Page 48 of The Lady's Last Mistake
Cassie squared her shoulders and, grateful for the pitiful lamplight in the mews, slipped up to Grant’s tradesmen’s entrance. After a single knock, the door opened, and she was looking up into the physician’s face. A single candle illuminated his expression of censure.
“You are asking for trouble by coming here, Cassie.” He took her arm and pulled her inside swiftly before shutting and locking the door. They stood in a small vestibule off the kitchen.
“I assumed your servants would be abed by this hour,” she said, inhaling the air between them, trying to trace any lingering scent of perfume. The more she thought about his keeping a mistress while they were pretending to court, the more it began to rankle.
“They are,” he said. The single taper in its holder was the only light in the kitchen beyond the vestibule. “But you may have been seen, or your carriage could be spotted in the mews.”
“I’m having Patrick drive around. He’s going to keep checking the lane, and I said we’d place a candle on the step outside when he’s to come back.”
The plan did little to assuage Grant’s discontent. But he turned and began to lead her through the kitchen without a word. His anger over her presence was slightly insulting. The risk of being found with her here was no less severe than when they’d been huddled together in Lady Dutton’s closet. His aversion to having to marry her was likely causing his sour attitude.
“Have I interrupted your evening?” she snapped as she followed him through a door and a short set of stairs, into a corridor.
She’d been in his home once before, shortly after Hugh and Audrey had uncovered a debased secret society near Vauxhall where a few women had been killed. Grant had been with them, and he’d been beaten badly, a few of his fingers broken. He’d endured torture rather than give up the location of his friend. Cassie had seen then his loyalty, and it had impressed her. She and Audrey had come to visit him, to be sure he was recovering. But in true Grant fashion, he’d brushed off the injuries with humor.
Though now, he didn’t show a single drop of humor.
He pushed through a pair of doors, and Cassie followed him into a room similar to his Church Street surgery.
“Yes, in fact, you have,” he answered.
He stalked through his home surgery and rolled open another pair of doors, these leading to a study. Annoyance rippled off him in waves as he went directly to a decanter on his desk and poured.
Coming here had been a mistake. With a sinking stomach, Cassie stood in between the surgery and the study. Firelight lit the masculine space. She could easily imagine him entertaining a woman on the wide leather Chesterfield before the fire. With that image in mind, the study seemed more like a den of sin.
“Your mistress had to leave early, I take it?”
He stilled the decanter.
“If I am not permitted to see other suitors, then I think it only fair you should not see Miss Devereaux.”
Grant looked over his shoulder at her. He made no reply and went back to pouring. He filled a second glass, presumably for her.
“You won’t deny she is your mistress?” Cassie pressed.
“I won’t.” Grant came back toward her and extended the drink. “How do you know of her?”
She stared at the glass but didn’t take it. Couldn’t look at him as a whistling sound filled her ears. “Jane. She said you frequent a sporting club on Bond Street where… Is that where you were coming from the other afternoon when I saw you?”
He lowered the drink. “I box at Gentleman Jack’s, which is also on Bond Street, and had just left there when I saw you.” Before she could start to feel miniscule for having asked such a question, he added, “But Mrs. Riverton is not wrong. The club is called the Fallen Arch. I have met Miss Devereaux there in the past.”
Her fingernails bit into her palms as she clenched them.
“However,” he went on. “I have not partaken in Miss Devereaux’s specialattentionssince our deal was struck. Nor any other woman’s if that is what has you all twisted up in knots.”
Her fingers relaxed, her nails likely having left indentations. “I’m not twisted up.” She grabbed the drink from his hand, perturbed with herself. And a little injured. He didn’t want her here. He was downright angered by it.
“Give me your candle. I’ll place it outside for Patrick.” She held out her other hand, waiting for it.
“You are not leaving,” he said. “Not until you tell me what was so bloody important that you’d risk coming here.”
“You came tomystudy throughmytradesmen’s entrance,” she reminded him.
“That was different.”
“How so?”
Grant sipped his drink, his eyes not leaving hers. “Youhad the safety of your staff on hand. A lady’s maid who knew I was there and who stood just outside the door. There is no one here now to protect you from me.”
