Clap.
Clap clap clap.
Hyacinth nearly groaned. It was one of the Ladies Smythe-Smith, signaling that the concert was about to begin. She’d lost her moment of opportunity. There was no way she could depart politely now.
But at least she could take some solace in the fact that she wasn’t the only miserable soul. Just as the Misses Smythe-Smith lifted their bows to strike their instruments, she heard Mr. St. Clair let out a very quiet groan, followed by a heartfelt, “God help us all.”
Chapter 2
Thirty minutes later, and somewhere not too far away, a small dog is howling in agony. Unfortunately, no one can hear him over the din…
There was only one person in the world for whom Gareth would sit politely and listen to really bad music, and Grandmother Danbury happened to be it.
“Never again,” he whispered in her ear, as something that might have been Mozart assaulted his ears. This, after something that might have been Haydn, which had followed something that might have been Handel.
“You’re not sitting politely,” she whispered back.
“We could have sat in the back,” he grumbled.
“And missed all the fun?”
How anyone could term a Smythe-Smith musicale fun was beyond him, but his grandmother had what could only be termed a morbid love for the annual affair.
As usual, four Smythe-Smith girls were seated on a small dais, two with violins, one with a cello, and one at a pianoforte, and the noise they were making was so discordant as to be almost impressive.
Almost.
“It’s a good thing I love you,” he said over his shoulder.
“Ha,” came her reply, no less truculent for its whispered tone. “It’s a good thing I love you.”
And then-thank God-it was over, and the girls were nodding and making their curtsies, three of them looking quite pleased with themselves, and one-the one on the cello-looking as if she might like to hurl herself through a window.