Whereas Hyacinth was, as she did not mind putting it, always interested in gossip, which meant that she surely would not wish to miss such an important wedding. Someone would drink too much, and someone else would dance too close, and Hyacinth would hate to be the last to hear of it.
“Gregory?” his mother prompted.
“I’m not going.”
“But—”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Surely an oversight. One that will be corrected, I am certain, after your efforts this evening.”
“Mother, as much as I would like to wish Lady Lucinda well, I have no desire to attend her or anyone’s wedding. They are such sentimental affairs.”
Silence.
Never a good sign.
He looked at Hyacinth. She was regarding him with large owlish eyes. “You like weddings,” she said.
He grunted. It seemed the best response.
“You do,” she said. “At my wedding, you—”
“Hyacinth, you are my sister. It is different.”
“Yes, but you also attended Felicity Albansdale’s wedding, and I distinctly recall—”
Gregory turned his back on her before she could recount his merriness. “Mother,” he said, “thank you for the invitation, but I do not wish to attend Lady Lucinda’s wedding.”
Violet opened her mouth as if to ask a question, but then she closed it. “Very well,” she said.
Gregory was instantly suspicious. It was not like his mother to capitulate so quickly. Further prying into her motives, however, would eliminate any chance of a quick escape.
It was an easy decision.
“I bid you both adieu,” he said.
“Where you going?” Hyacinth demanded. “And why are you speaking French?”
He turned to his mother. “She is all yours.”
“Yes,” Violet sighed. “I know.”
Hyacinth immediately turned on her. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hyacinth, you—”
Gregory took advantage of the moment and slipped away while their attention was fixed on each other.
The party was growing more crowded, and it occurred to him that Lucy might very well have arrived while he was speaking with his mother and sister. If so, she wouldn’t have made it very far into the ballroom, however, and so he began to make his way toward the receiving line. It was a slow process; he had been out of town for over a month, and everyone seemed to have something to say to him, none of it remotely of interest.
“Best of luck with it,” he murmured to Lord Trevelstam, who was trying to interest him in a horse he could not afford. “I am sure you will have no difficulty—”
His voice left him.
He could not speak.
He could not think.