The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

But this wasn’t the right time to press for more information. The carriage was coming to a stop, and sure enough, all of Maycliffe was lined up in the front drive to greet them. It did look to be more than the thirteen servants Richard had mentioned; perhaps he’d meant only those serving in the house itself. From what Iris could see there were gardeners among the group, stable-hands, too. She had never been greeted by such a complete collection of staff before; she supposed it was because she was not a guest, she was the new mistress of the estate. Why had no one warned her? She was nervous enough without feeling she had to make a good impression on the man who tended the roses.

Richard hopped down, then held a hand up for her. Iris took a deep breath and disembarked, regarding the assembled servants with what she hoped was a friendly yet confident smile.

“Mr. Cresswell,” Richard said, leading toward the tall man who could only be the butler, “may I present Lady Kenworthy, the new mistress of Maycliffe Park.”

Cresswell gave a stiffly proper bow. “We are delighted to have a woman’s presence again here at Maycliffe.”

“I am eager to learn about my new home,” Iris said, using words she had practiced the night before. “I am sure I will rely upon you and Mrs. Hopkins a great deal during these first few months.”

“It will be our honor to assist you, my lady.”

Iris felt the terrifying knot within her begin to loosen. Cresswell sounded sincere, and surely the rest of the servants would follow his lead.

“Sir Richard tells me that you have been at Maycliffe for many years,” Iris continued. “He is most fortunate to . . .”

Her words trailed off as she glanced over at her husband. His normally genial expression had been replaced by one of near rage.

“Richard?” she heard herself whisper. Whatever could have happened to upset him so?

“Where,” he said to the butler, his voice as low and tightly wound as she had ever heard it, “are my sisters?”

RICHARD SEARCHED THE small crowd gathered in the drive, but really, what was the point? If his sisters were here, they would have been standing at the front, a burst of color against the black uniforms of the maids.

Damn it, they should have been out here to greet Iris. It was the worst sort of snub. Fleur and Marie-Claire might be used to having the run of the manor, but Iris was now the mistress of Maycliffe, and everyone—even those born with the surname Kenworthy—needed to get used to that.

Fast.

Furthermore, both of his sisters knew damn well how much Iris was giving up for their family. Even Iris didn’t know the full extent of it.

Any extent of it, really.

Something burned through Richard’s gut, and he really didn’t want to determine whether it was fury or guilt.

He hoped it was fury. Because there was guilt enough already, and he had a feeling it would soon turn to acid.

“Richard,” Iris said, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m sure there is a good reason for their absence.” But her smile was forced.

Richard turned to Cresswell, and snapped, “Why are they not down?” There was no excuse for this. The rest of the household had had time to exit and assemble. His sisters had four good legs between them. They could bloody well have descended the stairs to meet their new sister.

“Miss Kenworthy and Miss Marie-Claire are not at Maycliffe, sir. They’re with Mrs. Milton.”

They were with his aunt? “What? Why?”

“She arrived yesterday to collect them.”

“To collect them,” Richard repeated.

The butler’s expression remained impassive. “Mrs. Milton declared herself of the opinion that newlyweds deserve a honeymoon.”

“If we were having a honeymoon, it wouldn’t be here,” Richard muttered. What, were they to take up rooms in the east of the house and pretend they were at the seashore? The wind coming through would give a good approximation of Cornwall. Or the Arctic.

Cresswell cleared his throat. “I believe they are to return in two weeks’ time, sir.”

“Two weeks?” That would not do.

Iris’s hand on his arm gave a little squeeze. “Who is Mrs. Milton?”

“My aunt,” he said distractedly.

“She left you a letter,” Cresswell said.

Richard’s eyes snapped back to the butler’s face. “My aunt? Or Fleur?”

“Your aunt. I placed it atop your correspondence in your study.”

“Nothing from Fleur?”

“I am afraid not, sir.”

He was going to bloody well strangle her. “Nothing even to pass along?” he pressed the butler. “A verbal message?”

“Not that I am aware.”

Richard took a breath, trying to regain his equilibrium. This was not how he had anticipated their homecoming. He’d thought—Well, in truth he hadn’t really thought of much, except that his sisters would be here, and he would be able to begin the next phase of his plan.

As horrifying as that was.

“Sir Richard,” came Iris’s voice.

He turned, blinking. She’d called him sir again, something he was coming to detest. It was a gesture of respect, and if he’d done anything to earn that, it would be lost soon.

She tilted her head awkwardly toward the servants, who were still standing stiffly at attention. “Perhaps we should continue with the introductions?”

“Yes, of course.” He managed a tightly false smile before turning toward his housekeeper. “Mrs. Hopkins, will you introduce Lady Kenworthy to the maids?”