The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy
“There you are.”
He turned at the soft voice and saw Iris standing before him in a simply adorned gown of pale blue muslin. She wore that color frequently, he realized. It suited her.
“I’m sorry to have left you unattended,” she said. “My assistance was required backstage.”
“Backstage?” he echoed. “I thought this was meant to be a poetry reading.”
“Ah, that,” she said, her cheeks turning a rather guilty shade of pink. “There has been a change of plans.”
He tipped his head in question.
“Perhaps I should get you a program.”
“Yes, I don’t seem to have been given one when I arrived.”
She cleared her throat about six times. “I believe it was decided not to hand them out to the gentlemen unless requested.”
He considered that for a moment. “Dare I ask why?”
“I believe,” she said, glancing up at the ceiling, “there was some concern that you might not choose to remain.”
Richard looked in horror at the piano.
“Oh, no,” Iris quickly assured him. “There will be no music. At least not that I know of. It’s not a concert.”
Still, Richard’s eyes widened with panic. Where was Winston and his little balls of cotton when he needed him? “You’re frightening me, Miss Smythe-Smith.”
“Does that mean you don’t want a program?” she asked hopefully.
He leaned very slightly toward her. It wasn’t enough to breach the rules of propriety, but still, he knew she noticed. “I think it’s best to be prepared, don’t you?”
She swallowed. “Just a moment.”
He waited as she crossed the room and approached Lady Pleinsworth. A moment later she returned with a sheet of paper. “Here,” she said sheepishly, holding it out.
He took it and looked down. Then looked back up. “The Shepherdess, the Unicorn, and Henry VIII?”
“It’s a play. My cousin Harriet wrote it.”
“And we’re to watch,” he confirmed warily.
She nodded.
He cleared his throat. “Do you, ah, have any idea of the length of this production?”
“Not as long as the musicale,” she assured him. “At least I don’t think so. I have seen only the last few minutes of the dress rehearsal.”
“The piano is part of the set, I assume?”
She nodded. “It’s nothing compared to the costumes, I’m afraid.”
He could barely bring himself to ask.
“It was my job to affix the horn to the unicorn.”
He tried not to laugh, he really did. And he almost managed.
“I’m not sure how Frances is going to get it off,” Iris said with nervous expression. “I glued it to her head.”
“You glued a horn to your cousin’s head,” he repeated.
She winced. “I did.”
“Do you like this cousin?”
“Oh, very much. She’s eleven and really quite delightful. I’d trade Daisy for her in a heartbeat.”
Richard had a feeling she would trade Daisy for a badger if given the option.
“A horn,” he said again. “Well, I suppose one can’t be a unicorn without one.”
“That’s just the thing,” Iris said with renewed enthusiasm. “Frances loves it. She adores unicorns. She’s quite convinced they are real, and I think she would become one if she were so able.”
“It appears she has taken the first step toward that noble goal,” Richard said. “With your kind assistance.”
“Ah, that. I’m rather hoping no one tells Aunt Charlotte that I was the one to wield the glue.”
Richard had a feeling she was out of luck there. “Is there any chance it will remain a secret?”
“None whatsoever. But I shall cling to my false hope. With any luck, we shall have a terrible scandal tonight, and no one will notice that Frances has gone to bed with her horn still attached.”
Richard started to cough. And then kept coughing. Good Lord, was that dust in his throat or a boulder of guilt?
“Are you all right?” Iris asked, her face drawn with concern.
He nodded, unable to voice his answer. Dear God, a scandal. If she only knew.
“Shall I fetch you something to drink?”
He nodded again. He needed to pour liquid down his throat almost as much as he needed not to look at her for a moment.
She would be happy in the end, he told himself. He would be a good husband to her. She would want for nothing.
Except the choice in marrying him.
Richard groaned. He had not expected to feel so bloody guilty about what he was going to do.
“Here you are,” Iris said, holding out a crystal goblet. “A bit of sweet wine.”
Richard nodded his thanks and took a fortifying sip. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Iris made a sympathetic noise and motioned to the woodsy piano. “The air is probably dusty from all those twigs Harriet brought in. She was out collecting them in Hyde Park for hours yesterday.”
He nodded again, draining his glass before setting it down on a nearby table. “Will you sit with me?” he asked, realizing that while he had assumed she would, he owed her the politeness of an invitation.
“I would be delighted,” she said with a smile. “You shall probably need someone to translate, in any case.”
His eyes grew wide with alarm. “Translate?”
She laughed. “No, no, don’t worry, it’s in English. It’s only . . .” She laughed again, her smile wide in her face. “Harriet has her own singular style.”