Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
As they entered the gallery inside Madame Archambeau’s Kensington estate, Grant reluctantly treasured the sensation of Cassie’s hand tightening around his arm.
“I don’t recognize anyone,” she said softly as they strolled across the black and white marble tiles.
“That is because we have stepped outside the bounds of polite society,” he told her, keeping his voice low as well.
“And straight into the realm of depravity,” Cassie rejoined.
Grant laughed. She had no idea what true depravity the demimonde had to offer. “This is as tame as a church sermon, Lady Cassandra.” He leaned closer to her ear. “Did you truly believe I would take you to some illicit club?”
She stiffened at his side, her hand releasing the pressure she’d kept on his arm since walking toward the estate’s front entrance.
He regretted teasing her. She was in no mood for it.
He’d sensed it when he’d arrived at number twelve Grosvenor Square at eight o’clock just as his message had informed her.
The footman who opened the door had bowed and said that her ladyship was not in. Grant had come prepared. “Please tell her ladyship that if that is the case, I have a dinner with the Duke of Fournier to attend.”
He’d waited in the foyer while the footman delivered his response, and to his delight, Cassie had come to the top of the stairs, backlit by wall sconces. She was beautiful when she was furious.
“I could have a dinner with the marquess, if that is the game we are going to play,” she’d said.
She’d been dressed and ready, as if she’d known she wouldn’t be able to get out of their evening together. Or perhaps, hadn’t been willing to try very hard.
“I don’t think you would enjoy that very much,” he’d replied. It was the truth, too. His father was an arse.
“About as much as I enjoyed the stunt you pulled at Lindquist’s, I imagine,” she’d shot back as she’d come down the stairs.
“It got their minds off Miss Banks, now didn’t it?”
Cassie had not spoken again, ending all conversation until they’d been on the carriage ride to Kensington.
“I don’t understand why we have to be at odds,” Grant had finally said.
“Stop threatening to tell my brother about my work and perhaps we won’t be.”
“It isn’t safe, Cassie. Look at what happened with Isabel’s beau.”
“Do not patronize me,” she’d snapped. “Hope House is just as important as your clinic. And the father of Isabel’s child is a shining example as to why.”
Grant hadn’t been able to argue with that. Once the heat of her temper had subsided, she’d drummed her fingers upon her thigh, draped in the burnt umber silk of her gown, embroidered with black thread and onyx crystals. Wearing it, she’d looked like a flame. Inviting, yet dangerous.
“Do you know a gentleman by the name of Mr. Young?” she’d asked.
He’d run the name through his mind, attempting to find a memory of it. But shook his head. “It isn’t familiar. Why?”
She’d explained about the nun from St. Paul’s unknowingly giving away the location of the safe house to a woman connected to who they now presumed was the man from the alley, Mr. Young.
“We should ask Isabel about him. Maybe she feels safe enough to tell us more,” Cassie had suggested.
He’d not missed the way she’d included him in her plans.
“It would have been nice to know in advance where you were taking me tonight,” Cassie now said, dragging Grant back to where they were, inside Madame Archambeau’s vast manor.
A short distance from Kensington Square, the home was fashionable and a bit wild.
The city itself was a few miles east, and out here, it did feel more like countryside, with the spires of Town on the horizon.
“I thought I would surprise you,” he told her as they joined a circle of guests surrounding a statue. It looked to be carved from pink marble. It, and a number of other statues, had been placed on plinths inside the large gallery. Madame Archambeau was a great patron of the art.
“I don’t like surprises,” Cassie replied as two guests in front of them stepped aside, allowing them to move closer.
But then, she tugged on his arm to keep him from taking another step.
“Grant!” A blush tinged her cheeks. Following the direction of her shocked stare, he looked to the statue. And immediately understood her reaction.
The pink marble had been chiseled into a detailed carving of a man and woman.
The woman was on her knees, her arms stretching up to clutch the man who stood behind her, bracing her between his legs.
One of the man’s hands reached into her unbound hair, the other, cupped her breast. Their mutual expressions of rapture were well detailed.
“What kind of art is this?” she whispered, trying to tame her reaction when a few others glanced her way.
Grant drew her from the statue. “The kind that would never be admitted into the Royal Academy.”
She stole another look as he directed them toward a servant holding a tray of champagne.
The servant wore all white livery, a white curled wig, and his skin had been dusted with white powder.
Grant took two glasses from the unblinking man, who had been made to look like a statue himself and pressed one into Cassie’s hand.
“Madame Archambeau and her companion, Miss Stone, enjoy supporting anything polite society shuns,” he explained. “Which is the reason I’ve brought us here tonight.”
She sipped the champagne, her eyes peering around the gallery as though expecting to see more erotic sculptures. It was a good possibility she would.
“To show me indecent sculpture?”
He chuckled darkly, enjoying her scandalized reaction. “No, to introduce you to a potential benefactress.”
Champagne went down her throat too quickly, and she spluttered. Her blue irises, ringed with steel gray, met his, looking just as shocked as when she’d seen the statue. “For Hope House?”
He gave a nod. “And for my clinic.”
Cassie pondered that for a few moments as she cleared her throat.
“This is your next plan for if you do not receive a nephew,” she said astutely.
“An alternate solution, yes.”
Earlier that morning, James had called on Thornton House, and Grant had been reminded that he needed such a plan.
“The duke’s sister? Really?” his brother said as he’d strode into Grant’s study. “I heard Forsythe was pressing his suit.”
The idea of the handsome young heir pressing anything toward Cassie had made Grant scowl. “Haven’t heard of him,” he’d said.
“He has Fournier’s blessing.”
“But he does not have Lady Cassandra’s,” Grant replied lightly.
That Forsythe might still be lurking about once Grant was no longer in need of a fake courtship, and that Cassie might actually declare him acceptable, unexpectedly grated.
“Father is having a dinner at Lindstrom House next Monday,” James said.
Another dinner? Christ. Grant considered his next move. “Tell him to uninvite the debutantes, especially if one is Miss Green. I would like to introduce him to Lady Cassandra.”
James’s skeptical look had been sharp enough to draw blood. “If you have some gambit in mind, I advise you to think twice. The duke will not take kindly to his sister being used as a pawn.”
Grant ignored the warning. “Is your wife in labor yet?”
James had seen through that question too. “Don’t hinge all your hope on my child being a boy. You’ll only be disappointed.”
Grant knew it wasn’t wise to bargain everything on that child.
But last Saturday, Mr. Mansouri’s visit with Amir had only demonstrated just how essential the clinic was.
Without proper cleaning and sutures and bandaging, Amir’s wound would have become infected.
In the end, he could have lost his leg. Or his life.
Cassie set her unfinished glass of champagne on a tray held by another statue servant, this one liveried in all red, with a tomato-colored wig and matching red powder on his face.
“Hope House doesn’t need a benefactress,” she said without meeting his gaze. “I have enough to keep it afloat.”
Grant didn’t know how much her per annum was from the duke, but the state of her ledgers had not shown thriving numbers.
“You are nearly insolvent, Cassie,” he said. At her contemptuous glare, he admitted to his snooping in her office.
“You wretched, devious, interfering man!” she exploded, drawing some interested looks from around them. Thankfully, these were the kind of people who did not mind shows of impropriety. They generally looked forward to them.
“Do you have any other colorful adjectives to sling at me, or can I introduce you to Madame Archambeau?”
He understood her upset; he’d been snooping, and it had been completely out of line.
Cassie had every right to upbraid him for it, however, just then he caught sight of the benefactress standing near another sculpture.
Her usual white hair, powdered light blue, was piled atop her head in a regal Marie Antoinette fashion, and her gown was an array of all the different colors of the liveried servants scattered around the gallery.
She was an eccentric, and proudly so. She was also unfailingly supportive of anything society frowned upon.
Cassie crossed her arms in a huff. She wouldn’t look at him. “You had no right looking into my finances. My annuity is sufficient. I shall see a replenishment soon.”
It would be paid out to her by Fournier near her birthday, most likely. A bank note that she would then turn in for ready cash.
“You’re cutting it fine,” he commented. “I sorely hope you weren’t considering approaching a moneylender to tide you over.”
She all but gnashed her teeth at him. “I am not that foolish, Lord Thornton.”
The use of his title exposed her frustration. He exhaled and vowed not to rile her further.
“Just let me introduce you to Madame Archambeau.” He held out his arm, and she shifted her jaw before assenting with a stiff nod.