“Where?” he asked. “I was not expecting anyone to eat as yet.”
“The morning room, Your Grace.”
He turned and left the room at once.
By the time he reached the morning room, it was empty save for the remains of a single place setting. Lady Cassandra, it seemed, had finished quickly.
“She stepped out to the gardens,” a footman offered.
George thanked him and altered his course.
The gardens were expansive, deliberately so. He scanned the walkways with a critical eye, but there was nothing. At the rose terrace, he encountered Philippa instead.
“Have you seen Lady Cassandra?” he asked.
“She was just here,” Philippa said. “She said she wished to avoid the breakfast crowd.”
“And then?”
“She mentioned the music room,” Philippa added. “She wanted to see it while it was quiet, and given that there are a few people here that wish to pass judgment over her, I do not blame her for that.”
George nodded and went inside.
As he expected by that point, the music room was empty. The pianoforte stood untouched, its lid closed, and there was no evidence that any other instrument had been touched either. He crossed the room, irritation beginning to surface in spite of himself.
In the corridor, he nearly collided with Brandon.
“You look as though you are hunting something,” Brandon observed.
“I am not.”
“I did not say that you were, only that you appear that way.”
George ignored the comment.
“Have you seen Lady Cassandra?”
“Indeed. She was asking after you, actually,” Brandon said mildly.
“Did she say why?”
“She did not.”
George sighed, unable to contain it.
“When was this?”
“Moments ago,” Brandon continued. “She went toward the west gallery.”
And to no surprise, the west gallery was filled with light and entirely empty. He let out a slow breath. It occurred to him then, with a clarity he did not welcome, that Lady Cassandra was avoiding him deliberately. She had to have been, else he would have been able to find her.
The realization unsettled him. He found her absence distracting, though he reasoned that her presence would be worse.
For the first time that morning, he allowed himself a moment of stillness. He did not know whether the impulse driving him was irritation, curiosity, or something far less convenient. He straightened his coat and left, going out into the gardens.
At last, as he walked along the path, he saw the figure of a lady approaching him. He was pleased for a moment, but then he saw that it was not Lady Cassandra at all. Instead, it was Lady Sylvia.
The disappointment was sharp enough to irritate him.
