Chapter 11
Eleven
Thick curtains draped the windows in the sitting room at Hope House, blocking any natural sunlight. To protect the women from outsiders peering in, Elyse and Cassie had hung them in all the windows facing the street. It made visibility a challenge sometimes, especially when Sister Nan arrived from the church in Shadwell each week to give lessons in anything from lacemaking to darning to how to properly care for infants. Some of the women, like Caroline Rawling who already had children, didn’t need many lessons, but it did help her to stay busy. Others learned a great deal.
Cassie’s contribution was tutoring in letters and numbers. Most of the women didn’t know how to read, or did not read well, so if someone expressed an interest, Cassie helped. She’d brought some of the primers that had been boxed away in Violet House’s attics from when she was younger but had been careful to go through each to be sure there were no scribbles of names or anything that could reveal her identity. It was a precarious situation; if anyone in society learned of her work, she’d be ridiculed and ruined. If the women here found out she was a lady, they wouldn’t trust her or feel comfortable around her. It was just the way of things. Elyse had advised her on that in the beginning, as gently as possible. She’d been right. Cassie’s privilege far outweighed that of these women, and they would feel it keenly. Hope House needed to be a place of refuge that they could trust. A place where they could be on equal footing.
Two afternoons following the Tennenbright ball, it felt more like a refuge than ever for Cassie. She’d arrived earlier than usual for the second morning in a row, in time to greet Elyse as she was returning from a birth in Stepney. It had been an all-night affair, and when Elyse came into the kitchen with dark circles under her eyes and a grimace, Cassie had quickly brought her a cup of tea.
“Was it a bad outcome?” she’d chanced asking after her friend had sipped the strong brew. At her solemn nod, Cassie reached for her arm.
“I’m sorry.” There was nothing else to be said that would make a difference. “I’ll go stoke the stove in your room while you have your tea. You need some rest.”
It was a small gesture of care, and though it didn’t feel like enough, it was all Cassie could do.
When noon arrived, ushered in by Sister Nan’s pert knock upon the back door, she had successfully avoided thinking of the ball, Lord Thornton, and their near kiss in his clinic by going through ledgers and compiling a list for the market stalls to give to Sister Agatha. The moment her mind veered toward a memory of Grant’s hand on her hip, or his thumb tugging her bottom lip as he stared covetously at it, or the unwelcome thunder bolt though her body when he’d stalked across the ballroom to ask her to dance, Cassie simply found something else to do. So, Sister Nan’s arrival was most welcome.
The older nun sat at the head of the sitting room with her knitting needles, showing Dorie and another young woman, Miranda, how to place the fragile stitches of fine cotton silk she’d brought for tatting lessons. Making lace could be a profitable endeavor for them after they returned home, or started fresh, away from their families. Caroline and Cassie sat a corner table, the primer open and a sheet of writing paper next to it.
“That’s excellent,” Cassie said as the older woman completed copying one of the sentences in the primer. “Really, you’ve a smooth hand for penmanship.”
Caroline sat back to view her work. Then placed a hand on the shelf of her round stomach. She winced.
“Is something happening?” Cassie asked. But she shook her head.
“No, just regular quickening.”
Cassie recalled the sensation with startling ease. What had been the light fluttering of butterfly wings in the beginning, turned into restless and sometimes painful nudging of elbows, feet, and knees as space became limited. Every movement had been a reassurance that all was well, and yet also a reminder that it was all Cassie would be given of her child. Those jabs had been a wonder to place her hand over and feel. The yearning to hold her child, to see its face, had been perilously strong, too. But always, always accompanied by the knowledge that she would give her child away to someone else.
Cassie placed her hand on Caroline’s arm. She, too, faced the same moment. It came closer with every passing day. Caroline sniffed and patted Cassie’s hand.
“It’s all right there, luv,” she said. “Sister Nan says she’s found a nice couple who can’t have none for themselves. They’ve got a house in Islington. Even has a small yard for the tot.”
Thinking of what was best for the child was the only way she would get through. Cassie knew that firsthand.
Sister Nan stood from her chair then, leaving Dorie and Miranda to practice their stitches. Dorie was still weak from her bout of illness, but at least today, she’d left her room.
“Did the woman I sent ‘round ever make her way here?” Nan asked as she took the other chair at the table.
“When was this?” Cassie inquired.
“Tuesday last week.”
Cassie shook her head. “No one new since Dorie.” Isabel, Miranda, and Caroline had all been there for longer.
The nun frowned and rubbed her chin. “I was afraid of that. The lady was strange. She wasn’t showing just yet, but she also didn’t look young enough for it. Mind you, it wouldn’t be the first time a woman past her prime found herself increasing quite by accident.”
“What else about her was strange?”
“There was something about her manner. Can’t describe it. After I told her how to find Hope House, I followed her. Saw her meet a man down the street. He’d been waiting for her, it looked like. They spoke, then they went their separate ways.”
The small hairs along Cassie’s arms lifted. Next to her, Caroline made a soft murmur of concern.
“Do you think the woman could have been lying?” Caroline asked. “Trying to find the location of the clinic for this man?”
It had been Wednesday, the day after Sister Nan’s account, when the man in the alleyway had come upon Cassie, demanding to be taken to Isabel.
“I fear you’re correct,” Cassie said with an ill sweep of foreboding. “Sister Nan, I know you aim to keep every young woman’s confidence but were you the one to send Isa—” She caught herself, recalling Isabel had come here as Lila. “Lila. Did you send Lila here? Three weeks ago?”
Isabel had been so guarded she hadn’t mentioned who had sent her to Hope House.
At Sister Nan’s nod, Cassie’s stomach sank. “She was such a quiet thing. Frightened, I think.” She looked around the room. “Where is Lila this week?”
Cassie should have thought to ask Nan sooner. She sat forward, fully alert. “Did she say anything about herself? Anything about her family? Or the father?”
“Bits and pieces. Sad tale. No family. Just an aunt after her parents perished in a fire a handful of years back. She was reared well, that one. I’d wager gentry at the least.” Sister Nan nodded as if impressed. “As for the father of the babe, she stayed mum about him. Caught herself once when she started to say his name though.”
“Can you recall what she started to say?”
“Young,” Nan answered without hesitation. “Mr. Young.”
Cassie sat back in her chair. Mr. Young. And maybe an upper-class gentleman. Or even a peer.
“There have to be scores of Youngs in London,” Caroline said.
“Where is Lila?” the sister asked again.
When Cassie informed her of what had occurred, and that her name was in truth Isabel, her lips went slack.
“This is all my doing,” she said. “I shouldn’t’ve said a word to that woman. I knew she was shifty!”
“It isn’t your doing at all,” Cassie assured her. “From what Isabel said, this Mr. Young is a dangerous man. Can you describe him at all?”
Sister Nan closed her eyes and thought deeply. “Cut a fine figure. Top hat. Black greatcoat. A moustache. Brown hair, maybe. He looked like a toff.”
It wasn’t much to go on, but Cassie thanked her. It was at least more than they’d known earlier. And now, it made sense how Mr. Young had come to find Hope House. It felt much like a weasel having been caught circling the hen house.
“Is the girl safe?” Sister Nan asked.
“Yes,” Cassie answered, though she stopped short of saying where she’d been taken. The fewer people who knew, the safer Isabel would be.
Shortly before one o’clock, she took her leave from Crispin Street. She was expected by Jane Riverton and Marianna Dutton for a shopping stroll along Bond Street, something she had no interest in but also could not avoid. The last two days, a small mountain of notes and calling cards had piled onto a tray in the foyer. Callers, including the incurably inquisitive Lady Dutton, had come by, and many more had sent invitations to tea while Cassie had hid in her room. All because of her three dances with Lord Grant Thornton at the Tennenbright ball. Jane’s invitation was the only one she’d responded to. She would have rather avoided all social interaction, but it would be noted upon, and the last thing she wanted was more interest directed her way.
Cassie arrived on the busy stretch of Bond Street near Lindquist’s as Jane had instructed, the command as terse in her note as it would have been in person. The fashionable dressmaker was Jane’s favorite, and she was likely ordering a whole new collection for the spring. Cassie would order something too, have it put on the duke’s account, and then perhaps after a visit to another shop, she could make her excuses and leave.
Patrick handed her down from the carriage. She had expertly changed from her flannel cape and plain bonnet back into her finer velvet pelisse, hat, and gloves along the way from Spitalfields. But she’d begun to wonder… For how long could she keep up this pretense? For how long could she live, split between two worlds? Grant had been doing it for five years, and by the looks of things, successfully. But he was a man. Men were not scrutinized nearly as closely as women were. Men were expected not to be at home, but to be out and busy doing important things.
Bond Street was one such place they might go. Tobacconists, tailors, and haberdashers were strung all along the popular street, as were clubs for fencing and boxing and other, more licentious sports. So, when a familiar masculine figure in a top hat and caped greatcoat caught her attention across the street, she should not have stopped in her tracks the way she did. Curse her wretched luck!
Grant didn’t see her as he walked with hasty purpose. She hoped he’d turn into a shop before he could. Cassie held still on the pavement, not wanting to move in case it caught his eye. Ridiculous, considering the whole street bustled noisily. Perhaps it was her sudden stillness that did her in.
As if feeling her gaze on him from across the busy street, Grant glanced up. His eyes locked onto hers. He lifted his chin and slowed his swift pace. The mischievous smirk he wore so often and so well slid into place. Taking the brim of his hat, Grant tugged it gently, acknowledging her.
“Lady Cassandra.” Marianna’s high-pitched voice blared in her ear, and Cassie nearly jumped out of her skin. Marianna and Jane had come to stand right next to her, their hands tucked into fur mufflers and their attentions drifting across the street, toward the physician.
“We’ve an appointment, Cassie, do come,” Jane said tightly, and then turned to go inside.
Cassie followed as a few carriages rolled by in succession, blocking her view of Grant. Once in the shop, they were settled in a private corner for their appointment, thankfully away from the front windows. After tea service was delivered, Jane folded her hands in her lap.
“Details. We want all of them. Now.”
Cassie stirred a cube of sugar into her assam. “There isn’t much to say.”
“Hogwash,” Jane tutted, eliciting a shocked gasp from Marianna. “I read the column about Lady Tennenbright’s ball in All the Chatter along with everyone else in Town. Are you claiming you did not dance three sets with Lord Thornton?”
The gossip rag had not lied. She’d danced twice more with Grant at the ball, just as he’d wanted. And just as he’d vowed to do, he’d kept Mr. Forsythe at bay—along with every other man in attendance. As predicted, gossip had quickly taken root about their noticeable attachment. The column in All the Chatter had even mentioned the possessiveness Grant displayed. It should have irritated her. It should have made her feel anything other than slightly gratified, or marginally delighted. But gratified and delighted she was, and all because of that blasted moment in his Church Street office.
No, she could not dwell on it. Not again.
“People are jumping to conclusions much too quickly,” Cassie said, still uneasy with the idea of the courtship going public. It made her oddly hot and her pulse exasperatingly fluttery. “Lord Thornton asked me to dance. That is all.”
Marianna grinned with a deviousness she rarely displayed. “Three times. And you accepted three times. You know what that means.”
Cassie lifted her cup and saucer, a quiver in her wrists. “I do.”
“But the man is a notorious seducer,” Jane whispered forcefully. “And he works. My goodness, a physician for a duke’s sister? I never thought I would say it, but I’d rather you not marry at all than marry a man of his character.”
Cassie gripped the fine china of her teacup’s bowed handle tight enough to snap it. “You speak as if I am already betrothed. I am not.” She gathered a breath, fighting the urge to say more. To defend Grant’s character.
“It is clearly what he intends,” Jane replied.
Marianna leaned forward, her manner giddier and more curious than Jane’s display of admonishment. “He was staring at you quite decisively the night of Lady Dutton’s ball.”
Jane scoffed. “I’m sure he stares at every woman in such a depraved way. Take just now for example. To look at you the way he did across a public street!”
Fearing for the teacup’s handle, Cassie set her cup and saucer down with a clatter. His eyes had seared her on Bond Street, but the look had been rigidly proper in comparison to what happened in his Church Street office. There, he’d eclipsed the bounds of propriety. But…what of her? More than once, Cassie had wondered what she would have done to stop him, had Tris not come downstairs. Anything at all? Or would she have allowed Grant to kiss her?
The modiste approached their alcove, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, Jane instructed her as to what gowns she was looking to have made, in what fabrics and colors, and what designs. She left little room for the modiste to make any suggestions. Wisely, Mrs. Lindquist nodded and stepped away to collect samples.
“I urge you, Cassie, out of care for you and your reputation, you must distance yourself from the physician,” Jane said once they were alone again. “I know he is the Viscount Neatham’s close friend, and that must raise Lord Thornton in your esteem, however…” She paused to grimace. “Mr. Riverton has it on very good authority that Lord Thornton’s mistress is a scandalous woman by the name of Miss Martha Devereaux. Mr. Riverton says she frequents one of the clubs right here on Bond Street. The kind that does not hang out a sign so as not to offend passing ladies. Goodness, that might have been where Lord Thornton was coming from just now! Cassie, you are being taken in by his charms.”
She squirmed in her chair. Grant’s mistress? He’d made no mention of a mistress. Then again, why would he? The image of him meeting with this Martha Devereaux, a faceless woman in Cassie’s imagination, sent a bolt of something bitter through her. It felt maddeningly like jealousy.
“I will not be ‘taken in’ by any man, I assure you.”
But she had been, once; by Renfry. And then, at Grant’s clinic, she’d let down her guard long enough for him to grope her hip, to nearly kiss her.
At the Tennenbright ball, she’d been on edge, and Grant had sensed it keenly enough to ask why she was angry. The obvious answer had been his scheme. But he’d known it wasn’t that, and now, she admitted he was correct. She’d nearly let him take liberties. Had wanted him to. Even knowing what sort of rake he was, how their courtship was all a farce…she’d still done exactly as Jane had accused: fallen for his charms, if only momentarily.
Cassie had been furious with herself, not Grant. No, he was only being the depraved scoundrel that he proudly was.
A scowl was still fixed on Cassie’s lips when one of Mrs. Lindquist’s assistants came to their seating area, followed by who else, but the subject of their current conversation. She suppressed a groan as Grant doffed his hat. But that roguish smirk couldn’t be so easily discarded. He directed it toward Cassie, Marianna, and Jane with equal intensity.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with a regal bow. Then, his attention fully on Cassie, “Lady Cassandra.”
She bit her tongue. There could be no mistaking his intention. He wanted an introduction to her friends. Not to mention, to be seen inside a dressmaker’s shop with Cassie would surely inspire more gossip about their attachment.
“Lord Thornton,” she said, gritting her teeth. “May I introduce Mrs. Marianna Dutton and Mrs. Jane Riverton.”
He bowed again, this time even more regally, if possible.
“I did not know you patronized Lindquist’s, my lord,” Jane said coldly.
As it was a dressmaker’s shop, there was no earthly reason any unmarried man should be present.
“I cannot say any of the fabrics on hand would suit me, Mrs. Riverton. I merely wanted the pleasure of saying hello to Lady Cassandra and making your acquaintance.”
His smooth charm would not work on Jane, but Marianna seemed to be melting beneath it, evidenced by the flush along her neck. Cassie refrained from rolling her eyes.
“What brings you to Bond Street, Lord Thornton?” she asked sharply. Jane’s suggestion that he’d been visiting a club where his mistress frequented had swiftly rooted in her mind. That he might have just come from her… Cassie suddenly could not sit another moment. Just as Grant began to speak, she stood abruptly from her chair. Once standing, she had no excuse for it. Grant, Jane, and Marianna all stared at her quizzically.
“Are you unwell, my lady?” Mrs. Lindquist inquired as she returned with two assistants, each young woman holding bolts of fabric in the purples, greens, and blues Jane had requested. “You look piqued.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” she said. The lie swiftly became truth when she met the gaze of one of the modiste’s assistants.
Cold dread cascaded into her belly as recognition shone in Miss Emily Stafford’s eyes. Oh no.
“Miss Banks?” Emily said softly. Then, realizing she’d spoken aloud, she took a small curtsey. Cassie’s body went numb, her tongue heavy as lead.
“Miss Banks?” Jane echoed. “Why do you address her ladyship in this manner?”
“My apologies, my lady,” Mrs. Lindquist said, shooting her assistant a look of reproach. “Miss Stafford is new here.”
Embarrassment flooded Emily’s expression, and guilt stabbed under Cassie’s ribs. This wasn’t her fault at all. She’d had no idea this was where Emily had gone from her old position at the drapers in Marylebone.
“Her ladyship?” Emily murmured as confusion joined her embarrassment.
“You have mistaken Lady Cassandra Sinclair for this Miss Banks,” the modiste said, flustered and vexed by the gaffe.
Emily’s shock drew her pale brows together. She didn’t look to believe it, and for all the world, appeared ready to dispute it.
“Whoever this Miss Banks is,” Grant took a stride forward to put himself between Cassie and the assistant, “she must greatly resemble Lady Cassandra, and for that Miss Banks should count herself as fortunate.”
It was guileless and overly complimentary, but when her panicked stare lifted to him, she saw a shrewdness in his eyes.
“Mrs. Lindquist, if Lady Cassandra requires anything today, I insist you place it on my account.”
Total silence followed Grant’s statement. Heat suffused Cassie’s body as what he’d just said and done wove its way through her already stuttering mind.
“That is…that is unnecessary, my lord, I shall have it placed on the duke’s account,” she replied, her hoarse voice betraying her astonishment.
Taking her limp hand and bending over it, Grant put his lips to her knuckles. “I insist.”
Marianna and Jane stared, openmouthed at the display, Jane with abject disapproval and Marianna with thrill. He could not pay for her clothing! It was indecent. It was what husbands did for their wives, or betrothed men did for their intended brides. Worse still, it was what men did for their mistresses.
As Grant took another bow and bid them a good afternoon, he cut Cassie a knowing arch of his brow. He was aware of what he’d just done. And as his eyes slid past Miss Emily Strafford—the disruption over calling her Miss Banks now completely overshadowed—she comprehended why he’d done it. To help her. And yet, in doing so, he’d also solidified the rumors of their attachment.
Cassie suffered through the first round of fabrics that Mrs. Lindquist showed to Jane, all the ladies pretending nothing untoward had just occurred. When the modiste left to fetch another few bolts in a different color palette, Cassie stood and apologized, saying that she was expected at Violet House. The lie wasn’t contested, and she took her leave.
When she arrived home, she unpinned her hat roughly and impatiently shrugged out of her pelisse.
“A servant from Thornton House delivered this not long ago, my lady.” Pierce, her footman, said as he presented a letter that topped yet another small mountain of notes and calling cards.
Cassie took it and detached the dark blue wax wafer, pressed with a T. Inside, a brief message had been scrawled in the center of the paper.
I will pick you up at 8 o’clock tonight. - G
Cassie loweredthe paper with a fluttering of her pulse. What on earth was the interminable nuisance planning now?