Chapter 8
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 the arrangement 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.
Then it had been open and unquenchable rage.
With her temper pinking her cheeks, her berry 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 to disallow the match, not with Cassie having surpassed her majority.
She was still 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.
“Lord Grant Thornton to see Lady Cassandra,” he said.
“Her ladyship is out, my lord. Would you care to leave your card?”
Out?
“Out where?”
At the impertinent question, the footman pressed down a brow in disapproval.
Grant flashed what he hoped looked like a reticent smile.
“I only ask because I have an important message for her, from the Viscountess Neatham. It is urgent,” he added.
“Very urgent. I’ve been tasked with finding Lady Cassandra. Right now.”
With every ridiculous additional plea, the skepticism drifted from the footman’s pressed brow. He clearly knew the viscountess and Cassie were close. Hugh and Audrey, however, had been in Surrey as of late, and Grant hadn’t heard a peep from them in weeks.
“Her ladyship has recently left for the King’s Theatre, my lord.”
Grant thanked him and returned to his carriage, his mind cranking through possibilities.
Cassie may have used the opera as an excuse and was instead on her way to Crispin Street.
Or she might actually be attending the performance tonight.
The Duenna, if he wasn’t mistaken. The marquess kept a box there, and at dinner the other evening, had attempted to draw Grant into inviting one of the debs to attend with him.
Ballocks to that. However, now the theatre practically glowed like a beacon.
“Home, Merryton,” he said to his driver before jumping into the carriage.
If he was attending the opera, he needed to make himself presentable.
He arrived a half hour into the first act, but to his credit, he wasn’t the only one.
Operagoers were mingling in the foyer and in the corridors outside the house floor as Grant found his way to his father’s rented box.
For many, the performance was a backdrop for the true entertainment of the night—social gossip.
The lighting in the house was not even fully dimmed when the orchestra in the pit began to play and the actors took to the stage.
How then would the attendees be able to see who was with whom?
The whispered hum of voices underneath the music always grated on Grant’s nerves.
People would continue to talk, uncaring of the performance unfolding on the stage.
It was one of the reasons he didn’t often utilize his father’s box.
The other reason greeted him the moment he opened the arched door and stepped inside.
The Marquess of Lindstrom twisted to see who had just joined him, a grimace fixed to the hard lines of his face.
“I see you came alone,” he said, relaxing into his seat again. There were six in total in the box, which was raised three tiers above the house.
Grant removed his hat. “I thought we could have some quality father-son time.”
The marquess grunted, refusing to respond to the obvious sarcasm. “Miss Green’s two older sisters have born six males between them,” he said. “If you are wise, you will press your suit.”
“Which one was Miss Green? The one with the overly large teeth or the one whose right shoulder was higher than the left?”
Grant took the cushioned seat next to his father.
He couldn’t help himself; provoking him was as natural as breathing.
After spending most of his youth trying, and failing, to earn even just a sliver of the marquess’s regard, Grant had given up.
And then he’d discovered the one thing he could never fail at with his father: needling him.
“You aren’t taking my directive seriously,” the marquess said. “The lady’s appearance does not signify. The Lindstrom title has been in our direct lineage for five generations, and I will not see it diverted, even when I am in the grave.”