Chapter 9

Nine

Cassie was beginning to think all men, no matter their rank or relation to her, were manipulative deceivers.

The previous week, Michael had pleaded with her to attend an upcoming performance at the opera with him and Genie, and to placate him, she'd agreed. But as soon as her brother had collected her in his carriage and set out for the theatre, he'd announced that they would be joined by Mr. Alaric Forsythe.

She'd been so preoccupied the last few days with thoughts of Grant and his heartless threat that everything else had fallen aside—including Michael's clear intent to pair her with Mr. Forsythe. It was the last thing she'd wanted to deal with after such a disappointing day. She'd gone to Marylebone to check in on a past resident of Hope House, Miss Emily Stafford. The young woman had turned her infant over for placement, and Cassie had helped her to find employment, to get back on her feet. But the drapers where Miss Stafford had successfully applied had informed Cassie that she was no longer employed there. She also was not at the lodging house Cassie had found for her. No one knew where she had gone, and now, Cassie could only hope that she was well.

It wasn't until she'd arrived back at Grosvenor Square feeling defeated, and Ruth had hurried her along to her bedchamber to dress, that she recalled her commitment to the opera. Being pleasant with Mr. Forsythe had been a chore she hadn't wanted. And then, when Grant Thornton cornered her, he'd drained her patience entirely.

The man deserved the glass of brandy thrown at his head the other evening. He was the lowest, vilest, most unscrupulous blackguard to propose what he had. To possess a reputation as a rake was one thing, but to compel her to help him put off his father's demands of marriage by engaging in a fake courtship was despicable. And to use the secret of Hope House as leverage was even more contemptible.

Would he truly tell Michael? She didn't know Grant well enough to be sure. He tended to treat everything like a merry joke, but he'd appeared utterly sincere in her study while laying out his proposal—or rather, his self-serving demands.

Avoiding him for the last few days had been successful, but exhausting. She'd constantly been on the lookout for him, wondering whether he would turn up at the safe house or on her front step. So, when Mr. Forsythe had turned out to be amiable company, she'd started to relax. Unlike some of the other suitors Michael had singled out for her, he was interesting—just as she'd told Grant in the refreshments room. The horrible man hadn't believed her, of course. However, Mr. Forsythe had regaled her with a few fascinating stories of his time in Egypt and the architectural explorations in which he'd taken part. He hadn't dominated the conversation with tales about himself, either; he'd asked her questions about her interests, and what places she'd enjoyed while traveling the Continent.

A few times during the beginning of the first act at the King's Theatre, she'd sneaked glances at Mr. Forsythe and imagined kissing him. Would she like it? She thought she might but couldn't be sure. She'd thought of the missing Miss Stafford then, and the things the young woman had once told her about the father of her baby. Or rather, the things she'd felt whenever the man so much as looked at her. I couldn't help myself, she'd admitted. It had been like a demon possessed me. Nothing else mattered but him. Not even air. Cassie had peered at Mr. Forsythe, curious if she could feel such a thing with him.

He wasn't very tall. Not like Grant, whose cravat knot was at her eye level. He wasn't as broad shouldered as the physician, either. Nor did he look like the sort of man who boxed regularly to keep his arms and chest muscular. Her palms had itched at the memory of feeling Grant's chest through his waistcoat inside Lady Dutton's guest chamber's closet.

Then again, Mr. Forsythe did not make her want to scream in frustration. He didn't make her feel hot or restless or accosted. He didn't look at her as if all manner of dark thoughts were swirling through his mind.

At the theatre, when Grant had stared daggers at her, she nearly felt branded. As if he was furious to have caught her with another man. It was utter tripe! She had not yet agreed to his scheme.

But if she didn't…would Grant see his threat through?

That was the question nagging her as she made her way to the free clinic the afternoon following the opera. It was just past one o'clock when she left for Whitechapel. He'd said he would call on her, but she wasn't prepared to have Grant Thornton showing up on her doorstep for all of society to observe. So, she'd decided she would go to him. She might even be able to talk him out of a stroll in Hyde Park.

Bitterness filled her as she descended from her carriage into the mews behind the clinic. Nothing Grant could say or do now would improve her opinion of him. Being at his mercy wasn't fair. Why shouldn't he be at hers? He had a secret too, one that would damage his reputation heartily. But men always recovered from scandals. They always had access to more money. Women, not so much.

As she approached the back entrance to the clinic, a single door set above three warped wooden board steps, a man with a bandaged ear emerged from within. He looked her over, then cut away, fast. Cassie stepped inside, aware she did not look at all suited for such a place. She had found Isabel and Tris together in the kitchen a few times now, their growing interest evident. Cassie's reluctance to leave them alone, to spend the nights under the same roof, had left her in a quandary. But perhaps it wasn't any of Cassie's business. Isabel was with child and needed protection; Tris was a good young man. Cassie trusted him, and apparently, so did Isabel.

Now, as she entered the kitchen, another young woman stood at the stove, holding a pair of steel tongs. She dipped a glass tube into boiling water.

"Doctor Brown is closing the clinic earlier than usual today. Unless it is an emergency—" She looked over her shoulder as she spoke and went quiet. Her keen brown eyes took in Cassie's appearance in a single sweep. "You're not here for the clinic."

"No. Though I am here to see the doctor."

The young woman wore a dark blue gown with a white pinafore, and her brown curls were piled up under a mob cap. She was pretty in a plain and straightforward way. No emotion showed on her face, except for an arch of a brow, which could have meant anything. Surprise. Condescension. Amusement.

"You must be Lady Cassandra Sinclair." She pulled the steaming glass tube from the water and laid it down on a towel. "Or would you rather me address you as Miss Banks?"

Her pulse skipped. "He told you?"

"Your secrets are safe with Miss Matthews," Grant said as he appeared in the kitchen entrance.

He'd forgone a jacket and was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled to his elbows. He hitched his hands on his hips, drawing her mutinous attention to the defined muscles of his forearms.

"That was not for you to decide, doctor."

He grinned at her response, as if it gratified him.

"Wasn't I supposed to call on you at three o'clock?" He took out his fob watch. "It is barely two. Why, Lady Cassandra, your eagerness gives me hope."

She glared at him as he went toward the stove where Miss Matthews was drying the glass tubing and attempting to mask her amused grin.

"Mr. Osterfield was the last patient for the day," he said. "I can take care of cleaning up the rest. Merryton should arrive any moment. He will take you home." He laid his hand on the young woman's shoulder and leaned toward her ear, to whisper something inaudible. She pulled back, laughed, and then jabbed him in the chest with her elbow. Grant rubbed the spot, pretending it hurt.

A sour sensation erupted in Cassie's stomach, all sharp corners and claws. She instantly suppressed it. Or tried to. There was absolutely no chance she was envious of this young woman for having a private, playful moment with Grant Thornton. Cassie averted her eyes when he turned back to her, all lightheartedness gone from his expression.

"Follow me, my lady," he said, and then led the way from the kitchen. Cassie knew the building; she'd been here a few times. Thankfully, when he was not present.

"How is Isabel?" she asked. It would be good to check in on her. But Grant pushed open the front sitting room door and stepped aside, an arm outstretched for her to enter.

"The last I checked she was reading Shakespeare to your driver. He was listening to her every word, rapt. Though I'm not entirely certain that is due to the bard's talent for prose."

Cassie entered the sitting room, which had been transformed into a surgery with a desk, chairs, a padded table for patients, glass-fronted cabinets, and a hulking contraption standing over the patient table. With its many chiseled lenses, it resembled a lighthouse lantern.

"Gracious, what is this thing?" she asked, going to it. The hollow interior was filled with several candles.

Grant followed her. "I had it made. The candlelight from within hits the lenses and reflects more brightly than regular lanterns. It works wonders when I'm trying to see into a wound, or in Mr. Osterfield's case, an ear canal."

She recalled that the man leaving through the back door had a bandaged ear. "What was wrong with his ear?"

Grant peered at her a prolonged moment before answering. "A sliver of wood. He sustained the injury when someone hit him in the head with a piece of a broken table during a tavern brawl. It was causing a fair amount of pain."

"You removed it?"

"He didn't come to me for me to leave it in."

Cassie ignored his sarcasm as she wandered around the tall lantern, a finger trailing along the smooth lenses. "Does Miss Matthews assist you?"

"You're asking me questions to avoid the conversation we need to have."

She gaped, taken aback at the accusation. "I am not." She'd merely been curious about the woman in the kitchen.

Grant rolled down the cuff of one sleeve. The motion was slow and oddly intimate.

"Hannah assists me here and at my home surgery, at Thornton House."

"So, she knows the truth? That you're a peer?"

At his nod, she felt those claws under her skin sharpen. Why did this trouble her? It shouldn't. She refused to let it. So what if a pretty young woman assisted Grant here and at his home? So what if he trusted her with what he'd claimed to be his most crucial secret? And now, with Cassie's.

"That bothers you," he observed.

She had been quiet too long. Lost in her own muddled head. "You should not have told her about Miss Banks without my permission."

He finished with one sleeve and then began to roll down the other. "She is as trustworthy as Tris is. Hannah is my late wife's sister. They were close. When she expressed an interest in assisting me, I indulged her, even though my brothers and father staunchly objected."

The claws retracted a little. Annoyed with her reaction over Miss Matthews, Cassie walked toward the other side of the office, if only to put distance between them.

"Why have you come?" he asked. She decided to be honest.

"To avoid having you blacken my doorstep."

"You are delaying the inevitable."

Lead slid into her stomach. She was, though she hated to admit it. Grant Thornton was not trustworthy or honorable enough for her to believe he would not see his threat through to the very end.

But even though she would play his game, she would not make things simple for him. "What of Mr. Forsythe?"

He didn't quite flinch, but she noticed the flexing of his jaw. "What of him?"

"I've grown rather fond of him," she replied.

Grant snorted. "You have not."

"Do not presume to tell me who I am and am not fond of."

As if baited by the challenge, he came toward her. Each stride radiated malevolence. "While we are courting, you will not see Mr. Forsythe, or any other man. Is that clear?"

The demand made sense, as continuing to see other men would indicate that she had not settled on a beau, and their courtship would not be taken seriously by the marquess. But it also smacked of possessive envy. It set her back on her heels.

But then, Cassie formed a saccharine grin. "Tell me, Lord Thornton, what is your plan if this nephew you're bargaining on enters the world as a niece?"

There was, after all, a fifty-fifty chance of it.

Grant reached his desk and, crossing his arms, leaned a hip against the edge. "I will worry about that when the time arrives. However, you have my word that either way, I will release you from our courtship. You may end things then as you see fit."

"I would trust the word of a gentleman, but you, sir, are not that."

A devilish grin pinned the center of his cheeks, drawing her eyes to twin dimples. It was not adorable in the least.

"Come now, Lady Cassandra, I am a gentleman at least forty percent of the time."

She pretended not to hear him. "The duke will not allow a drawn-out courtship. He will corner you before long and demand you offer."

Grant chuckled. "I rather think he will corner me and demand I sod off. But I wager we have a fortnight before that happens."

"We have nothing," she retorted swiftly. But then, more calmly, she returned to negotiations. "I am the one who will cry off. And it will be because you have done something wretched and unforgivable."

He assented with a nod. "That will be more than believable."

"I will allow no liberties," she added, her voice quavering while naming the condition.

Grant pushed off the desk and came near. Close enough for her to trace his scent of cinnamon and sandalwood. "I would give you my word that I will take no liberties, but there is that other sixty percent of the time that needs to be accounted for."

He wanted to get a rise out of her. Lead her into saying something he could use in some sarcastic remark. She wouldn't give it.

"You have something to lose too, Lord Thornton. Do not forget that." His clinic was important to him. Just as important as Hope House, she imagined.

"We both do," he conceded. "So let us agree. These next few fortnights don't have to be painful or unpleasant."

She hated that he'd led her into this scheme by force. He was dangling her freedom over her head, using it to coerce her. And then acting as if they were on equal footing. She gritted her teeth so violently, they ached.

"Fine."

He waited for her to say more, to form a new condition perhaps. When she didn't, he nodded succinctly and stepped away from her. "There is a ball Monday night. Lord and Lady Tennenbright's. I assume you've an invitation?"

She had received it last week and promptly set it aside. Lady Dutton's ball had been the first she'd attended in some time, and that had been a glorified failure.

"I do."

"Excellent. Attend. We will dance three times, and I'll keep you away from all the other men. That should signal to everyone that I have an interest in you."

The transactional performance left her cold. And furious.

"Is that all?" she asked, nipping her words.

Mischief brightened his eyes as he took his jacket from the back of his desk chair where he'd left it and inserted his arms. "It would help if you didn't look at me as you are right now, as though I resemble a slimy snail."

As soon as he said it, she felt the grimace tensing her facial muscles. She loosened them as well as she could.

"Just try to pretend to enjoy my company," he said.

"Very well. But no quadrilles." She held up a hand. "I hate the quadrille."

Cassie leaped as frantic pounding came at the front door.

"What in God's name…" Grant muttered, then headed for the front hall. Cassie followed, and the loud banging came again. Grant opened the door and a man rushed inside, a young boy in his arms.

"Mr. Mansouri, what's happened?" Grant asked, clearly familiar with him.

"It is Amir," the man said, taking the boy directly into the front room. Cassie jumped out of the way to let him pass. "He fell off a hitching post and caught his leg on a hook."

He settled the young boy on the examination table, his pant leg soaked in blood. Grant removed the jacket he'd just put on and, once again, began to roll his cuffs.

"Miss Banks," he said. She tore her eyes away from the boy's bloody leg. "Fetch Miss Matthews."

She nodded and hurried down the short hall. But the kitchen was empty.

"I think she must have left," she told Grant once she'd hurried back to the front room. The boy, about nine or ten, whimpered as Grant used a pair of shears to cut away his torn trouser.

"I did tell her to go for the evening," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Well then, Miss Banks, I'll need you to assist in her place."

"Me?" She felt glued to the spot as she looked on, the bloody gash along Amir's calf already sending her stomach into a swirl.

Grant threw the shorn trouser leg to the floor and peered at her, slightly bemused. Then, he spoke to the boy. "Amir, this is Miss Jane Banks. She is going to be helping me."

The boy turned his dark brown eyes onto her. They were filled with doubt. When he bit his bottom lip against a whimper of pain, Cassie realized she was being silly. Of course she would help. The boy was injured, and his father was frantic with worry.

"Should I fetch some hot water?" she asked, shedding her pelisse and gloves.

"And a syringe and tincture of iodine," Grant replied, preoccupied as he inspected the gash. "You'll find them in the second cabinet, third shelf."

Cassie started moving, even though she was full of the same doubt that had been in Amir's expression. She searched for a bowl in the kitchen to fill with steaming water that remained on the stove. It sloshed over the brim and wet the floor as she returned to the office, where Grant had lit the large lantern. It sparkled light throughout the room.

"Place the bowl here, Miss Banks," he said, gesturing toward a small stand next to the examination table. She did, and then went to the cabinets for the syringe and tincture. She found them, along with a stack of clean linens.

Grant took the syringe and drew up water from the bowl.

"I have a riddle for you, Amir," he said. "What is something that belongs to you but is mostly used by others?"

The boy frowned, wincing as Grant used the syringe to flush the gash of dirt and debris. "I don't know, Doctor Brown."

"Here's a hint. I just used it. So did your father when he brought you into my office."

Cassie bit back a grin as Grant flushed the wound a second, then a third time. All the while, Amir pinched his brow in thought. Then, he showed a toothy grin.

"My name!"

"Nicely done," Grant said while dribbling the purplish liquid he'd called iodine over the gash. "Miss Banks, hold this to the wound, please."

He placed a linen over the boy's leg and beckoned her forward. Cassie reached her hand out, hesitantly. Grant gently took it and, pulling her closer, placed her palm onto the linen. "That's right. Light pressure, like that. Good, all right, here's another for you, Amir."

As he went to his cabinets and collected some more items, he recited another riddle. "What is light as a feather, and yet the strongest person in the world cannot hold it for five minutes?"

Mr. Mansouri crushed his cap and looked on as Grant returned with black suturing floss and a curved needle.

"That don't make no sense," Amir said, then guessed, "Air?"

"Very close," Grant said, lifting Cassie's hand. "Thank you, Miss Banks," he murmured, his eyes meeting hers for a moment.

How could he be so calm? He was entirely relaxed, moving about with confidence and dexterity.

"Here is a hint: if you fall into the Thames, you best do this quick."

Amir smacked his head with his palm. "Hold my breath! That's the answer. Breath."

Grant praised him again, and then turned serious. "All right, Amir. I've got to place some sutures to close this wound. Are you ready? I promise to be as fast as possible."

The boy squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

"How about a contest between yourself and Miss Banks?" Grant proposed as he placed the first stitch. "Shall we see who can answer this next riddle first?"

Cassie shook her head. "I am terrible at riddles."

"Amir is very good," Grant replied, "so my money is on him. Here it is: Give me a drink, and I die. Feed me, and I grow bigger. What am I?"

He worked swiftly, his hands moving with ease and grace. Amir kept his eyes pinched shut, his nose crinkled.

"A drink of what?" the boy asked.

"Water."

Cassie knew the competition was supposed to be between herself and Amir, but her mind couldn't focus on the riddle. Instead, she watched Grant with burgeoning wonder. He was distracting the boy from the pain of the sutures with these riddles, putting him at ease. It was unexpectedly considerate.

"Do you need a hint?" Grant asked, the wound nearly closed.

"No," Amir insisted. "Does Miss Banks?"

Grant laughed and shot her a quick glimpse. "Does she?"

She held up her palms. "I confess, I'm at a loss."

"I know it!" Amir said before Grant could give a hint. "Fire! Water kills it, but feeding it makes it bigger."

Cassie goggled at the boy, sincerely impressed, as Grant cheered him. He then snipped the ends of the floss and then went to his cabinets again. He returned with a small glass jar and a roll of cotton linen.

"Miss Banks is going to wrap your leg after I apply some ointment," he said, handing her the roll before she could make any objection. He applied liberal daubs to the puckered red wound, and Cassie then began wrapping Amir's skinny calf and shin, careful not to pull too tightly. It was awkward going, and she was certain she wasn't nearly as efficient or skilled as Miss Matthews would have been, but when she tied off the wrapping, Grant nodded in approval.

"Well done. What do you think, Amir? Is Miss Banks's work satisfactory?"

The boy turned his leg gingerly. "She's good at knots. But rubbish at riddles."

Mr. Mansouri hushed the boy as Grant cracked a laugh. Cassie parted her lips in mock offense.

"Thank you, Doctor Brown. And Miss Banks," the father said. "Next week, I'll bring you something fresh from my cart, reeled in that day."

Grant helped Amir down, and as he walked Mr. Mansouri and his son into the front hall, gave instructions on keeping the wound clean, changing the bandage every day, and sending for him should the wound swell and weep anything other than clear or yellow pus. He was to return next Saturday so Grant could look at the sutures. Cassie's stomach cinched again, her head swimming a little as she grimaced.

"How do you do it?" she asked as Grant re-entered the office alone.

He went to the bowl of water and washed his hands. "Medical school helped."

"No, I mean how do you stay so calm? So composed?" She held up her own hands; they trembled, and she'd only placed the bandage on Amir's leg!

Grant noticed, and after drying his hands, went to a cabinet. He opened it and pulled out a blanket. "You should have seen me the first time I placed sutures at university. My hands shook like mad. The sutures turned out a mess, too. The patient probably still curses my name."

He brought her the blanket and draped it around her shoulders.

"I'm not cold," she protested.

"The shivering isn't from cold, it's from a rush of nerves. A bodily reaction to sudden stress." Grant didn't step away. He kept his hands on her shoulders. "Bringing up your body temperature will help reduce the shivers." He rubbed her upper arms, as if to help build friction and heat. It was oddly comforting.

"You did well," he told her.

"I barely did anything of note. Which makes my stress shivers entirely ridiculous."

"You could have refused to help me. Could have left. But you stayed." He cocked his head, forcing her to meet his gaze.

He stood close enough for her to see an amber band around each pupil, the striations radiating through his green irises.

"You were good with him. Amir," she said.

"So were you." His hands rasped up and down her arms, through the blanket.

As promised, she began to warm, and the shivers started to ease. But something else grew in its wake. An uncoiling in her stomach.

"Where did you learn all those riddles?" she asked.

"My tutor, growing up. He liked to torture me with them."

She could hear his distraction as he gave his answer, so different than how he'd been while attending Amir. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

She held her breath as one of his hands swept up her arm again, and this time, came off her shoulder. The coarse pads of his fingers touched her cheek and stroked back, toward her ear. Instinctively, she turned her cheek into his warm palm. Cassie exhaled, her half-lidded gaze centered on Grant's cravat. The looseness of the neckcloth exposed some of his throat and, thanks to the still lit lantern, bright light reflected off his skin.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked in a restrained whisper.

His other hand drifted down her arm and continued, past the edge of the blanket and onto her gown. His fingers curved over her hip, igniting an electric current where he touched.

"Yes," she breathed in answer. "Much better."

His palm pressed against her, settling firmly onto her hip. As his thumb lifted from her cheek and rubbed along her bottom lip, Cassie closed her eyes. An involuntary sigh rose up her throat. A surge of desire muffled her hearing and beat through her body. The blanket had turned her skin into a furnace.

The scuffing of boots coming down the stairs shattered the trancelike state.

Cassie gasped and jerked away from him so forcefully she backed into the examination table, rattling it. Grant's heated gaze cooled as he spun away from her and went toward his desk a mere moment before Tris entered the office.

Tris narrowed his eyes, but acted like nothing was amiss. "My lady, Isabel was wondering if that was your voice she heard."

Cassie tossed off the blanket, suddenly cold again, and charged toward her pelisse and gloves, where she'd left them on the chair.

"I'll come up and say hello before I have Patrick drive me home." She didn't look at Grant as she started toward the sitting room exit.

"Do not forget the Tennenbright's ball," Grant said, his voice overly incisive and commanding.

It was all the reminder she needed for good sense to slap back into her. She could not afford to soften toward him, not even in the slightest. She'd lost her wits once with a rogue and look where that had gotten her.

She wouldn't make the same mistake again.