CHAPTER ONE
PHYSICIAN STEPHEN CAREW—LISTENING TO FOOLS
June 3, 1816
Anya House
London, England
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.
