Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
George woke earlier than usual.
The events of the previous evening had not settled as they should have.
He dressed with habitual precision, yet his thoughts returned, unbidden, to Lady Cassandra’s voice in his chamber, sharp with anger and something dangerously close to hurt.
He told himself that the matter had been resolved.
Boundaries had been set, order restored, which meant that all was well.
And yet…
He left his rooms with the intention of finding her that morning.
He did not regret what he had said, but he did wish that he had been kinder about it.
It was true that she had been insulted, and he did not outright defend her as he promised, and he had not adequately explained why and that was his own fault.
He wished to apologize for that, if nothing else.
The east wing was quiet when he arrived. A maid curtseyed and informed him that Lady Cassandra had already taken breakfast.
“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.
“Your Grace,” she greeted. “You appear occupied.”
“I am,” George replied coolly. “This is not a convenient moment.”
“And yet,” Sylvia said, “you are not leaving.”
He did not rise to the implication.
“What do you want?”
“Only a moment of your time. I had hoped to speak with you privately, so I am pleased to have found you here.”
“You have one moment.”
Sylvia was surprised by his coldness, as she always was, and George wondered how long it would take her to understand that he would not be changing such a demeanor. He did not want to give her any false hope, unlike his grandmother.
“This house feels very different than it did under your father.”
“That is intentional.”
“And yet, I rather think that he would have enjoyed this gathering. He always believed in alliances forged early, as you know. Our fathers understood one another very well, in that respect. They spoke often of what was proper, and what was best.”
George met her gaze steadily. He knew what she was suggesting, but he had no intentions of indulging it.
“My father spoke of many things.”
“And some of them were promises,” she pressed.
“They were intentions,” he corrected. “Not obligations.”
“You know that he wished–”
“I know very well what he wished,” George interrupted. “And I have spent a lifetime ensuring that his wishes do not dictate my actions.”
Her smile faltered.
“You dishonor his memory.”
“I honor it by being my own man.”
She stepped back, eyes lowering.
“I wish I knew what had changed in you. You were never like this before. There was a time where you listened to me, George, and now–”
“You cannot use my name like that. That is not acceptable.”
“We were always supposed to be married, Your Grace. This is what our father had arranged for us. It is what everyone had expected… and now—”
“I have no intention of being a marionette for society’s amusement, nor will I dance to a tune written by fathers who are no longer here. The path has changed. You would do well to accept it.”
She quietened once more. George wondered why his grandmother never seemed to see this side of her, for it was all he knew. She was not some sweet young lady that was exceptional in every way; she was cruel, and there was no changing that.
“One might have thought that you respected your father enough to honor his wishes, but you could at least have refrained from encouraging my belief that you would.”
“My grandmother misled you,” George said calmly. “You know that I never encouraged any expectations.”
Silence fell between them. In truth, he had never once allowed her to think that he would marry her, for he had never wanted to, but he was aware that she knew of the plans that had been made and had therefore seen things that were never there.
She was not to be blamed for it entirely, but then nor was he.
“At least tell me this,” Sylvia said at last. “Does she know?”
“She knows what concerns her, which of course this does not.”
“And what, pray tell, concerns you?”
George did not answer immediately. He thought of Cassandra again, elusive, infuriating, impossible to anticipate. The truth was that his fiancée concerned him greatly, but of course he could not say that.
“What concerns me,” he said finally, “is ensuring that this house is not governed by someone that never belonged in it.”
“You are very certain of yourself.”
“I have to be.”
“Yes, well then… Then I shall not trouble you further.”
“That would be wise.”
She looked at him, and he was quite convinced that she expected him to change his mind, to apologize and to ask her to stay, but he did not. She turned and left without another word.
George remained where he was for a moment longer, irritation in his chest.
He had not found Cassandra. Instead, he had been reminded of everything he refused to become, but the day was not over yet and neither, he suspected, was the pursuit. He had to leave it be and go to his study at that point, but at worst he would see her at dinner.
George was midway through his correspondence when the knock came. It was not the discreet, measured sound he expected at that hour, but something sharper, more urgent.
“Enter.”
His butler stepped inside, expression carefully neutral, which in itself was cause for concern.
“There has been an incident in the lower paddocks, Your Grace.”
George set his quill down.
“Define incident.”
“All of your horses have been let loose.”
Silence followed, and then George rose slowly.
“All of them?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“How long ago?”
“Less than half an hour.”
George reached for his coat once again, throwing it on and following his butler through the household at a fast pace.
“Do we know how?”
“Not as yet. The gate bolts were lifted deliberately, and there is no damage and no sign of struggle.”
That narrowed the list considerably.
“And the staff?”
“Already searching the grounds.”
“Is there anything else?”
The butler hesitated, which meant there was indeed more. George had not wanted for there to be more, but he supposed it at least meant he had another clue.
“I did observe Lady Cassandra near the stables earlier this morning.”
“Near,” he repeated.
“Yes, Your Grace. She was returning toward the east path. Alone.”
Of course she was. A hundred responses suggested themselves. He dismissed them all and focused on the practical.
“Have the grooms been informed?”
“They are saddling those they have found.”
“Good.”
George moved toward the door.
“Ensure no one speaks of this beyond necessity.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
As he strode down the corridor, irritation sharpened into something more focused. This was not impulsive mischief. The timing was deliberate. Releasing his horses was not merely a childish act. It was a statement.
And Cassandra Burrow was the only guest in the house with both the motive and the audacity.
He descended the steps two at a time, and he knew that if she had intended to provoke him, she had succeeded.
What unsettled him most was not the disruption, nor even the damage to order.
It was the fact that, somewhere beneath the irritation, a darker realization had begun to form.
She was no longer merely reacting to his control.
She was testing it.
Cassandra had risen before the house fully stirred.