Chapter 7

Seven

What a wreck of a day it had turned out to be.

Cassie had known some women came to Hope House to evade the men in their lives, and when Lila—or rather, Isabel—had been so guarded upon her arrival, she suspected that may be the case. However, this was the first time any man had found the safe house.

On the drive back into Mayfair, Cassie removed her flannel cape and bonnet and replaced them with her velvet pelisse and finer hat. She lifted the cushion beside her and folded the Spitalfields clothing into the hollow underneath. Tris had helped to alter the bench so she could store them there.

"That's convenient," Lord Thornton said from the opposite bench as he watched her.

"Lord Thornton?—"

"You may call me Grant. We are past formalities, I think. Besides I already call you Cassie."

"That is because you're impertinent and have no respect for propriety."

He only tucked up the corner of his mouth in a smirk.

During the hour it had taken Tris to fetch his brother Patrick, she'd avoided Lord Thornton—Grant—and whatever it was he'd wanted to discuss by helping Isabel settle into her room. It didn't matter that Grant had offered to shelter her, or that earlier, he'd knelt before Cassie and taken her scraped hands into his with surprising tenderness. All she could hear was what he'd shouted in his clinic kitchen. That she didn't belong there. It had cut her with startling ferocity, straight down to the bone of the unspoken burden she'd carried all year, ever since she and Elyse opened the doors to their refuge: She didn't belong. This wasn't her place. She was forcing her way into a world in which she had no part.

Usually, the tasks she busied herself with drowned out these thoughts. But hearing the same accusation on Grant Thornton's tongue had exhumed them.

What a hypocrite! If she didn't belong in the East End, then neither did he.

Cassie folded her hands, ignoring the pull of her scraped knuckles.

"There is something we need to discuss," he said, the carriage lantern casting changing light over his face.

"So you've said," she sighed. "What is it?"

"My apology."

She peered at him, waiting for his well-practiced sarcastic grin. But it didn't form. He was in earnest.

"Apology for what?"

He sat somewhat slouched on the bench, against the squabs. His hat was off, his ebony hair falling across his brow. With his long legs and broad shoulders, he looked a little like a giant on the dainty bench. The top of his head practically brushed the quilted silk of the ceiling. Cassie swallowed and shifted on her cushion when his incisive stare continued to hold hers.

"My temper, back at the clinic. I shouldn't have shouted at you."

"It was what you shouted that offended me, not your raised voice." She sat taller. "I am well aware that I'm a fish out of water in that part of London."

But she was a fish out of water here, too.

"I know the feeling," he said. "It took some time to learn how to tread there."

The carriage shook, rocking them both side to side as Cassie held his stare. "Why do you do it?"

He pulled a frown. "Run a free clinic?" At her nod, he shrugged nonchalantly. "Because it is needed. The only doctors most people there can afford are charlatans and barbers, who think they can perform surgery as proficiently as they can shave a beard or yank out a rotten tooth."

She didn't know how to respond. He'd never struck her as a serious or charitable sort. He saw her indecision.

"What, you think I have some other motive?"

"It is only that most men of the peerage don't bother to think of anyone outside their own part of society," she answered.

"Perhaps I'm not as entirely self-serving as you imagined."

"Maybe not entirely." Though he was surely no saint.

The carriage slowed as Patrick turned onto another street. Grant's knee brushed against hers, and his unyielding stare started to feel less provoking and more penetrating. As if he was trying to see something in her that had eluded him so far.

"Do you get your charitable soul from the marquess?" she asked to pierce the silence.

He seemed to recoil and then sat straighter. "About as much as you get yours from the duke."

"Michael is very charitable," she said, offended on her brother's behalf. "He and Genie support a number of foundations."

Grant hinged forward, his elbows braced on his knees. "So, he would be supportive of your safe house, Miss Banks?"

"You know he would not."

The galling man sat back again. "Neither would my father. He'd cut me off in a blink if he found out."

"Oh, boo-hoo," she said with a roll of her eyes.

Grant challenged her with a taunting look. "You think that isn't serious? I am the fourth son. Do you know how much fourth sons are given?"

"More than what ninety-five percent of the people in the rest of this city have a year," she replied lightly.

"You are impossible."

Cassie bit her inner cheek, pleased to be getting under his skin for once. A dose of his own medicine, so to speak. Though, it didn't dispel the vibration of friction she felt whenever she was around him, that constant urge to slap him. It also did not dispel the memory of Lady Dutton's closet. The press of his thighs against hers, the tip of his nose, brushing the crown of her head, his breaths warming her scalp when he asked if she'd always smelled of apricots.

The plague of these memories had to stop. They'd taken up residence in her mind and were driving her mad. For so long, she'd successfully pushed away all thoughts of Winston Renfry and the few times she'd allowed him liberties. However, she'd never felt the strange curling of warmth through her lower abdomen when he stood close to her, as Grant had in the closet. No, every time she thought of Renfry and what occurred between them in his bed, she could only cringe in revulsion.

She could not imagine Lord Grant Thornton had ever once made any female cringe in such a way.

They came about on Grosvenor Square and Cassie thanked the stars. It had started to feel too hot in the carriage, even with her dress still damp from her plunge into the alley puddle. It brought her mind back to Isabel and the dangerous man she was hiding from.

"I will pay you," Cassie said as they came to a full stop in front of her residence.

Grant cocked his head. "What for?"

"For the use of your clinic while Isabel is there."

He scoffed. "I don't want your money."

"Then what do you want? I must repay you." If anything, just to stay out of his debt. Something like that could be dangerous with a man like Grant Thornton.

He shifted on the bench. His pinched brow made him look discomfited. Was it the talk of money? It was, after all, crass to speak of such things.

"May I come in?" Grant asked.

Cassie froze. "Why?"

She'd offered to repay him… He couldn't possibly be asking for something untoward?

He seemed to comprehend the direction of her thoughts and groaned. "There is something more I need to discuss with you."

"Still?" Patrick opened the door, but Cassie remained seated. "Can't we leave it at your apology? I rather liked that."

"I'm sure you did. But no."

She took her new driver's extended hand. "Fine. But you will go around the back. I can't have anyone seeing you enter my house, the two of us alone."

Cassie entered through the front door while Patrick took the carriage, and Grant, to the mews. Her footman, Pierce, greeted her, and she asked for Ruth to be sent to the study. Cassie had been thrilled to take over the room when she arrived at the house; she'd always adored the small study Audrey kept at Violet House, but there was something about the dark mahogany walls, the rich, wine-red carpet, and the masculine furnishings of her brother's former study that gave her extra pleasure. To be a female in command of this space was practically heretical.

Ruth arrived there only a minute after Cassie, collecting her pelisse, hat, and gloves that Cassie had tossed onto the sofa.

"I have a visitor arriving with my new driver, Tris's brother, Patrick, in the mews," Cassie told her, glossing over the change in staff. She would deal with that later. "Can you see him in through the tradesmen's entrance without Pierce and the others learning of it?"

Ruth bobbed. "Yes, milady."

She disappeared on her task, and Cassie went to the fireplace, the flames already built up in preparation for her. Her small staff knew she preferred this room to any other and always kept it ready for her. She held out the skirt of her gown to the fire's warmth and waited impatiently.

"I don't think your maid likes me."

She turned to find Grant standing in the study behind her, the door already shut behind him.

"She is a good judge of character," Cassie replied with a goading arch of her brow. In truth, Ruth likely believed her mistress was about to embark on a tryst with Lord Thornton and disapproved. The notion sent a charged frisson through her belly. She folded her arms around her waist. "What did you so urgently need to discuss?"

Grant moved through the study, toward the fireplace. "At dinner tonight, my father will have invited at least two eligible young ladies to fawn over me."

"Lucky you," she replied. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"He has instructed me to select a lady by the first of the year. And marry her."

A quick, hot spike lanced her abdomen. She scowled at the reaction. "So?"

Grant came to her side at the hearth. "You want to repay me for helping Isabel? There is something you can do for me."

The rest of the study began to darken at the edges as the physician's green eyes seemed to reach for her. Cassie stepped back, as wary of him as she was entranced. But then he spoke and severed the thrall.

"Court me."

The two words were lost beneath the chiming in her ears. They stole the oxygen from her lungs and set her pulse pounding.

"You cannot be serious," Cassie said, breathless.

"I know it is a rare occurrence, but yes, I am," Grant replied.

"You…" She stopped to even out her breathing. "You wish to court me?"

He lifted both his palms, a signal to slow down. "Just pretend to for a short while. A fortnight. Two at the most."

She snapped back, appalled. And oddly insulted. "You want to pretend to court me?"

The handsome, fair-faced Lord Renfry bloomed in her memory with such vivid detail that she hitched her breath again. He'd pretended. He'd led her to believe what he felt was real and lasting. Alongside his charming smile, and the way he'd looked at her with what she'd thought was open admiration, was the memory of the pearl ring he'd shown her the first afternoon they had been alone together, at his house in Knightsbridge. She had managed to slip away from her chaperone, Miss Stinton, and they'd entered his residence through the back door. Much the same as Grant had just done.

"This will grace your finger in public as soon as the duke gives his permission,"Renfry had said, holding up the three pearls, twisted together in a swirled setting of gold. Cassie had been so happy, so full of excitement. He'd placed it onto her finger, then tugged her to him. His kisses had turned fevered, his hands brazen. She'd known what it was he wanted to do. And because he'd chosen her, she had allowed him to lead her to his bedchamber, that ring still gracing her finger.

She regretted that day more than any other in the whole of her life so far. Even more than she did the one that came nine months later, when her heart tore in two. It never would have happened had she not trusted Renfry and taken him at his word.

"Get out," Cassie said to Grant as she shoved down the memory.

"If you would listen?—"

"No! How dare you ask me to pretend at something like that?" She crossed the room, to the one piece of furniture she'd replaced in the study when she moved in. The desk her brother had kept had been too large and formidable. This one was slim and elegant, though she kept a decanter of brandy on it just as Michael had. She took out the stopper with a shaking hand and splashed some into a snifter.

"If you would hear me out, I think we could both benefit from this courtship," Grant said as he followed her across the study. The shivers and nausea that usually accompanied any errant thoughts of Lord Renfry settled as she held the snifter to her lips. She didn't sip, only inhaled the sweet and woody fumes.

"You have one minute to explain yourself."

Grant clasped his hands behind his back and swallowed a bemused grin. Why did he always look at her like she'd said something slightly funny?

"In short, the marquess wants a grandson to carry on the Lindstrom title. He is determined that it stay within his direct line, but as my brothers have issued nothing but girls thus far, he has now hinged his hopes on me. To his discontent, I refuse to re-marry."

Cassie lowered her brandy. It was no secret that Grant was a widower. But she knew nothing of his previous marriage and had never sought out the information. Years ago, after they first met, when she'd thought of him far too often, she'd thought that the less she knew of him, the less she could be tempted to care. And the less envious she could be of his dead wife, as ridiculous as that now seemed to her.

"The marquess has threatened to cut you off," she guessed, recalling what he'd said in the carriage earlier.

He twitched his cheek. "He has."

"You work for a living, don't you? Maybe you don't need your income from him."

"Being a physician isn't as lucrative as one might think. Especially when you work for free half of the time."

Cassie sighed and sipped her brandy. "I don't see how a fake courtship will help you. Why don't you just marry someone?"

The muscles along his jaw rippled. "It isn't as simple as that."

"Isn't it?" she challenged, still unclear on what it was he wanted from her. A pretend courtship could not go on indefinitely. "Men do it all the time."

Cold silence rushed in on the wake of her flippant comment. All warmth and civility leached from Grant's expression, and when he took a single, long stride toward her, she felt like a small animal that had suddenly become prey.

"Once you marry for love, it's a little difficult to lower your standards." Grant sealed his lips, his square jaw clenching again. He let out an exhalation and turned away from her, fingers combing through his hair.

Stunned, Cassie's fingers squeezed her glass. He'd married for love. A streak of something unpleasant twisted through her. She chose to ignore it.

"Her name was Sarah?"

Audrey had mentioned her name once.

Grant nodded. "Yes."

She would not ask how she died. That, too, was no secret. As was the stillborn child he'd buried alongside his wife.

"You've not explained how pretending to court would benefit either of us," she reminded him, lest he start to think she was softening toward him.

"Within a month, my brother's wife will bear a child. If it is a boy, the marquess will be appeased. I'm confident he will retract his latest edict."

"And until then, you will pretend to set your cap toward me?"

The haunted look in his eyes while speaking of his late wife dissipated, and the glib, devil-may-care one returned. "And you will revel in my attention, giving my father every reason to believe I've made my selection."

Cassie began to shake her head, but he cut her off before she could speak. "Trust me, I don't want to marry any more than you do. There will be no contracts, no banns posted, no official anything. But it will get my father off my back for these next few fortnights, and I imagine it will also give you a respite from the duke's attempts to fob you off on some unsuspecting buffoon."

Cassie balked. "You are forgetting that you, sir, are a rake. A rogue. A man of ill-repute. Not to mention that you work. The duke will not be happy in the least to believe I have accepted your suit!"

A slick grin twisted his lips.

"Which do you think he will be angrier about? His sister, falling for a cad, or his sister, operating an East End safe house filled with ruined women?"

Cassie slammed her snifter onto the desk so hard she heard the glass crack. "Are you threatening to expose Hope House if I don't agree to this scheme of yours?"

Grant shrugged insouciantly. "We both have secrets we don't want getting out. We both have endeavors we wish to protect."

She could not believe this man! How could she have ever thought him at all charming? "Your father would merely cut you off. You would be the furthest thing from destitute. While my entire reputation would be ruined! One of us has significantly more to lose than the other."

Grant hitched his chin and took a deep breath, his sooty eyes narrowing on her. For the barest moment, she believed he would retract his disgusting ultimatum. That he still possessed a single shred of dignity. But he only exhaled and waved a hand through the air. "Then I suggest you take me up on my offer."

The rapid boiling of her blood overtook her so swiftly, Cassie wasn't even fully aware of her hand reaching for her brandy. But then, it was hurtling through the air, toward Grant Thornton's head. He barely sidestepped it, gawking at her as the snifter crashed to the floor behind him.

"Christ, woman! You could have put out my eye!"

Her chest heaved as she suppressed the urge to scream. "You ought to leave before the whole the decanter comes at your head!"

He held out his arms, as if to say, As you wish. He strode from the study without another word. But he wasn't a man to give in easily. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.