The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (Smythe-Smith Quartet #4)(7)

Daisy’s eyes narrowed. “She’s being sarcastic again, Mama.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Iris,” Maria Smythe-Smith said, never taking her eyes from her embroidery.

Iris scowled at her mother’s rote scolding.

“Who was that gentleman with Mr. Bevelstoke last night?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith asked. “The one with the dark hair.”

“He was talking to Iris,” Daisy said, “after the performance.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith fixed a shrewd stare upon Iris. “I know.”

“His name is Sir Richard Kenworthy,” Iris said.

Her mother’s brows rose.

“I’m sure he was being polite,” Iris said.

“He was being polite for a very long time,” Daisy giggled.

Iris looked at her in disbelief. “We spoke for five minutes. If that.”

“It’s more time than most gentleman talk to you.”

“Daisy, don’t be unkind,” their mother said, “but I must agree. I do think it was more than five minutes.”

“It wasn’t,” Iris muttered.

Her mother did not hear her. Or more likely, chose to ignore. “We shall have to find out more about him.”

Iris’s mouth opened into an indignant oval. Five minutes she’d spent in Sir Richard’s company, and her mother was already plotting the poor man’s demise.

“You’re not getting any younger,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said.

Daisy smirked.

“Fine,” Iris said. “I shall attempt to capture his interest for a full quarter of an hour next time. That ought to be enough to send for a special license.”

“Oh, do you think so?” Daisy asked. “That would be so romantic.”

Iris could only stare. Now Daisy missed the sarcasm?

“Anyone can be married in a church,” Daisy said. “But a special license is special.”

“Hence the name,” Iris muttered.

“They cost a terrific amount of money,” Daisy continued, “and they don’t give them out to just anybody.”

“Your sisters were all properly married in church,” their mother said, “and so shall you be.”

That put an end to the conversation for at least five seconds. Which was about how long Daisy could manage to sit in silence. “What are you reading?” she asked, craning her neck toward Iris.

“Pride and Prejudice,” Iris replied. She didn’t look up, but she did mark her spot with her finger. Just in case.

“Haven’t you read that before?”

“It’s a good book.”

“How can a book be good enough to read twice?”

Iris shrugged, which a less obtuse person would have interpreted as a signal that she did not wish to continue the conversation.

But not Daisy. “I’ve read it, too, you know,” she said.

“Have you?”

“Quite honestly, I didn’t think it was very good.”

At that, Iris finally raised her eyes. “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s very unrealistic,” Daisy opined. “Am I really expected to believe that Miss Elizabeth would refuse Mr. Darcy’s proposal of marriage?”

“Who is Miss Elizabeth?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith asked, her attention finally wrenched from her embroidery. She looked from daughter to daughter. “And for that matter, who is Mr. Darcy?”

“It was patently clear that she would never get a better offer than Mr. Darcy,” Daisy continued.

“That’s what Mr. Collins said when he proposed to her,” Iris shot back. “And then Mr. Darcy asked her.”

“Who is Mr. Collins?”

“They are fictional characters, Mama,” Iris said.

“Very foolish ones, if you ask me,” Daisy said haughtily. “Mr. Darcy is very rich. And Miss Elizabeth has no dowry to speak of. That he condescended to propose to her—”

“He loved her!”

“Of course he did,” Daisy said peevishly. “There can be no other reason he would ask her to marry him. And then for her to refuse!”

“She had her reasons.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “She’s just lucky he asked her again. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”

“I think I ought to read this book,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said.

“Here,” Iris said, feeling suddenly dejected. She held the book out toward her mother. “You can read my copy.”

“But you’re in the middle.”

“I’ve read it before.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith took the book, flipped to the first page and read the first sentence, which Iris knew by heart.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.



“Well, that’s certainly true,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said to herself.

Iris sighed, wondering how she might occupy herself now. She supposed she could fetch another book, but she was too comfortable slouched on the sofa to consider getting up. She sighed.

“What?” Daisy demanded.

“Nothing.”

“You sighed.”

Iris fought the urge to groan. “Not every sigh has to do with you.”