The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (3 page)

“Of course,” he replied. Of course that would be what she'd say. She wasn't about to insult her family in front of a stranger.

An awkward silence descended upon the trio, and Miss Smythe-Smith made that polite smile again, with the clear intention of excusing herself.

“The violinist is your sister?” Richard asked, before she could speak.

Winston shot him a curious look.

“One of them, yes,” she replied. “The blond one.”

“Your younger sister?”

“By four years, yes,” she said, her voice sharpening. “This is her first season, although she did play in the quartet last year.”

“Speaking of that,” Winston put in, thankfully saving Richard from having to think up another exit-preventing question, “why was Lady Sarah seated at the pianoforte? I thought the quartet was for unmarried ladies only.”

“We lack a pianist,” she answered. “If Sarah had not stepped up, the concert would have been canceled.”

The obvious question hung in the air. Would that have been such a bad thing?

“It would have broken my mother's heart,” Miss Smythe-Smith said, and it was impossible to tell just what emotion colored her voice. “And those of my aunts.”

“How very kind of her to lend her talents,” Richard said.

And then Miss Smythe-Smith said the most astonishing thing. She muttered, “She owed us.”

Richard started. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling brightly . . . and falsely.

“No, I must insist,” Richard said, intrigued. “You cannot make such a statement and leave it unclarified.”

Her eyes flitted to the left. Maybe she was making sure her family could not hear. Or maybe she was simply trying not to roll her eyes completely. “It is nothing, really. She did not play last year. She withdrew on the day of the performance.”

“Was the concert canceled?” Winston asked, brow furrowed as he tried to recall.

“No. Her sisters' governess stepped in.”

“Oh, right,” Winston said with a nod. “I remember. Jolly good of her. Remarkable, really, that she knew the piece.”

“Was your cousin ill?” Richard inquired.

Miss Smythe-Smith opened her mouth to speak, and then at the last moment changed her mind about what she was going to say. Richard was sure of it.

“Yes,” she said simply. “She was quite ill. Now if you will excuse me, I'm afraid there is a matter I must attend to.”

She curtsied, they bowed, and she departed.

“What was that about?” Winston asked immediately.

“What?” Richard countered, feigning ignorance.

“You practically threw yourself in front of the door to prevent her from leaving.”

Richard shrugged. “I found her interesting.”

“Her?” Winston looked toward the door through which Miss Smythe-Smith had just exited. “Why?”

“I don't know,” Richard lied.

Winston turned to Richard, then back to the door, and then back to Richard again. “I must say, she's not your usual type.”

“No,” Richard said, even though he'd never thought of his preferences in those terms. “No, she's not.”

But then again, he'd never needed to find himself a wife. In two weeks, no less.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
found Iris trapped in the drawing room with her mother and Daisy, waiting for the inevitable trickle of callers. They
had
to be at home for visitors, her mother insisted. People would want to congratulate them on their performance.

Her married sisters would stop by, Iris imagined, and most likely a few other ladies. The same ones who attended each year out of kindness. The rest would avoid the Smythe-Smith home—any of the Smythe-Smith homes—like the proverbial plague. The last thing anyone wanted to do was make polite conversation about an aural disaster.

It was rather as if the Dover cliffs crumbled into the sea, and everyone sat about drinking tea, saying, “Oh yes, ripping good show. Too bad about the vicar's house, though.”

But it was early still, and they had not yet been graced by a visitor. Iris had brought down something to read, but Daisy was still aglow with delight and triumph.

“I thought we were splendid,” she announced.

Iris lifted her eyes from her book just long enough to say, “We weren't splendid.”

“Perhaps
you
weren't, hiding behind your cello, but I have never felt so alive and in tune with the music.”

Iris bit her lip. There were so very many ways she could respond. It was as if her younger sister was
begging
her to use every sarcastic word in her arsenal. But she held her tongue. The concert always left her feeling irritable, and no matter how annoying Daisy was—and she was, oh, she was—it wasn't her fault that Iris was in such a bad mood. Well, not entirely.

“There were so many handsome gentlemen at the performance last night,” Daisy said. “Did you see, Mama?”

Iris rolled her eyes. Of course their mother had seen. It was her job to notice every eligible gentleman in the room. No, it was more than that. It was her vocation.

“Mr. St. Clair was there,” Daisy said. “He's so very dashing with his queue.”

“He'll never look twice at you,” Iris said.

“Don't be unkind, Iris,” their mother scolded. But then she turned to Daisy. “But she's right. And nor would we wish him to. He's far too rakish for a proper young lady.”

“He was talking with Hyacinth Bridgerton,” Daisy pointed out.

Iris swung her glance over to her mother, eager—and, truth be told, amused—to see how she'd respond to that. Families didn't get more popular or respectable than the Bridgertons, even if Hyacinth—the youngest—was known as something of a terror.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith did what she always did when she did not wish to reply. Her brows rose, her chin dipped, and she gave a disdainful sniff.

Conversation over. At least that particular thread.

“Winston Bevelstoke isn't a rake,” Daisy said, tacking a bit to the right. “He was seated near the front.”

Iris snorted.

“He's gorgeous!”

“I never said that he wasn't,” Iris replied. “But he must be nearly thirty. And he was in the fifth row.”

That seemed to mystify their mother. “The fifth—”

“It's certainly not the front,” Iris cut in. Blast it all, she hated when people got the little details wrong.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Daisy said. “It doesn't matter where he was sitting. All that matters is that he was
there
.”

This was correct, but still, so clearly not the salient point. “Winston Bevelstoke would never be interested in a girl of seventeen,” Iris said.

“Why wouldn't he be?” Daisy demanded. “I think you're jealous.”

Iris rolled her eyes. “That is so far from the truth I can't even begin to say.”

“He was watching me,” Daisy insisted. “That he is as yet unmarried speaks to his selectiveness. Perhaps he has simply been waiting for the perfect young lady to come along.”

Iris took a breath, quelling the retort tickling at her lips. “If you marry Winston Bevelstoke,” she said calmly, “I shall be the first to congratulate you.”

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.

“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.”

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 . . .