Page 24 of The Lady's Last Mistake
“Lord Grant Thornton to see Lady Cassandra,” he said.
“Her ladyship is out, my lord. Would you care to leave your card?”
Out?
“Out where?”
At the impertinent question, the footman pressed down a brow in disapproval. Grant flashed what he hoped looked like a reticent smile. “I only ask because I have an important message for her, from the Viscountess Neatham. It is urgent,” he added. “Veryurgent. I’ve been tasked with finding Lady Cassandra. Right now.”
With every ridiculous additional plea, the skepticism drifted from the footman’s pressed brow. He clearly knew the viscountess and Cassie were close. Hugh and Audrey, however, had been in Surrey as of late, and Grant hadn’t heard a peep from them in weeks.
“Her ladyship has recently left for the King’s Theatre, my lord.”
Grant thanked him and returned to his carriage, his mind cranking through possibilities. Cassie may have used the opera as an excuse and was instead on her way to Crispin Street. Or she might actually be attending the performance tonight.The Duenna, if he wasn’t mistaken. The marquess kept a box there, and at dinner the other evening, had attempted to draw Grant into inviting one of the debs to attend with him. Ballocks to that. However, now the theatre practically glowed like a beacon.
“Home, Merryton,” he said to his driver before jumping into the carriage.
If he was attending the opera, he needed to make himself presentable.
He arriveda half hour into the first act, but to his credit, he wasn’t the only one. Operagoers were mingling in the foyer and in the corridors outside the house floor as Grant found his way to his father’s rented box. For many, the performance was a backdrop for the true entertainment of the night—social gossip. The lighting in the house was not even fully dimmed when the orchestra in the pit began to play and the actors took to the stage. How then would the attendees be able to see who was with whom? The whispered hum of voices underneath the music always grated on Grant’s nerves. People would continue to talk, uncaring of the performance unfolding on the stage. It was one of the reasons he didn’t often utilize his father’s box. The other reason greeted him the moment he opened the arched door and stepped inside.
The Marquess of Lindstrom twisted to see who had just joined him, a grimace fixed to the hard lines of his face.
“I see you came alone,” he said, relaxing into his seat again. There were six in total in the box, which was raised three tiers above the house.
Grant removed his hat. “I thought we could have some quality father-son time.”
The marquess grunted, refusing to respond to the obvious sarcasm. “Miss Green’s two older sisters have born six males between them,” he said. “If you are wise, you will press your suit.”
“Which one was Miss Green? The one with the overly large teeth or the one whose right shoulder was higher than the left?”
Grant took the cushioned seat next to his father. He couldn’t help himself; provoking him was as natural as breathing. After spending most of his youth trying, and failing, to earn even just a sliver of the marquess’s regard, Grant had given up. And then he’d discovered the one thing he could never fail at with his father: needling him.
“You aren’t taking my directive seriously,” the marquess said. “The lady’s appearance does not signify. The Lindstrom title has been in our direct lineage for five generations, and I will not see it diverted, even when I am in the grave.”
Grant exhaled, having grown accustomed to this little speech. He also knew how to cut it off at its knees.
“Which one is your tart?” he asked his father, gesturing loosely toward the stage. Lindstrom was about as fond of the theatre as Grant. The only reason for him to be here, alone, would be to take in the performance of his current mistress. Actresses were his preference, though at times, he strayed to widows and even the occasional courtesan. Twenty years the marchioness had been dead, taken by influenza, but the marquess had never remarried. He hadn’t needed to, what with four sons. With spare heirs aplenty, the title had been secure. Until now.
“Do not be crass,” the marquess grumbled. “Why are you here?”
“I love shrill voices.”
Grant leaned forward and swept a look toward the Duke of Fournier’s usual rented box along the fourth tier. Four people occupied it, but only one captured his full attention.Cassie’s hair had been braided into a golden crown winking with diamond pins. Her silver gown glittered with crystals too. She stared straight ahead, toward the stage, her gloved hand resting on the railing. She looked to be utterly entranced by the performance—and completely oblivious to the man seated beside her, utterly entranced byher.
Who the bloody hell was she with?
Behind them sat the duke and duchess, and the choice of seating could not have been any more transparent. Cassie and the mysterious gentleman were on full view for all to see and report upon.
“Christ in hell,” Grant muttered. He sat back and pulled at the tall stock and cravat his valet, Clayton, had fashioned in the only way Grant allowed: irresponsibly loose.
“Did you hear me, boy?” The marquess was a gnat in his ear. He’d been saying something about Miss Green’s several nephews while Grant had stared at the man seated with Cassie.
“Who is that man in Fournier’s box?” Grant asked.
His father had an eye for beautiful women and found Cassie easily enough.
“Alaric Forsythe. Heir of the Baron Forsythe. Why?” Lindstrom huffed a mocking laugh. “Have you diddled with his intended?”
