The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

Iris cleared her throat. “For the next six years, Ivory was unable to face a Wednesday afternoon without remembering the silent swish of the arrow as it swept by her face on its way to her father’s doomed heart.”

Richard muttered something under his breath. Iris could not make out the exact words, but she was fairly certain crapulence was among them.

“Each Wednesday was torture. To rise from her meager bed required energy she rarely possessed. Food was unpalatable, and sleep, when she found it, was her only escape.”

Richard snorted.

Iris looked up. “Yes?”

“Nothing.”

She turned back to the book.

“But really,” he said with indignance, “Wednesdays?”

She looked back up.

“The woman is afraid of Wednesdays?”

“Apparently.”

“Only Wednesdays.”

Iris shrugged.

“What happens on Thursdays?”

“I was about to say.”

Richard rolled his eyes at her impertinence and motioned for her to continue.

Iris gave him a deliberately patient stare, signaling her preparation for another interruption. He returned the expression with equal irony, and she turned back to the text.

“Thursdays brought hope and renewal, although one could not say that Ivory had reason to hope, nor could one say that her soul was renewed. Her life in Miss Winchell’s Home for Orphaned Children was tedious at best and wretched at worst.”

“Tedious might be the first apt word of the novel,” Richard scoffed.

Iris raised her brows. “Shall I stop?”

“Please. I do not think I can bear to go on.”

Iris bit back a smile, feeling just a little bit wicked for enjoying his distress.

“But I still want to know how the Hungarian archer dies,” Richard added.

“That will spoil the story for you,” Iris countered, adopting a prim expression.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Iris chuckled. She hadn’t meant to, but Richard had a way of saying things with a sly undertone that never failed to amuse her. “Very well. The archer was shot in the head.”

“That’s not terribly interesting.” At her look he added, “In a literary sense, of course.”

“The gun was fired by a dog.”

Richard’s face went slack.

“And we now have another silent gentleman,” Iris said with a superior smile.

“No, really,” Richard said. “I must protest.”

“To whom?”

That seemed to flummox him. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “But a protest must be lodged nonetheless.”

“I don’t think the dog meant to shoot him,” Iris demurred.

“You mean the author does not make the canine’s motivations clear?”

Iris assumed a scrupulously even expression. “Even she lacks such talent.”

This was met by a snort.

“I did tell you that this was not one of her better novels,” she reminded him.

Richard appeared to be incapable of response.

“I could read from one of her other books,” she said, not even attempting to disguise her amusement.

“Please, no.”

Iris laughed merrily.

“How is it possible,” Richard opined, “that she is one of the most popular authors of our time?”

“I find her stories quite diverting,” Iris admitted. It was true. They were not terribly well written, but there was something about them that was impossible to put down.

“A diversion from sanity, perhaps,” Richard scoffed. “How many novels has Miss Gorely written? Or is it Missus?”

“I have no idea,” Iris admitted. She looked at the front and back pages. “There is nothing here about her. Not even a sentence.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “That is to be expected. If you were to write a novel, I should not want you to use your real name.”

Iris looked up, startled by the brief flash of pain behind her eyes. “You would be ashamed of me?”

“Of course not,” he said sternly. “But I should not want your fame to intrude upon our private lives.”

“You think I would be famous?” she blurted out.

“Of course.” He regarded her dispassionately, as if the conclusion were so obvious as not to merit discussion.

Iris considered this, trying not to allow her entire body to suffuse with pleasure. She was fairly certain she was unsuccessful; already she could feel the skin on her cheeks growing warm. Her lower lip caught between her teeth; it was so strange, this bubble of joy, all because he’d thought that . . . that she was . . . well, clever.

And the mad thing was, she knew she was clever. She didn’t need him to say so for her to believe it.

She looked up with a shy smile. “You truly would not mind if I wrote a novel?”

“Do you want to write a novel?”

She thought about this. “Not really.”

He chuckled. “Why are we having this conversation?”

“I don’t know.” Iris smiled, first at him and then to herself. Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman still lay in her lap, so she held it up, and asked, “Do you wish for me to continue?”

“No!” he said forcefully, rising to his feet. He held out a hand. “Come. Let us go for a walk instead.”

Iris placed her hand in his, trying to ignore the shiver of pleasure that swept across her skin at his touch.

“How did the dog pull the trigger?” Richard asked. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”