Page 10 of The Lady's Last Mistake
She groaned, her temper flaring. “I am not in any danger.”
“You are a stone’s throw from Whitechapel,” he retorted, his voice rising. “You don’t know the first thing about life in the stews.”
“Do not patronize me, Lord Thornton.” Cassie came out from behind the desk, now simmering for a fight. “We might be mutual acquaintances through Audrey and Hugh, but that doesn’t give you the right to lecture me or tell me what I can and cannot do. Now, on the topic of your payment?—”
“I do not accept payment,” he snapped, meeting her in the center of the room, practically fulminating. “Dorie is sick with a serious fever. It’s running rampant in the stews, and it is highly contagious. She must not come into contact with the other women, and only one person should provide care.Not you.Even if you do not listen to another word I say, at least promise me you will stay away from her.”
His eyes drilled into hers, and Cassie thought she saw a glimmer of worry underneath his anger. She bit her tongueagainst an instant retort that she would not stay away from a single woman at Hope House in need of care. It would only rile him further, and he needed to leave. She needed him to go. His finding her here was a catastrophe, and this outburst perfectly displayed why.
“Fine,” she said at last.
He stepped back, looked around for his bag, and then picked it up. Then, he fetched his hat from the shabby sofa.
“How do you get back to Grosvenor Square? Please, for God’s sake, woman, tell me you don’t hire a hackney cab.”
She gritted her molars. “I have a driver,” was all she said before going to the door and whipping it open. A clear invitation for him to leave.
He slapped his hat on and glowered. “Good evening, Miss Banks.”
“Goodbye, Doctor Brown.”
She slammed the door on his heels.
Chapter
Four
His head had not throbbed this wretchedly in months. Not since the absinthe incident of the previous June. The green liqueur was poison to Grant, and yet he’d been persuaded to drink far too much of it one wild evening at the Fallen Arch, a club that catered to London’s demimonde. June the seventh crept up on him each year. The black storm that had once accompanied the date had lessened to a dreary, cold drizzle, and Grant admitted that was probably the reason he’d blinded himself with the green fairy at the Fallen Arch.
It was only natural that the day he’d lost his wife and infant child should be shrouded in black. Eight years had passed, and with each one, the memories of Sarah continued to fade. That night at the club, he’d tried to drown his guilt, and yet he’d only succeeded in debilitating himself for the next two days.
Last night, Grant hadn’t indulged in anything stronger than whisky. His head didn’t ache because of that, but because he hadn’t slept. All night, into the early morninghours, he’d fluctuated between tossing in bed and pacing his room, as well as the halls of his home on St. James’s Square.
Miss Jane Banks. What the devil was Cassie thinking? To hide a pregnant woman from her family, or her husband, or even just the father of her unborn child was a dangerous risk. It might very well be illegal. And Cassie’s safe house sheltered several of these women at a time. Miss Khan, the midwife, had briefly explained about their endeavor and purpose after allowing him out back of the accountant’s office that fronted the address. Grant had come to a stop at the base of a stairwell.
“The woman is with child?” His messenger, a former patient whom he paid well to conceal the truth of his identity, had only said that a feverish woman needed seeing to, fast.
“That’s correct, doctor.” Miss Khan had taken the first step up, but Grant stayed planted to the floorboards.
“Is she in labor?” he’d asked, his heartbeat beginning to increase. He did not oversee deliveries. Since Sarah’s death, he hadn’t been able to so much as think about them without feeling the onset of shivers and sweat. For that reason alone, he’d whittled down his patients in the ton to include just men and a few older women who couldn’t bear children—and who wouldn’t faint over his reputation.
“Not at this time,” Miss Khan had said, her keen eyes narrowing. No doubt she’d noticed his brush with panic.
Once he’d started to follow her up the steps, she’d asked for his confidence; the safety of their residents depended on his silence. Grant had given his word—and then, he’d entered the upstairs room and come face to face with Lady Cassandra Sinclair.
The onslaught of shock and stark confusion, then the slow boil of understanding had left his limbs buzzing with restlessness. It had taken all his training and focus to calm himself enough to see to the feverish woman, to put her front of mind instead of the chit he’d so recently been in a closet with at Lady Dutton’s ball.
After, in the drafty back room she’d preposterously called an office, Cassie’s impertinence and her refusal to grasp the reason for his anger had only further stoked his temper. And now, the bloody woman knewhissecret. For the last five years, ever since he’d quit his daily routine of wallowing in despair, he’d run the Church Street free clinic. Every Saturday, without fail, he’d arrive with his assistant, Hannah, and from ten o’clock until five in the evening, they would be inundated with all manner of situations. From simple cuts to festering wounds; cancerous masses to ingrown hairs; severed fingers to put-out eyes; swollen abdomens to broken bones. The variety of ailments was unending, and most people in Whitechapel were content to suffer until Saturday. Emergency calls were rare, but Grant had arranged a system so that he could protect his identity. It had worked. Until now.
“Four boxes,” Hannah said from where she stood at the supply cabinets in his home surgery.
Grant looked up from the medical logbook he’d been reading through. “Four boxes of what?”
“Cotton linen.” Her forehead creased. “You asked me to take inventory?”
“Oh, right. Yes. I did.” He barely remembered his assistant entering the room while he’d been reading through the notes he’d taken about his fever patients over the last month. “Four boxes should be plenty for now, thank you.”
Hannah turned back to the cabinets. “Did the emergency call last night not go well?”
