The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (7 page)

She did not believe his intentions were less than honorable; she liked to think herself a good judge of character, and whatever his aims, her ruination was not one of them. But nor could she believe that he had been struck by a grand passion. If she were the sort of female who inspired men to fall in love at first sight, surely someone else would have done so by now.

But there could be no harm in seeing him again. He had asked her mother for permission to call upon her, and he had treated her with every courtesy. It was all very proper, and very flattering, and if she'd gone to sleep that night with a picture of him in her mind, surely there was nothing uncommon in that. He was a handsome man.

“Are you certain he does not plan to bring Mr. Bevelstoke with him?” her mother asked.

“Quite. And I shall be honest, I do not think Mr. Bevelstoke has any interest in Daisy.”

“No, I suppose not. She's far too young for him. Very well, you may take Nettie. She did the same for your sisters on several occasions so she'll know what to do.”

“Oh, thank you, Mama! Thank you so much!” Surprising even herself, Iris threw her arms around her mother and hugged her. It lasted but a second before they both stiffened and stepped back; theirs had never been a demonstrative relationship.

“I'm sure this will all amount to nothing,” Iris said, because it would not do to get her hopes up anywhere but in her own mind. “But it will
certainly
go nowhere with Daisy in attendance.”

“I do wish we knew a little more about him,” her mother said with a frown. “He hasn't been to town for several years now.”

“Were you acquainted with him when Marigold was out?” Iris asked. “Or Rose or Lavender?”

“I believe he was in town when Rose made her debut,” her mother said, referring to Iris's eldest sister, “but we did not move in the same circles.”

Iris wasn't sure what to make of that.

“He was young,” her mother said with a flip of her hand. “Matrimony was not on his mind.”

In other words, Iris thought wryly, he'd been a bit wild.

“I did speak to your aunt about him, though,” her mother continued, not bothering to clarify which aunt. Iris supposed it didn't really matter; they all tended to be equally good sources of gossip. “She said that he came into the baronetcy some years ago.”

Iris nodded. She knew as much.

“His father lived beyond his means.” Mrs. Smythe-Smith's mouth pinched disapprovingly.

Which likely made Sir Richard a fortune hunter.

“But,” Iris's mother mused, “that does not seem to be the case with the son.”

A well-principled fortune hunter, then. He had not accrued his own debts; he'd merely had the misfortune of inheriting them.

“He is clearly looking for a wife,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith continued. “There is no other reason a gentleman of his age would return to town after an absence of several years.”

“He has the guardianship of his two younger sisters,” Iris told her. “Perhaps he is finding it difficult without a female influence in the house.” As she said it, though, she could only think that the future Lady Kenworthy would be thrust into quite a challenging position. Hadn't he said that one of his younger sisters was already eighteen? Old enough so that she would likely not appreciate guidance from her brother's new wife.

“A sensible man,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith mused. “It does him credit that he can recognize when he requires help. Although one can only wonder why he did not do so years earlier.”

Iris nodded.

“We can only speculate upon the condition of his estate if his father was as much a spendthrift as rumored. I do hope he does not think you have a grand dowry.”

“Mama,” Iris said with a sigh. She didn't want to talk about this. Not now, at least.

“He wouldn't be the first to make that error,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said blithely. “With all of our connections to the aristocracy—close connections, mind you—people do seem to think we have more than we do.”

Wisely, Iris held her tongue. When her mother was pontificating on a topic of social importance, it was best not to interrupt.

“We ran into this with Rose, you know. Somehow it got about that she had fifteen thousand. Can you imagine?”

Iris could not.

“Perhaps if we'd had but one daughter,” her mother said. “But with five!” She let out a little laugh, the sort that sounded of disbelief and wishful thinking. “We shall be lucky if your brother inherits anything by the time we get all of you married off.”

“I'm sure John will be very comfortable,” Iris said. Her only brother was three years younger than Daisy and still away at school.

“If he's lucky,
he
shall find a girl with fifteen thousand,” her mother said with a caustic laugh. She stood abruptly. “Well. We can sit here all morning speculating over Sir Richard's motives or we can get on with the day.” She glanced at the clock on her vanity. “I don't suppose he mentioned when he might arrive?”

Iris shook her head.

“You should make sure you're ready, then. It will not do to keep him waiting. I know that some women think it best not to appear eager, but you know that I think it's rude.”

A knock at the door forestalled Iris's exit, and they both looked up to see a housemaid in the doorway. “Begging your pardon, milady,” she said. “But Lady Sarah is in the drawing room.”

“Ah, well, that's a pleasant surprise,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said. “I'm sure she's here to see you, Iris. Run along.”

Iris headed downstairs to greet her cousin, Lady Sarah Prentice, née Lady Sarah Pleinsworth. Sarah's mother and Iris's father were siblings, and as they were reasonably close in age, so were their children.

Sarah and Iris were but six months apart and had always been friendly, but they had grown closer since Sarah's marriage to Lord Hugh Prentice the previous year. They had another cousin who was also their age, but Honoria spent most of her time with her husband in Cambridgeshire, whereas both Sarah and Iris lived in London.

When Iris reached the drawing room, Sarah was sitting on the green sofa, leafing through
Pride and Prejudice
, which Iris's mother had obviously left there the day before.

“Have you read this?” Sarah asked without preamble.

“Several times. It's lovely to see you, too.”

Sarah pulled a face. “We all must have someone with whom we need not stand on ceremony.”

“I tease,” Iris said.

Sarah glanced at the door. “Is Daisy about?”

“I'm sure she's making herself scarce. She still hasn't forgiven you for threatening to run her through with her own violin bow before the musicale.”

“Oh, that wasn't a threat. It was an honest attempt. That girl is lucky she has good reflexes.”

Iris laughed. “To what do I owe this visit? Or are you simply starved for my sparkling company?”

Sarah leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming. “I think you know why I'm here.”

Iris knew exactly what she meant, but nonetheless, she leaned forward, meeting her cousin's gaze dead-on. “Illuminate me.”

“Sir Richard Kenworthy?”

“What about him?”

“I saw him chase after you at the musicale.”

“He did not chase after me.”

“Oh, yes, he did. It was all my mother could talk about afterward.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

Sarah shrugged. “I'm afraid you're in a very sticky spot, dear cousin. With me married and none of my sisters old enough to be out, my mother has determined to fix all of her energies on you.”

“Dear heavens,” Iris remarked, with no sarcasm whatsoever. Her aunt Charlotte took her duties as a matchmaking mother very seriously.

“Not to mention . . .” Sarah went on, her words laced with great drama. “
What
happened at the Mottram ball? I did not attend, but clearly I should have done.”

“Nothing happened.” Iris fixed her best
what-nonsense!
expression upon her face. “If you refer to Sir Richard, I simply danced with him.”

“According to Marigold—”

“When did you speak with Marigold?”

Sarah flicked a hand in the air. “It doesn't matter.”

“But Marigold wasn't even there last night!”

“She heard it from Susan.”

Iris sat back. “Good Lord, we have too many cousins.”

“I know. Really. But back to the matter at hand. Marigold said that Susan said that you were practically the belle of the ball.”

“That is an exaggeration beyond compare.”

Sarah jabbed her index finger toward Iris with the speed of a practiced interrogator. “Do you deny that you danced every dance?”

“I do deny it.” She had sat out quite a few before Sir Richard had arrived.

Sarah paused, blinked, then frowned. “It's not like Marigold to get her gossip wrong.”

“I danced more than I usually do,” Iris allowed, “but certainly not every dance.”

“Hmmm.”

Iris eyed her cousin with considerable suspicion. It never boded well when Sarah looked to be in deep thought.

“I think I know what happened,” Sarah said.

“Pray, enlighten me.”

“You danced with Sir Richard,” Sarah went on, “and then you spent an hour with him in private conversation.”

“It wasn't an hour, and how do you
know
this?”

“I know things,” Sarah said flippantly. “It's best not to inquire how. Or why.”

“How does Hugh live with you?” Iris asked to the room at large.

“He does very well, thank you.” Sarah grinned. “But back to last night. However much time you spent in the company of the exceedingly handsome Sir Richard—no, don't interrupt, I saw him myself at the musicale, he's quite pleasing to the eye—it left you feeling . . .”

She stopped then, and did that odd thing with her mouth she did whenever she was trying to think of something. She sort of moved her lower jaw to one side so that her teeth no longer lined up, and her lips did a funny little twist. Iris had always found it disconcerting.

Sarah frowned. “It left you feeling . . .”

“Feeling what?” Iris finally asked.

“I'm trying to think of the right word.”

Iris stood. “I'll ring for tea.”

“Breathless!” Sarah finally exclaimed. “You felt breathless. And all aglow.”

Iris rolled her eyes as she gave the bellpull a stiff yank. “You need to find a hobby.”

“And when a woman
feels
all aglow, she
looks
all aglow,” Sarah continued.

“That sounds uncomfortable.”

“And when she looks—”

“All prickly skin and sweaty brows,” Iris plundered on. “Sounds a bit like a sun rash.”

“Will you stop being such a spoilsport?” Sarah huffed. “I declare, Iris, you are the least romantic person I know.”

Iris paused on her way back to the seating area, resting her hands on the back of the sofa. Was that true? She knew she was not sentimental, but she was not completely without feelings. She'd read
Pride and Prejudice
six times. That had to count for something.

But Sarah was oblivious to her distress. “As I was saying,” she went on, “when a woman feels beautiful, she has a way about her.”

It was on the tip of Iris's tongue to say, “I wouldn't know,” but she stopped herself.

She didn't want to be sarcastic. Not about this.

“And when that happens,” Sarah said, “men flock to her side. There is something about a confident woman. Something . . . I don't know . . .
je ne sais quoi
, as the French say.”

“I'm thinking of switching to German,” Iris heard herself say.

Sarah stared at her for a moment, her expression baffled, then carried on as if she had not even paused. “And that, my dear cousin,” she said with great flair, “is why every man in London wanted to dance with you last night.”

Iris came back around the sofa and sat down, folding her hands in her lap as she thought about what Sarah had said. She was not sure she believed it, but nor could she dismiss it without consideration.

“You're very quiet,” Sarah remarked. “I was certain you'd argue the point.”

“I don't know what to say,” Iris admitted.

Sarah eyed her with open curiosity. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly. Why do you ask?”

“You seem different.”

Iris gave a little shrug. “Perhaps it is my glow, as you termed it.”

“No,” Sarah said bluntly, “that's not it.”

“Well, that was a short-lived glow,” Iris quipped.

“
Now
you sound like yourself.”

Iris just smiled and shook her head. “How are
you
?” she asked, in a not-so-subtle attempt to change the subject.

“Very well,” Sarah said with a broad smile, and it was then that Iris noticed . . . something.

“You seem different, too,” she said, eyeing her more closely.

Sarah blushed.

Iris gasped. “Are you expecting?”

Sarah nodded. “How did you know?”

“When you tell a married woman she looks different, and she blushes . . .” Iris grinned. “It can be nothing else.”

“You really do notice everything, don't you?”

“Almost everything,” Iris said. “But you have not allowed me to congratulate you yet. This is wonderful news. Please do tell Lord Hugh that I wish him joy. How are you feeling? Have you been ill?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, that's fortunate. Rose threw up every morning for three months straight.”

Sarah winced in sympathy. “I feel splendid. Perhaps a little fatigued, but not terribly so.”

Iris smiled at her cousin. It seemed so strange that Sarah would soon be a mother. They had played as children together, moaned about the musicale together. And now Sarah had moved on to the next phase of her life.