Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
Nothing had gone according to plan at Duke’s, and though Grant had at first laid all the blame at Cassie’s feet, it didn’t take him long to realize he had been the larger problem. Not her.
The moment he’d seen her walking through the roiling crowds at the boxing club, he’d been both incensed and vindicated—he’d known she would come.
He’d been looking for her as soon as he’d stepped inside the warehouse.
Telling her to stay away, that it was no place for a lady, might have worked for any other typical woman of quality, but for Cassandra Sinclair, it had been woefully inadequate. It been all but an invitation.
As Sir had searched the crowd for the high roller he regularly saw at boxing matches, Grant’s mind had been on Cassie and whether she would come alone or with another—and who that other might be. Hugh had sensed his distraction and attempted to recapture it by knocking his elbow into his ribs.
“Are you listening? Youngdale is here.” Hugh discreetly looked toward a grouping of men on another section of staging around the raised ring. Sir began to describe which one he was, but it wasn’t necessary. The healing gashes along one man’s cheek were all the proof Grant needed.
“We’ll follow him after the match,” Grant said, and he’d had every intention to do just that.
But then, a vision in dark rose pink had stolen his entire focus. Across the ring, Cassie had approached the staging opposite his with her younger brother and the nettlesome Mr. Forsythe.
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 was truly pressing 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—it won’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. She was 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. She had consumed 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 Madame Archambeau, 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.
“The viscount is more than capable of opening said door if the valet thinks it is too beneath him,” Hugh grumbled.
“If it is beneath me—and it is—then it is miles beneath yourself. A viscount should never open his own front door.” Basil rushed to beat Hugh to it, muttering under his breath.
He and his longtime valet often traded barbs.
In fact, it seemed to be their preferred method of communication.
However, Hugh would never have dismissed Basil; the valet’s fussy loftiness could not mask his true affection for the viscount, and as Basil was with him long before he became a peer, Hugh trusted him implicitly.
Basil whisked the door open, and standing on the front step, wearing a dark velvet cloak, was a woman. The hood was pulled up around her so thoroughly, it nearly engulfed her face.
“May I help you, my lady?” Basil intoned, his request drenched with annoyance.
She pushed back her hood, and Grant swore under his breath.
“Cassie?” Hugh crossed the entrance hall as Basil stepped aside, allowing her to enter. As soon as she did, she set eyes on Grant and came to a halt.
“I didn’t know you would be here,” she said.
He hardened himself to her obvious disappointment and said nothing.
“What are you doing out at this hour?” Hugh asked. “Has something happened?”
She hesitated as she looked at Grant, but then commenced removing her cloak. Basil collected it and her gloves, and then with a raised brow—likely of censure—moved off. Cassie started for Hugh’s study with all the familiarity of a frequent guest. “I was followed home from Duke’s.”
Grant went rigid. “Followed by whom?”
Hugh shut them into the study after asking Basil to summon the viscountess.