The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (Smythe-Smith Quartet #4)(8)

Daisy sniffed and turned away.

Iris closed her eyes. Maybe she could take a nap. She hadn’t slept very well the night before. She never did, the night after the musicale. She always told herself she would, now that she had another whole year before she had to start dreading it again.

But sleep was not her friend, not when she couldn’t stop her brain from replaying every last moment, every botched note. The looks of derision, of pity, of shock and surprise . . . She supposed she could almost forgive her cousin Sarah for feigning illness the year before to avoid playing. She understood. Heaven help her, no one understood better than she.

And then Sir Richard Kenworthy had demanded an audience. What had that been about? Iris was not so foolish to think that he was interested in her. She was no diamond of the first water. She fully expected to marry one day, but when it happened, it wasn’t going to be because some gentleman took one look at her and fell under her spell.

She had no spells. According to Daisy, she didn’t even have eyelashes.

No, when Iris married, it would be a sensible proposition. An ordinary gentleman would find her agreeable and decide that the granddaughter of an earl was an advantageous thing to have in the family, even with her modest dowry.

And she did have eyelashes, she thought grumpily. They were just very pale.

She needed to find out more about Sir Richard. But more importantly, she needed to figure out how to do that without attracting attention. It wouldn’t do to be seen as chasing after him. Especially when—

“Callers, ma’am,” their butler announced.

Iris sat up. Time for good posture, she thought with false brightness. Shoulders up, back straight . . .

“Mr. Winston Bevelstoke,” the butler intoned.

Daisy straightened and preened, but not before tossing an I-told-you-so glance at Iris.

“And Sir Richard Kenworthy.”





Chapter Three


“YOU KNOW,” WINSTON said to him as they paused at the bottom of the steps to the Smythe-Smith home, “it will not do to raise the girl’s hopes.”

“And here I thought it was an accepted custom to pay a call upon a young lady,” Richard said.

“It is. But these are the Smythe-Smiths.”

Richard had started to climb the stairs, but at this he halted. “Is there something exceptional about this family?” he inquired in a mild tone. “Other than their unique musical talents?” He needed to marry quickly, but he also needed gossip—and—God forbid, scandal—to be kept to a minimum. If the Smythe-Smiths had dark secrets, he had to know.

“No,” Winston said with a distracted shake of his head. “Not at all. It’s just . . . Well, I suppose one would say . . .”

Richard waited. Eventually Winston would spit it out.

“This particular branch of the Smythe-Smith family is somewhat . . .” Winston sighed, unable to finish the sentence. He really was a good sort, Richard thought with a smile. He might stuff his ears with cotton and drink from a flask during a concert, but he could not bring himself to speak ill of a lady, even if his only insult was that she was unpopular.

“If you court one of the Misses Smythe-Smith,” Winston finally said, “people will be curious why.”

“Because I’m such a catch,” Richard said in a dry voice.

“Aren’t you?”

“No,” Richard said. It was just like Winston to be oblivious to such a thing. “I’m not.”

“Come now, things can’t be as bad as that.”

“I’ve only just managed to save Maycliffe’s lands from my father’s neglect and mismanagement, there is an entire wing of the house that is presently uninhabitable, and I have two sisters of whom I am the sole guardian.” Richard gave him a bland smile. “No, I would not say I’m a splendid catch.”

“Richard, you know I—” Winston frowned. “Why is Maycliffe uninhabitable?”

Richard shook his head and went up the steps.

“No, really, I’m curious. I—”

But Richard had already brought down the knocker. “Flood,” he said. “Vermin. Probably a ghost.”

“If you’re that hard up,” Winston said quickly, eyeing the door, “you’re going to need a bigger dowry than you’ll find here.”

“Perhaps,” Richard murmured. But he had other reasons to seek out Iris Smythe-Smith. She was intelligent; he had not needed long in her company to assure himself of that. And she valued family. She must. Why else would she have participated in that wretched musicale?

But could she value his family as well as she did her own? She would need to, if he married her.

The door was swung open by a somewhat portly butler who took his and Winston’s cards with a stiff bow. A moment later they were ushered into a small but elegant drawing room, decorated in shades of cream, gold, and green. Richard immediately noticed Iris on the sofa, quietly watching him through her lashes. On another woman the expression might have been flirtatious, but on Iris it was more watchful. Assessing.

She was taking his measure. Richard wasn’t certain how he felt about that. He ought to be amused.

“Mr. Winston Bevelstoke,” the butler announced, “and Sir Richard Kenworthy.”

The ladies rose to greet them, and they gave their attention first to Mrs. Smythe-Smith, as was proper.