Page 23 of The Lady's Last Mistake
Cassie slammed her snifter onto the desk so hard she heard the glass crack. “Are you threatening to expose Hope House if I don’t agree to this scheme of yours?”
Grant shrugged insouciantly. “We both have secrets we don’t want getting out. We both have endeavors we wish to protect.”
She could not believe this man! How could she have ever thought him at all charming? “Your father would merely cut you off. You would be the furthest thing from destitute. While my entire reputation would be ruined! One of us has significantly more to lose than the other.”
Grant hitched his chin and took a deep breath, his sooty eyes narrowing on her. For the barest moment, she believed he would retract his disgusting ultimatum. That he still possessed a single shred of dignity. But he only exhaled and waved a hand through the air. “Then I suggest you take me up on my offer.”
The rapid boiling of her blood overtook her so swiftly, Cassie wasn’t even fully aware of her hand reaching for her brandy. But then, it was hurtling through the air, toward Grant Thornton’s head. He barely sidestepped it, gawking at her as the snifter crashed to the floor behind him.
“Christ, woman! You could have put out my eye!”
Her chest heaved as she suppressed the urge to scream. “You ought to leave before the whole the decanter comes at your head!”
He held out his arms, as if to say,As you wish. He strodefrom the study without another word. But he wasn’t a man to give in easily. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Chapter
Eight
The kitchen at the Church Street clinic was starting to look lived in. Grant had come by to check in on Isabel and Tris each day for the last two days, the first time in late morning, the second day, in the late afternoon. Each time, Cassie had not been there. Instead, he’d found Tris and Isabel in the kitchen together, attempting to cook.
“She can hardly boil water.” The driver’s good-natured complaint elicited a mock gasp of insult from the young woman.
“How am I to know? I’ve never needed to learn!” she’d said with a laugh.
That one exchange had left Grant in no doubt—Isabel was quality. Which meant the man she was running from was quality too. Thankfully, she appeared less fearful with Tris. The two were getting on well.
It was improper for a young lady of her class to be living in a house, alone with a man. A man of a servant’s status at that. However, whatever qualms Grant had about thearrangement were alleviated by the incontestable fact that the young lady was with child, unmarried, and thus, already thoroughly ruined.
“Miss Banks has already been by, along with Miss Khan,” Tris told him on the third day. Grant had gone to the clinic under the pretenses of restocking a supply shelf, when in truth, he’d hoped to find Cassie there. It had been two full days since she’d pitched a glass of brandy at his head. Two days since he’d abandoned all honor and given her a wretched choice: agree to his plan or suffer the consequences.
Telling Fournier about Hope House would cement Cassie’s hatred for Grant, and he didn’t want that. What he wanted was a temporary reprieve from the godawful matchmaking his father had commenced.
The dinner Grant had forced himself to attend after leaving Cassie’s home had been tortuous. Two simpering young ladies of modest means, and even more modest appearances, along with their overeager mothers and disinterested fathers had been placed near him at the marquess’s dinner table. Thankfully, the ladies had barely said a word to Grant, preferring instead to flay each other with resentful glares. The two mothers played at the competition as well, lauding their daughters with increasingly ludicrous claims of beauty and talent. All the while, Grant sipped copious amounts of wine—and thought of Cassie in her study.
Her arm had trembled when pouring herself the brandy that would eventually come sailing at his head. Had it been pure anger that made her shake? Her sharpened pupils and quick breaths had resembled panic more than fury. Until, of course, he’d made his ultimatum.Thenit had been open and unquenchable rage. With her temper pinking her cheeks, herberry red lips parted with the urge to scream, Grant had felt the virago’s desire to do him bodily harm. To come at him, fists flailing, legs kicking, teeth snapping. And strangely enough, he’d wanted her to try.
Seated at the marquess’s dinner table, pointedly ignoring the company, he’d felt the stirring of his blood. The thickening of breath in his lungs. Had she launched herself at him, rather than the glass of brandy, he was quite sure he’d have enjoyed the resulting tussle.
It was that imaginary wrangling that had kept his blood high, and his mind locked on Cassie Sinclair, the last two days as he went from Church Street to Hope House and back again, failing to cross paths with her at any point.
Thinking she might be hiding from him inside her little office, he’d sneaked to it after leaving Dorie. He’d peeked behind her desk to be sure she wasn’t crouching—something he could picture her doing—and had seen a ledger, open on the desk. He had no excuse other than bald curiosity for picking it up and running through the columns. Cassie, it appeared, oversaw Hope House’s financials, and what he’d seen wasn’t good. They were operating on next to nothing. He’d put the ledger back as he’d found it and mused over what more he might be able to offer her in exchange for agreeing to a false courtship. But she had too much damn pride to take his money, even if she was in desperate need of it.
The stubborn woman would come to her senses. The courtship would be merely a temporary ruse to alleviate the pressure from the marquess, but also from the duke. Yes, she had a point—Fournier might not favor the suit of a man with a reputation like Grant’s. But he was also in no position todisallow the match, not with Cassie having surpassed her majority. Shewasstill young, barely twenty-three. Hell, when he’d been her age, he had not yet even met Sarah. In comparison, at thirty-two, he felt like an old man. As if he’d been run through the mill a time or two, emerging calloused and weary.
Or perhaps that was just due to the last two nights of miserable sleep.
He left Church Street after making sure Tris and Isabel had enough food to sustain them, and to warn them that come Saturday morning, the free clinic would be open for business. During that time, it would be best if they remained in the upstairs rooms. The fever Dorie had started to recover from was still running through the East End and there was sure to be some patients coming in with symptoms.
When his carriage was about to turn toward St. James’s Square, Grant’s impatience with Cassie’s silence abruptly ended. Her residence wasn’t very far from his own. He slammed a fist against the wall.
“Grosvenor Square, Merryton,” he called to his driver. “Number twelve.”
Calling on Cassie in the early evening and in full view of passersby on one of London’s most fashionable squares would set tongues wagging—and in the direction Grant wanted.
He descended from the carriage, and to his luck, Lord and Lady Stanwick were strolling toward him on the pavements. He bowed and greeted them before approaching the front door to number twelve. Glimpsing over his shoulder, he saw the lady facing forward again. He grinned, knowing she’d seen his intended destination.
The front door opened, revealing a footman.
