The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

“No,” Winston said with a distracted shake of his head. “Not at all. It’s just . . . Well, I suppose one would say . . .”

Richard waited. Eventually Winston would spit it out.

“This particular branch of the Smythe-Smith family is somewhat . . .” Winston sighed, unable to finish the sentence. He really was a good sort, Richard thought with a smile. He might stuff his ears with cotton and drink from a flask during a concert, but he could not bring himself to speak ill of a lady, even if his only insult was that she was unpopular.

“If you court one of the Misses Smythe-Smith,” Winston finally said, “people will be curious why.”

“Because I’m such a catch,” Richard said in a dry voice.

“Aren’t you?”

“No,” Richard said. It was just like Winston to be oblivious to such a thing. “I’m not.”

“Come now, things can’t be as bad as that.”

“I’ve only just managed to save Maycliffe’s lands from my father’s neglect and mismanagement, there is an entire wing of the house that is presently uninhabitable, and I have two sisters of whom I am the sole guardian.” Richard gave him a bland smile. “No, I would not say I’m a splendid catch.”

“Richard, you know I—” Winston frowned. “Why is Maycliffe uninhabitable?”

Richard shook his head and went up the steps.

“No, really, I’m curious. I—”

But Richard had already brought down the knocker. “Flood,” he said. “Vermin. Probably a ghost.”

“If you’re that hard up,” Winston said quickly, eyeing the door, “you’re going to need a bigger dowry than you’ll find here.”

“Perhaps,” Richard murmured. But he had other reasons to seek out Iris Smythe-Smith. She was intelligent; he had not needed long in her company to assure himself of that. And she valued family. She must. Why else would she have participated in that wretched musicale?

But could she value his family as well as she did her own? She would need to, if he married her.

The door was swung open by a somewhat portly butler who took his and Winston’s cards with a stiff bow. A moment later they were ushered into a small but elegant drawing room, decorated in shades of cream, gold, and green. Richard immediately noticed Iris on the sofa, quietly watching him through her lashes. On another woman the expression might have been flirtatious, but on Iris it was more watchful. Assessing.

She was taking his measure. Richard wasn’t certain how he felt about that. He ought to be amused.

“Mr. Winston Bevelstoke,” the butler announced, “and Sir Richard Kenworthy.”

The ladies rose to greet them, and they gave their attention first to Mrs. Smythe-Smith, as was proper.

“Mr. Bevelstoke,” she said, smiling at Winston. “It has been an age. How is your dear sister?”

“Very well. She is nearing the end of her confinement, else she would have attended last night.” He motioned to Richard. “I do not believe you have been introduced to my good friend, Sir Richard Kenworthy. We were at Oxford together.”

She smiled politely. “Sir Richard.”

He bowed with his head. “Mrs. Smythe-Smith.”

“My two youngest daughters,” she said, motioning to the two ladies behind her.

“I had the honor of making Miss Smythe-Smith’s acquaintance last night,” Richard said, honoring Iris with a small bow.

“Yes, of course you did.” Mrs. Smythe-Smith smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and once again Richard had the distinct impression that he was being weighed and measured. Against what yardstick, however, he could not know. It was damned unsettling, and not for the first time he found himself thinking that Napoleon might have been defeated well before Waterloo if only they’d sent the London mamas out to take care of strategy.

“My youngest,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said, tilting her head toward Daisy, “Miss Daisy Smythe-Smith.”

“Miss Daisy,” Richard said politely, bowing over her hand. Winston did the same.

Once the necessary introductions were made, the two gentlemen took their seats.

“How did you enjoy the concert?” Miss Daisy asked.

She seemed to be directing her question to Winston, for which Richard was immeasurably grateful.

“Very much,” he said, after clearing his throat six times. “I can’t remember the last time I, er . . .”

“I imagine you have never heard Mozart played with such fervor,” Iris said, coming to his rescue.

Richard smiled. There was a cleverness to her that was quite appealing.

“No,” Winston said quickly, relief evident in his voice. “It was a singular experience.”

“And you, Sir Richard?” Iris asked. He met her eyes—a very, very light blue, he finally deduced—and to his surprise he saw a flash of impertinence. Was she baiting him?

“I find that I am most grateful that I decided to attend,” he replied.

“That’s no sort of an answer,” she said, her voice too low to be properly heard by her mother.

He quirked a brow. “It’s as much of one as you’re going to get.”

Her mouth opened as if to gasp, but in the end she just said, “Well met, Sir Richard.”

The conversation ambled through predictable topics—the weather, the King, and then the weather again—until Richard took advantage of the banality of their discussion by suggesting a walk in nearby Hyde Park.

“Because the weather is so fine,” he concluded.