a little bit. Katherine says if I don’t air my toes, they’ll get stinky.”

Such a gentle soul with genteel soles. Why was I complaining?

Any day Lydia hopped around out of bed without a fever meant another day of her being healthy. I rushed to her and scooped her up. Then I swung her around and around. Her pink dress with frills at the hem flapped with the rush of air. I set her down and she descended like a hot air balloon. She bounced until her little legs steadied her along the floor like ballasts.

Her sweet arms surrounded my neck. “So are you going to tell him? That will make everything good. Mama used to say only love mattered.”

I remembered those words. I could hear our mother in Lydia’s voice. The little girl was so precious . . . and misguided. Being wrong about how problems were solved was a gift of childhood. She missed the arguments of our parents. Surely, she heard Tavis and Katherine’s. Love wasn’t enough.

“Let’s put on your stockings and slippers and go see what the men are doing. The duke will want to see you, Lydia. No shoes will disappoint him.”

Her big eyes, tawny and gold, were damp, like she thought she’d never see the Duke of Torrance again. Lydia panicked and shot under the table. One cream slipper flew out. Then I caught the other. “Help me, Scarlett. I must see my duke. Never let anyone take him from me.”

Mentioning His Grace in any circumstance solicited the best behavior from the child. “Of course.” I sat on the rya and the little girl flopped onto my lap.

“I’ll be extra good. Katherine’s been hinting at having my birthday without the duke.” She swiped at her wet face. “Tell her no. He’s a part of us now.”

Those eyes struck me like a fist. My chest caved from the punch. Our beloved patriarch, Cesar Wilcox, never had time for her. Papa was too busy building a fortune, the one my late brother-in-law made disappear. I was so glad Lydia had her duke. I wished Katherine could see this, too.

On my knees, I hugged Lydia again. That feeling of failing her filled my insides. I hadn’t found a cure to give her the . . .