"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?"
