"Yes," he said darkly, "they can."
"I don't suppose you could swoop down and save me this evening?" she asked, giving him a sideways glance.
"I wish I could. Truly, I do. As your future husband, it is my duty to shield you from all unpleasantness, and believe me, the Smythe-Smith string quartet is beyond unpleasant. But my engagements this evening are most pressing. I cannot break them."
Henry now was certain that he was going to see Christine Fowler at midnight. He's breaking it off, she repeated to herself. He's breaking it off. That was the only explanation.
Chapter 21
That may have been the only explanation, but it didn't mean Henry felt particularly chipper about it. As midnight grew near, her thoughts became increasingly fixed on Dunford's upcoming meeting with Christine Fowler. Even the Smythe-Smith musicale, dreadful as it was, failed to distract her.
On the other hand, perhaps Dunford's meeting with Christine Fowler was a blessing in disguise; at least it was distracting her from the Smythe-Smith string quartet.
Dunford had not underestimated their musical skill.
To her credit, Henry managed to sit still throughout the performance, concentrating on discovering a method to somehow close up her ears from the inside out. She looked discreetly up at the clock. It was quarter past ten. She wondered if he was at White's now, enjoying a game of cards before his meeting.
The concert finally drew to its last discordant note, and the audience breathed a collective sigh of relief. As she stood, Henry heard someone say, "Thank goodness they didn't perform an original composition."
Henry almost laughed, but then she saw that one of the Smythe-Smith girls had heard the comment, too. To her surprise, the girl did not look ready to burst into tears. She looked furious. Henry found herself nodding approvingly. At least the girl had spirit. Then she realized that the seething glare was not directed at the rude guest but at the girl's mother. Curious, Henry immediately decided to introduce herself. She made her way through the crowd and onto the makeshift stage. The other three Smythe-Smith daughters had begun to mingle in the crowd, but the one with the forbidding expression on her face played the cello, which she couldn't very well carry around with her. She seemed reluctant to leave it unattended.
"Hello," Henry said, holding out her hand. "I am Miss Henrietta Barrett. I know that it is forward of me to introduce myself, but I thought we might make an exception as we are soon to be cousins."
The girl stared at her blankly for a moment and then said, "Oh, yes. You must be betrothed to Dunford. Is he here?"
"No, he was otherwise engaged. He has a very busy schedule this evening."
"Please, you don't have to make excuses for him. This"—she waved her hand at the chairs and music stands still in place—"is hideous. He's a very kind man and has come to three of these already. Actually, I'm quite glad he didn't come. I shouldn't want to be responsible for his deafness, which is sure to ensue if he attends too many of our musicales."
Henry smothered a giggle.
"No, please go ahead and laugh," the girl said. "I'd much rather you did that than compliment me as all these people are bound to do soon."
"But tell me," Henry said, leaning forward. "Why does everyone keep coming?"
The girl looked bewildered. "I don't know. I think it must be out of respect for my late papa. Oh, but I am sorry, I have not even told you my name. I am Charlotte Smythe-Smith."
"I know." Henry motioned to her program, which listed the daughters' names and their respective instruments.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "It has been lovely meeting you, Miss Barrett. I hope we will have a chance to do so again soon. But please, I beg of you, do not attend another one of our performances. I should not like to be responsible for the loss of your sanity, which is sure to occur if you do not find yourself deaf first."
Henry bit back a smile. "It's not as bad as that."
"Oh, but I know that it is."
"Well, it certainly is not good," Henry admitted. "But I am glad I came. You're the first of Dunford's relatives I have met."
"And you are the first of his fiancées I have met."
Henry's heart skipped a beat. "I beg your pardon."
"Oh, dear," Charlotte said quickly, her face growing pink. "I have gone and done it again. Somehow the things I say sound so much different in my head than they do aloud."
Henry smiled, seeing quite a bit of herself in Dunford's cousin.
"You are, of course, his first—and one would hope only—fiancée. It is just that it is most exciting to hear that he is betrothed. He has always been such a rake, and— Oh, dear, you didn't really want to hear that, did you?"
Henry tried to smile again but just couldn't manage it. The last thing she wanted to hear tonight were tales of Dunford's rakehell days.
Caroline and Henry took their leave soon thereafter, Caroline fanning herself vigorously in the coach and declaring, "I swear I will never attend one of those recitals again."
"How many have you attended?"
"This is my third."
"One would think you would have learned your lesson by now."
"Yes." Caroline sighed. "One would."
"Why do you go?"
"I don't know. The girls are really quite sweet, and I shouldn't want to hurt their feelings."
"At least we may make an early evening of it. All of that noise exhausted me."
"Myself as well. With any luck I'll be in bed before midnight."