Chapter 12

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.

Had the older woman been interested in men, he might have planned to charm her into funding the free clinic. But as it was common knowledge that her chosen companion was Miss Stone, who was never far from her side, Grant couldn't employ that tactic to his advantage. No, if she was going to lend her assistance, he would have to appeal to her based on the value of the charity alone.

At their approach, Madame Archambeau's mouth twitched into a curious grin.

"My, my, Lord Thornton. It has been ages since I've seen you at one of my exhibitions," she said, casting aside the conversation she'd been having with another guest.

"Madame," Grant said, sketching a bow. Then also bowed to her companion, who wore a far more understated gown. "Miss Stone, it's a pleasure."

She was the unmarried daughter of a gentry landholder, about ten years Madame Archambeau's junior, and almost completely devoid of facial expressions. How someone so serious and bland could have captured the affection of one of the demimonde's most eccentric personalities was a mystery. On the surface, they appeared to be complete opposites.

"And who is this magnificent creature on your arm, Thornton?" Madame Archambeau inquired, turning her interest toward Cassie.

He was nearly certain the woman already knew but made the proper introduction just the same.

"Ah, yes, Lady Cassandra of the three waltzes," she said with a fanciful wave of her gloved fingers. She turned toward Miss Stone. "It seems our wayward physician has stumbled out of the dark wood and found his way onto a well-trodden road at last."

Cassie's arm stiffened around his. Being likened to a "well-trodden road" could certainly come across as an insult, though he was rather hoping Madame Archambeau was referring to the road many take toward marriage.

"What fortunate artist has convinced you to display their sculptures tonight?" Grant asked to redirect the conversation.

"Miss Constance Plumly. Isn't her work divine? I can introduce you if you like."

While he'd enjoyed seeing Cassie blush at the erotic sculpture, the art had not been his reason for attending tonight.

"Is it all…" Cassie began to say as she peered toward the closest statue. That one, carved of alabaster, resembled a lily, however the closer Grant looked, the more it appeared to be a representation of the female genitalia.

"All what, my lady?" Madame Archambeau said with a knowing smirk. "Indecent?"

Cassie chose another word. "Forthright."

Miss Stone's dour expression cracked with a small twitch of her mouth. "Bravo," she commented. "There is nothing indecent about the female form or the pleasure it can both give and receive. Only society and religious establishments try to convince us there is."

It was the most Grant had heard Miss Stone say at one time. Even her companion looked slightly taken aback.

"And yes, Miss Plumly's sculptures all follow the same theme," Miss Stone went on, answering Cassie's question.

Madame Archambeau shifted her inquisitive eye toward Cassie once again, as if wanting a second inspection of the person who had inspired Miss Stone to speak so passionately.

"Of course, magnifying such artistic talent is incredibly important," Grant said, striking while the iron was hot, "however, have you ever given any thought to throwing support behind charities that benefit those who are willfully overlooked by high society? Say…" He paused as if trying to think of a charity. "Vulnerable, unmarried lower-class women who are with child?"

He didn't have to look at Cassie to imagine her clenched jaw and rolling eyes. Admittedly, it had been a clunky delivery, but it got the job done. Madame Archambeau snapped her fingers and a servant dressed head to toe in banana yellow brought her a new glass of champagne.

"You have a charity in mind, I presume," she said.

"I do. Have you heard of Hope House?"

Cassie took a deep breath; he felt her ribs expand against his arm.

"I have not," Madame Archambeau answered. "Tell us about it."

Through his jacket, Grant felt Cassie's fingers pinch him. "Yes, that sounds fascinating, Lord Thornton. Do tell us more."

She couldn't do the honors herself. To be knowledgeable about it would only indicate that she was involved. And while the two women bucked convention at every opportunity, they were also shameless gossips.

So, Grant laid out the premise of Hope House as he knew it: a safe house for unmarried women, either wanting to have their baby in private and arranging for parish nuns to place the babes with good families, or escaping from those who would harm them and their unborn child. Cassie pinched him again, indicating he'd left something out. He had no idea what, however.

"I imagine such a place would serve women coming from many different situations," she said for him a moment later. "Those who are frightened or ashamed or feel they've nowhere to turn."

"How very true, Lady Cassandra," Miss Stone said, her grave expression now one of concern.

"Where is this Hope House?" Madame Archambeau asked.

"Its location is private," Grant answered. "Apparently, it is found via a sort of whisper network."

Sparks of interest flared in both women's eyes. The two exchanged a look and a nod. "Bring the organizer to us," Madame Archambeau said. Then with an inquisitive glance, said, "How very fortunate for them that you've learned of their endeavor."

He could have easily taken advantage of the moment to say he'd learned of Hope House through his free clinic, which also needed assistance. But their minds were trained on the safe house's mission; to falter at this moment could dilute their interest.

"I help where I can," he replied vaguely.

Madame Archambeau sipped her drink and gestured toward the rest of the gallery. "Do enjoy the rest of the art, Lady Cassandra."

"In a most forthright way," Miss Stone added with a playful smirk. The two women linked arms and moved along, ready to mingle with others.

Cassie turned her face toward his once they were alone again, wonderment dilating her pupils.

"Does that mean they want to help?" she whispered.

"I'd say so," he answered, grinning at her expression of breathless delight. Cassie nearly sagged against his arm as they walked aimlessly across the gallery floor.

"This is so wonderful. Oh, Grant, I never thought… I'll send Elyse! She can tell them everything, answer every question." She hopped twice, giddily. "When will you take her? Should you go tomorrow? Maybe that's too soon. But what if they forget about our conversation?"

"They won't forget," he assured her, pleased by her reaction.

Cassie's bright and bubbly reaction was a salve against the lost opportunity to make his own pitch. But there would be another time. He'd see to it then.

"We don't have to stay for the rest of the party," he told her as they entered a thicker crowd in the center of the gallery. "Unless you have a secret yearning to see?—"

The suggestive comment, which would have likely earned him a jab in the ribs, was cut off as another guest slammed into him. Grant was solid and tall enough to not be spun around by the force of it, but it did send a splash of champagne over the lip of his glass. It also shoved Cassie aside, for which he turned to spear the clumsy offender with a glare of annoyance. He was met with a red-cheeked man who stood as tall as Grant, his cravat loose, his eyes unfocused from too much liquor.

"Ho, there, friend, sorry about that. Thornton, is that you?" the man said, clapping Grant on the shoulder. It was then that Grant recognized him. He looked a bit sloppy and soft around the paunch and jowls. But he was nearly certain this was Lord Renfry, the heir to the Bainbury earldom. The sleazy cad had seduced his own stepmothers, both of whom had died. Both murdered, in fact. The investigation had been one Hugh and Audrey had solved a handful of years ago, and Renfry's reputation had spiraled into the gutter since then.

At Grant's side, Cassie's arm transformed into inflexible granite. So, she knew of the degenerate, did she?

"Think nothing of it," he said, and then started away. Cassie's feet, however, stuck to the floor. Renfry clapped his hand onto Grant's forearm, this time to stop him.

He looked pointedly at the drunkard's hand, then to Renfry's face with the intent to sear him with reproach. But he was not paying attention to Grant. Renfry's eyes were hinged on Cassie.

"Lady Cassandra?" A mischievous grin pulled his wet lips into a leer. "It's been quite some time. You look well. Extremely well."

Grant had the urge to punch that leer clean off his mouth, but when he looked to Cassie, he forgot the urge. She'd lost all the pink coloring that had flooded her cheeks after leaving Madame Archambeau and Miss Stone. Her lips were slack, her pupils pinpricks as she stared up at Renfry. Her nostrils thinned as she took small, panicked breaths.

"My lady?" Grant whispered, alarm slowing his pulse.

Renfry chuffed a laugh, and instantly, Cassie averted her eyes. She turned her whole face away and loosened her grip on Grant's arm, as if she was about to flee. He tightened his hold.

"We were just leaving, Renfry," he said with more force and vitriol that necessary.

"Of course you were. Enjoy your evening, Thornton." The man snorted again before moving off, but Grant and Cassie were already walking away, her gait stiff and awkward at his side. She clutched his arm.

"I'm not feeling well," she said, breathless. "I'd like you to bring me home now."

He murmured yes, of course he would, while his mind spun in circles. It had not been difficult to interpret Renfry's tone when he'd wished him a good evening. The man believed Grant would be winning Cassie's favors. Why the hell would he suggest it? He clenched his jaw as they collected her pelisse and his coat and summoned the carriage.

He lost his patience as they waited outside on the crushed gravel drive, Cassie's quick breaths fogging the crisp night air.

"When did you make Renfry's acquaintance?"

She was no longer on his arm. Instead, she'd wrapped them around herself, her eyes on the drive, as if staring could make their carriage appear faster. She didn't answer.

"Cassie," he prodded.

"Some time ago."

"How did you meet him?"

"I don't recall."

Her brief answers worked underneath his skin. He kept his mouth shut as his carriage and driver came forward. Once they were enclosed inside and Merryton was turning them back down the drive, Grant spoke.

"I've never seen you this rattled."

"I'm not rattled. I told you—I'm not feeling well."

Her voice was high and panicked. She wouldn't look at him.

"What happened with Renfry?"

Cassie squeezed her eyes shut. "Please stop asking questions. Please."

He rolled his shoulders, restless. Agitated. The way Renfry had looked at her, as if remembering something satisfying, pricked like a briar. Something had taken place between them. As they crossed out of Kensington and onto the well-lit King's Road, to travel through Hyde Park, he recalled what Hugh had said to him at the Tennenbright ball. He'd had cautioned Grant against hurting Cassie; that she had already been hurt before.

He curled his hands into fists where they rested on his thighs. It had been Renfry.

"What happened between the two of you?"

Unshed tears glistened in her eyes when she opened them again, the interior carriage lantern illuminating her beseeching expression. "It is none of your concern. We are not truly courting, so I don't have to tell you anything."

The tears slipped, cutting down her cheeks. Angrily, she swiped them away.

Grant's whole body strung tight with the urge to pummel something. To leap from the carriage and go back to Archambeau Manor and hunt down the dissolute cretin.

"Did he harm you?" Vehemence pulled his voice low.

"Leave it alone. Grant, please," she pleaded again.

"I won't. Talk to me, Cassie. I know what Renfry is like. Did he…"

"Stop!" The word broke on a sob. She dropped her chin and covered her face with her hands. "I can't. Please, just stop."

Incandescent fury swarmed. It had been a long time since he'd felt this kind of rage. Unhinged. Directionless.

Grant dragged in a breath but said nothing more. If she wanted him to stop speaking, then he would stop. For now. But he would have answers. If Renfry had harmed her… The black thought drove him mad. Why hadn't Hugh said anything? How could he have allowed the man to remain breathing?

The rest of the ride back to Grosvenor Square was silent. Cassie refused to look at him, and when Merryton pulled up to the residence and opened the door, she all but leaped out.

As soon as Cassie had been safely received through the front entrance by her footman, Grant knocked the carriage wall. "To the boxing club, Merryton."

He wasn't ready to go home, and he had the powerful desire to hit something.