Page 60 of The Lady's Last Mistake
She didn’t see Grant right away as she took her seat, conversing mainly with Forsythe while Tobias stole sips from his pocket flask. That she would arrange to attend the boxing match with another man, one who wastrulypressing his suit, pushed a thorn right into his side. It continued to grow and twist as the match began, his temper stoking only higher when Cassie at last saw him. He’d remained standing so that she would. The pleasure he’d taken in seeing her rattled, in watching her squirm, had been alarming, even to him. It had been disturbingly arousing to see the effect on her. And when Youngdale had taken notice of Cassie after the strike in the ring sent blood spattering onto her face, Grant hadn’t been able to stay in his seat another moment.
He hadn’t been there in the alley to protect her when she’d been attacked, and with Youngdale’s eyes on Cassie again, Grant’s sole desire had been to shield her. He’d been no better than a caveman dragging her away from Forsythe and Tobias, and the fight she’d put up had been just enough for him nearly lose his wits.
“I’ll pour you another if you insist but trust me—itwon’t help erase whatever is eating at you,” Hugh said from where he stood at his desk.
Grant had gone to Hugh’s Berkeley Square home after leaving Cassie with Tobias in Limehouse. The viscount and Sir had shown up shortly afterward, though their expressions had said everything: they had not succeeded in following Youngdale.
“The blighter vanished like smoke,” Sir had said.
All was not lost.
The previous day, while Grant had been cleaning up Tris’s battered face, the driver had shared more about Isabel’s aunt. He had a name and address, thanks to Isabel placing her trust in him, and Tris shared it in the hope that the aunt might know something. Grant and Hugh would visit the aunt, and perhaps she would know where to find Youngdale. Failing that, they would visit Youngdale’s brother, the baronet. His residence had been listed in Debrett’s, and if they could come up with a believable story, the baronet might reveal where his brother resided.
Hugh poured the third finger of whisky despite his warning and handed it to Grant. The two of them were alone, Sir having gone off to his room.
“Something tells me you’re not pacing my study near to midnight because you are concerned for this missing woman.”
“Of course I am concerned.” He wasn’t cruel or unfeeling.
However, his friend was correct. Isabel’s unknown whereabouts wasn’t why he’d downed his first and second fingers of whisky so quickly. With every next sip, he hoped the spirits would douse the coals in his gut.
Why couldn’t he stop thinking about the reckless woman? He hadn’t been this out of sorts for years. Not since the last time Cassie had twisted him up with a distorted tangle of irritation, amusement, and longing. That had been in Dover, when Audrey had been accused of murder, and Grant had followed Hugh to the seaside town to help in any way he possibly could. That Cassie had been detained alongside Audrey had, of course, been a concern too.
He lowered his glass of whisky.
Reflecting on that case, Grant allowed that he’d thought of Cassie more than a few times as he’d taken the Dover Road from London on horseback in freezing temperatures. He’d arrived no better than a block of ice. And Cassie’s icy reception of him had put him in an irritable fit of pique. From then on, he’d been certain to cut with sarcasm and wound with acerbic wit. It had kept her loathing him. It had kept her at a good distance. Far enough away so that he couldn’t begin to so much as like her.
Any proximity would be dangerous.Shewas dangerous, as was the way his body responded to her. No other woman—more experienced, worldly, or confident—did this to him. Made him feel mixed-up and in such disarray.
“All right, you’re concerned,” Hugh assented. “But you have another concern, and she consumed your entire focus tonight.”
Grant swirled the whisky in his glass. His friend was correct. Shehadconsumed his focus. He’d nearly lost control.
“Our conversation earlier in the park was cut short. What do you know about Renfry?” Hugh asked after another moment had passed. “Everything?”
“Everything.” He put the glass to his lips, but then lowered it. “Including about Sweden.”
Mentioning a baby explicitly would be too free. There was always the chance a footman or maid could be listening at the door.
The viscount’s inspection narrowed. “She trusts you.”
Grant heard another question underneath the statement:Why?He didn’t have the answer to that. Cassie shouldn’t have trusted him, not after the stunt he’d pulled with the false courtship. And yet, she’d willingly told him about Renfry and the baby. Albeit, the way she’d been acting since, she regretted doing so.
“Speak plainly, Marsden,” Grant said irritably. “Say what you want to say.”
“If you are aware of what happened with Renfry, then you will understand our concern for her.”
“That I will misuse her the way he did?” Grant set down his whisky, no longer inclined to linger.
Hugh shook his head, but he still looked conflicted. “No, I know you will not. But you’ve made it clear in the past that marriage is not something you will revisit. Why are you spending time with her if you don’t intend for anything serious, and what does it have to do with the marquess’s demand that you marry?”
Grant had considered telling Hugh about his father’s threat to cut him off. As he knew about the clinic, he would understand why Grant needed that money, and he would have most likely offered to fund it himself. But he could not have accepted his friend’s charity. Grant’s pride was too damn fierce for it. Applying to a benefactress like MadameArchambeau, with whom he did not have any ties, was much more palatable.
The knocker on the front door slammed down three times, saving him from answering Hugh’s question. In the quiet of the house, it was as loud as a pistol shot. Hugh went to the entrance hall, to see who could be calling at such an hour. Grant followed, and they arrived in time to see Basil, Hugh’s valet, approaching the door.
“Where is that lazy footman?” Basil asked, exasperated. “I am a valet; I am not supposed to be opening doors.”
He wore his nightrobe and a cap, and if Grant had to wager, he’d been on his way to the kitchens for a midnight sweet.
