The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

But now Fleur seemed hell-bent on her own destruction. He did not know how he could save a woman who did not want saving. He had to try, though. He was her brother, blood-sworn to protect her. But maybe there was another way.

There had to be another way.

He loved Iris far too much for there not to be another way.

IRIS HAD CROSSED the fields of Maycliffe in record time, but when she reached the orangery, Fleur was nowhere to be found. This was probably for the best. It took Iris the better part of an hour to rid herself of Marie-Claire, who had clearly not found the threat of a cricket bat sufficient deterrence to leave well enough alone.

When Iris finally did find Fleur, she was methodically pruning roses in the small briar at the southern edge of the estate. She had clearly dressed for the task; her brown dress was worn and serviceable, and her hair had been pinned back haphazardly, several pieces already falling around her shoulders. A blue plaid blanket lay folded on a stone bench, along with three not-quite-ripe oranges and a chunk of bread and cheese.

“You found my secret place,” Fleur said, glancing up only briefly as Iris entered. She examined the bramble with narrowed eyes and a critical expression before reaching in with a long-handled pair of shears. With a savage swish, the blades came together and snipped off a branch.

Iris could see how one might find this a most satisfying endeavor.

“My mother built this place,” Fleur said, using the shears to grasp the dead branch and pull it from the twisted mass of vines.

Iris looked around her. The roses had been trained to grow in a circle, creating a small, hidden space. They were not yet in full bloom; Iris could only imagine how lush and fragrant it would be in a few months. “It’s lovely,” she said. “Very peaceful.”

“I know,” Fleur said flatly. “I often come here to be alone.”

“How nice for you,” Iris said. She gave Fleur a bland smile as she stepped fully inside the bower.

Fleur looked over at her, her lips flattening into a tense line.

“We need to have a talk, you and I,” Iris said bluntly.

“Do we?” Snip snip. “On what topic?”

“The father of your baby.”

Fleur’s hands stilled, but she recovered quickly, reaching to take out a particularly nasty branch. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Iris didn’t say anything. She knew better than that.

Fleur didn’t turn around, but sure enough, barely ten seconds had passed before she repeated herself. “I said I don’t know what you mean.”

“I heard you.”

The snipping sounds sped up. “Then what did you—Ow!”

“Thorn?” Iris inquired.

“You might show a little sympathy,” Fleur growled, sucking her injured finger.

Iris snorted. “You’re barely bleeding.”

“It still hurts.”

“Really?” Iris regarded her dispassionately. “I’m told childbirth is a great deal more painful.”

Fleur glared at her.

“Not for me, of course,” Iris said lightly. “My first birth shall be painless. Not too difficult to pass a pillow, I imagine.”

Fleur froze. Slowly she took her injured finger from her mouth. When she spoke, her words were unswerving and fierce.

“I’m not giving you my baby.”

Iris met this with equal intensity, hissing, “Do you really think I want it?”

Fleur’s lips parted with surprise, although not, Iris imagined, at her words. Iris had already made it plain that she was a most reluctant participant in Richard’s scheme. But Iris’s tone . . . well, it could not have been described as kind. Quite honestly, she was not sure she could manage a kind voice for this particular conversation.

“You are a cold person,” Fleur accused.

Iris nearly rolled her eyes. “On the contrary, I would be a very warm and loving aunt.”

“We want the same thing,” Fleur cried out. “For me to keep the baby. Why are you arguing with me?”

“Why are you making this so difficult?” Iris shot back.

Fleur thrust her chin out defiantly, but she was starting to lose some of her bravado. Her eyes flicked to the side and then down, her gaze settling somewhere on the grass near her feet.

“I want the truth,” Iris demanded.

Fleur said nothing.

“The truth, Fleur.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Stop lying,” Iris snapped. “Marie-Claire told me everything.”

Fleur’s head jerked up, but she looked more wary than anything else. It was then that Iris remembered that Fleur did not know that Marie-Claire knew about Mr. Burnham. And Iris wasn’t going to get any answers without being more specific in her questions.

“Marie-Claire told me about the father of your baby,” Iris said. “She knows. And now I do, too.”

Fleur paled, but still she did not admit to anything. One almost had to admire her fortitude.

“Why didn’t you tell Richard that John Burnham is the father?” Iris demanded. “Why on earth would you want him to think it was a scoundrel like William Parnell?”

“Because William Parnell is dead!” Fleur burst out. Her skin flushed to an angry pink, but her eyes were hopeless, almost lost. “Richard can’t very well make me marry a dead man.”

“But Mr. Burnham is alive. And he is the father of your baby.”

Fleur was shaking her head, although not as if she were denying it. “It doesn’t matter,” she kept saying. “It doesn’t matter.”