Page 27 of The Lady's Last Mistake
Avoiding him for the last few days had been successful, but exhausting. She’d constantly been on the lookout for him, wondering whether he would turn up at the safe house or on her front step. So, when Mr. Forsythe had turned out to be amiable company, she’d started to relax. Unlike some of the other suitors Michael had singled out for her, he was interesting—just as she’d told Grant in the refreshments room. The horrible man hadn’t believed her, of course. However, Mr. Forsythe had regaled her with a few fascinating stories of his time in Egypt and the architectural explorations in whichhe’d taken part. He hadn’t dominated the conversation with tales about himself, either; he’d asked her questions about her interests, and what places she’d enjoyed while traveling the Continent.
A few times during the beginning of the first act at the King’s Theatre, she’d sneaked glances at Mr. Forsythe and imagined kissing him. Would she like it? She thought she might but couldn’t be sure. She’d thought of the missing Miss Stafford then, and the things the young woman had once told her about the father of her baby. Or rather, the things she’d felt whenever the man so much as looked at her.I couldn’t help myself, she’d admitted.It had been like a demon possessed me. Nothing else mattered but him. Not even air.Cassie had peered at Mr. Forsythe, curious if she could feel such a thing with him.
He wasn’t very tall. Not like Grant, whose cravat knot was at her eye level. He wasn’t as broad shouldered as the physician, either. Nor did he look like the sort of man who boxed regularly to keep his arms and chest muscular. Her palms had itched at the memory of feeling Grant’s chest through his waistcoat inside Lady Dutton’s guest chamber’s closet.
Then again, Mr. Forsythe did not make her want to scream in frustration. He didn’t make her feel hot or restless or accosted. He didn’t look at her as if all manner of dark thoughts were swirling through his mind.
At the theatre, when Grant had stared daggers at her, she nearly felt branded. As if he was furious to have caught her with another man. It was utter tripe! She had not yet agreed to his scheme.
But if she didn’t…would Grant see his threat through?
That was the question nagging her as she made her way to the free clinic the afternoon following the opera. It was just past one o’clock when she left for Whitechapel. He’d said he would call on her, but she wasn’t prepared to have Grant Thornton showing up on her doorstep for all of society to observe. So, she’d decided she would go to him. She might even be able to talk him out of a stroll in Hyde Park.
Bitterness filled her as she descended from her carriage into the mews behind the clinic. Nothing Grant could say or do now would improve her opinion of him. Being at his mercy wasn’t fair. Why shouldn’t he be at hers? He had a secret too, one that would damage his reputation heartily. But men always recovered from scandals. They always had access to more money. Women, not so much.
As she approached the back entrance to the clinic, a single door set above three warped wooden board steps, a man with a bandaged ear emerged from within. He looked her over, then cut away, fast. Cassie stepped inside, aware she did not look at all suited for such a place. She had found Isabel and Tris together in the kitchen a few times now, their growing interest evident. Cassie’s reluctance to leave them alone, to spend the nights under the same roof, had left her in a quandary. But perhaps it wasn’t any of Cassie’s business. Isabel was with child and needed protection; Tris was a good young man. Cassie trusted him, and apparently, so did Isabel.
Now, as she entered the kitchen, another young woman stood at the stove, holding a pair of steel tongs. She dipped a glass tube into boiling water.
“Doctor Brown is closing the clinic earlier than usual today. Unless it is an emergency—” She looked over her shoulder as she spoke and went quiet. Her keenbrown eyes took in Cassie’s appearance in a single sweep. “You’re not here for the clinic.”
“No. Though I am here to see the doctor.”
The young woman wore a dark blue gown with a white pinafore, and her brown curls were piled up under a mob cap. She was pretty in a plain and straightforward way. No emotion showed on her face, except for an arch of a brow, which could have meant anything. Surprise. Condescension. Amusement.
“You must be Lady Cassandra Sinclair.” She pulled the steaming glass tube from the water and laid it down on a towel. “Or would you rather me address you as Miss Banks?”
Her pulse skipped. “He told you?”
“Your secrets are safe with Miss Matthews,” Grant said as he appeared in the kitchen entrance.
He’d forgone a jacket and was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled to his elbows. He hitched his hands on his hips, drawing her mutinous attention to the defined muscles of his forearms.
“That was not for you to decide, doctor.”
He grinned at her response, as if it gratified him.
“Wasn’t I supposed to call on you at three o’clock?” He took out his fob watch. “It is barely two. Why, Lady Cassandra, your eagerness gives me hope.”
She glared at him as he went toward the stove where Miss Matthews was drying the glass tubing and attempting to mask her amused grin.
“Mr. Osterfield was the last patient for the day,” he said. “I can take care of cleaning up the rest. Merryton should arrive any moment. He will take you home.” He laid his hand on the young woman’s shoulder and leaned toward her ear,to whisper something inaudible. She pulled back, laughed, and then jabbed him in the chest with her elbow. Grant rubbed the spot, pretending it hurt.
A sour sensation erupted in Cassie’s stomach, all sharp corners and claws. She instantly suppressed it. Or tried to. There was absolutely no chance she was envious of this young woman for having a private, playful moment with Grant Thornton. Cassie averted her eyes when he turned back to her, all lightheartedness gone from his expression.
“Follow me, my lady,” he said, and then led the way from the kitchen. Cassie knew the building; she’d been here a few times. Thankfully, when he was not present.
“How is Isabel?” she asked. It would be good to check in on her. But Grant pushed open the front sitting room door and stepped aside, an arm outstretched for her to enter.
“The last I checked she was reading Shakespeare to your driver. He was listening to her every word, rapt. Though I’m not entirely certain that is due to the bard’s talent for prose.”
Cassie entered the sitting room, which had been transformed into a surgery with a desk, chairs, a padded table for patients, glass-fronted cabinets, and a hulking contraption standing over the patient table. With its many chiseled lenses, it resembled a lighthouse lantern.
“Gracious, what is this thing?” she asked, going to it. The hollow interior was filled with several candles.
Grant followed her. “I had it made. The candlelight from within hits the lenses and reflects more brightly than regular lanterns. It works wonders when I’m trying to see into a wound, or in Mr. Osterfield’s case, an ear canal.”
She recalled that the man leaving through the back door had a bandaged ear. “What was wrong with his ear?”
