The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (36 page)

Fleur's jaw jutted out. “It wasn't like that.”

“As I was not there, I will not argue with you.
However,
” Iris said pointedly when she saw Fleur open her mouth to argue, “you did lie with him, and now you're pregnant.”

“Do you think I don't know that?”

Iris decided to ignore this utterly superfluous question. “Let me ask you this,” she said instead. “If you are so concerned about your position,
why
are you fighting Richard about adopting the baby? Surely you see that it's the only way to protect your reputation.”

“Because it's
my
baby,” Fleur cried. “I can't just give it away.”

“It's not as if it would go to strangers,” Iris said as callously as she could manage. She had to push Fleur to the edge. She could think of no other way to make her see sense.

“Don't you see that that is almost worse?” Fleur's face fell into her hands, and she began to weep. “To have to smile when my child calls me his aunt Fleur? To have to pretend it doesn't kill me every time he calls you his mama?”

“Then marry Mr. Burnham,” Iris pleaded.

“I can't.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

Iris's foul language seemed to give Fleur a momentary jolt, and she blinked.

“Is it Marie-Claire?” Iris asked.

Fleur slowly raised her head, her eyes red and wet and so heartbreakingly bleak. She did not nod, but she did not need to. Iris had her answer.

Marie-Claire had said it all earlier that morning. If Fleur married her brother's tenant farmer, the local scandal would be stupendous. Fleur would no longer be welcome in any of the better homes in the area. All the families with whom she'd socialized would turn their heads and pretend not to see her when they crossed paths in the village.

“We British do not think warmly of those who dare to trade one social class for another,” Iris said with wry inflection, “whether the movement be up or down.”

“Indeed,” Fleur said, her smile small, wobbly, and humorless. She touched a tightly furled rosebud, her fingers sliding across the pale pink petals. She turned abruptly, regarding Iris with an expression that was disconcertingly devoid of emotion. “Did you know that there are over one hundred species of roses?”

Iris shook her head.

“My mother bred them. She taught me a great deal. These”—Fleur trailed her hand along the leaves of the climbing vines behind her—“are all centifolia roses. People like them because they have lots of petals.” She leaned forward and gave a sniff. “And they are quite fragrant.”

“Cabbage roses,” Iris murmured.

Fleur's brows rose in a small salute. “You do know about roses.”

“That is about the extent of it,” Iris admitted. She didn't know where Fleur was going with this line of conversation, but at least she had stopped crying.

Fleur was quiet for a moment, glancing at the blooms. Most were still buds, their petals packed into darker pinks than the ones that had begun to open. “Consider these,” she said. “These are all Bishop roses. Every last one. They all bloom to precisely the same shade of pink.” She glanced over at Iris. “My mother liked uniformity.”

“It's very beautiful,” Iris said.

“It is, isn't it?” Fleur took a few aimless steps, stopping to give a sniff. “But it's not the only way to grow a beautiful garden. I could choose five different sorts of centifolias. Or ten. I could have purples. Different shades of pink. There is no reason it has to be the same.”

Iris just nodded. It was fairly clear that Fleur was no longer talking about roses.

“I could plant a moss rose. Or a gallica. It would be unexpected here in a cultivated garden, but they would grow.”

“They might even thrive,” Iris said softly.

Fleur turned sharply to look at her. “They might,” she repeated. And then, with a tired sigh, she sank onto the small stone bench. “The roses aren't the problem. It's the people who look at them.”

“It usually is,” Iris said.

Fleur looked up, all traces of wistfulness banished from her eyes. “Right now my younger sister is Miss Kenworthy of Maycliffe, sister to Sir Richard Kenworthy, baronet. She might not attract much attention were she to go to London, but here in our corner of Yorkshire, she will be one of the most sought-after young ladies when she comes of age.”

Iris nodded.

Abruptly, Fleur stood. She turned away from Iris, hugging her arms to her body. “We have parties here, too, you know. And balls and assemblies. Marie-Claire will have the opportunity to meet dozens of eligible young gentlemen. And I hope she will fall in love with one.” She glanced just far enough over her shoulder for Iris to see her face in profile. “But if I marry John . . .”

“You have to marry John,” Iris said gently.

“If I marry John,” Fleur said, louder this time, as if she could forcibly contradict Iris with nothing but the tone of her voice, “Marie-Claire will be the sister of
that Kenworthy girl
, the one who married a peasant. She will not receive invitations, and she will have no opportunity to meet those eligible young gentlemen. If she marries, it will be to some fat old merchant who wants nothing but her name.”

“I daresay that several of those eligible gentlemen will also be fat and old,” Iris said, “and they will certainly want her for her name.”

Fleur turned sharply around, her eyes flashing. “But she wouldn't
have
to marry them. It's not the same. Don't you see? If I marry John—no, let's be honest, if I
choose
to marry John, Marie-Claire will have no choices at all. My freedom for my sister's—what kind of person would that make me?”

“But you don't have a choice,” Iris said. “At least not the one you think. You can either marry Mr. Burnham or let us pretend the baby is ours. If you steal away and pretend to be a widow, you will be found out. Do you really think no one will discover what you've done? And when they do, you will ruin Marie-Claire far more thoroughly than if you were Mrs. Burnham.”

Iris crossed her arms and waited for Fleur to consider this. In truth, she had probably been exaggerating. England was a big country, maybe not as big as France or Spain, but it took the better part of a week to travel from one end to the other. If Fleur settled in the south, she might be able to live her whole life as a fake widow without anyone near Maycliffe learning the truth.

But surely that couldn't be the best solution.

“I wish . . .” Fleur turned with a rueful smile. “I wish that . . .” She sighed. “Maybe if I were from your family, if my cousin were an earl and my other cousin had married one . . .”

It wouldn't make a difference, Iris thought. Not for a gently born lady wishing to marry a tenant farmer. Still, she said, “I will support you.”

Fleur looked up with a puzzled expression.

“Richard, too,” Iris said, praying that she was right to speak for him in this. “There will be a scandal, and there will be some who will no longer acknowledge you, but Richard and I will stand by you. You and Mr. Burnham will always be welcome in our home, and when we entertain, you will be our most honored guests.”

Fleur smiled at her gratefully. “That is very sweet of you,” she said, but the look on her face was gently condescending.

“You are my sister,” Iris said plainly.

Fleur's eyes grew bright, and she gave a little nod, the sort one made when one didn't trust one's voice. Finally, just when Iris was wondering if their conversation had come to a close, Fleur looked up with renewed clarity, and said, “I've never been to London.”

Iris blinked, confused by the sudden change of subject. “I beg your pardon?”

“I've never been to London,” Fleur repeated. “Did you know that?”

Iris shook her head. London was so crowded, so full of humanity. It seemed impossible that someone might never have stepped foot in its boundaries.

“I never really wanted to.” Fleur shrugged, looking over at Iris with a knowing expression. “I know you think I'm a thoughtless, frivolous girl, but I don't need silks and satins and invitations to the best sorts of parties. All I want is a warm home, and good food, and a husband who can provide all that. But Marie-Claire—”

“Can go to London!” Iris blurted, her head snapping up. “Good heavens, why didn't I think of it before?”

Fleur stared at her. “I don't understand.”

“We'll send Marie-Claire to my mother,” Iris said excitedly. “She can give her a season.”

“She would do that?”

Iris waved this away as the ridiculous question it was. By the time Marie-Claire was of a proper age, Daisy would be married and out of the house. Iris's mother would be bored beyond tears without a daughter to shepherd through the marriage mart.

Yes, Marie-Claire would do nicely.

“I would have to go down with her for part of the season,” Iris said, “but that's hardly a difficulty.”

“But surely people would gossip . . . Even in London . . . if I actually married John . . .” Fleur did not seem able to complete a sentence, but for the first time since Iris had met her, there was hope in her eyes.

“They'll know what we tell them,” Iris said firmly. “By the time my mother is done, your Mr. Burnham will be lauded as a minor but respectable landowner, just the sort of sober and serious young man a girl like you should marry.”

And maybe he
would
be a landowner by then. Iris rather thought that Mill Farm would make an excellent dowry. John Burnham would go from being a tenant farmer to a yeoman, and with the former Fleur Kenworthy as his bride, he would be well on his way to the status of gentleman.

There would be a scandal, there was no getting around that. But nothing so permanent as Fleur's giving birth to a bastard, and nothing that Marie-Claire could not weather two hundred miles away in London, with the full weight of Iris's family behind her.

“Go tell him,” Iris urged.

“Now?”

Iris almost laughed with happiness. “Is there any reason to wait?”

“Well, no, but—” Fleur looked at her with an almost desperate expression. “Are you sure?”

Iris reached out and squeezed her hands. “Go find him. Go tell him he is to be a father.”

“He will be angry,” Fleur whispered. “That I didn't tell him. He will be furious.”

“He has every right to be. But if he loves you, he will understand.”

“Yes,” Fleur said, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself. “Yes. Yes, I think he will.”

“Go,” Iris said, taking Fleur by the shoulders and pointing her toward the opening in the rose bower. “Go.”

Fleur started to leave, then turned around suddenly and threw her arms around Iris. Iris tried to return the embrace, but before she could so much as move, Fleur was racing away, skirts hitched and hair streaming, ready to embark upon her new life.

T
HERE WAS A
certain irony at play, Richard thought. Here he was, ready to declare himself, to transform his life, to throw himself at the mercy of his wife, and he couldn't bloody
find
her.

“Iris!” he bellowed. He'd skidded down across the western fields after one of the grooms had said he'd seen her heading in that direction, but the only sign of her was a half-eaten scone near the hedgerow, currently under vicious attack by a small murder of crows.

More irritated than discouraged, he tramped back up the hill to the house, which he tore through in record time, crashing through doors and scaring the dickens out of no fewer than three housemaids. Finally, he came across Marie-Claire, who was sulking in the main hall. He took one look at her pose—arms crossed tight, toe tapping with angry irritation—and he decided he wanted no knowledge of whatever had brought her to that point.

He did, however, need her assistance. “Where is my wife?” he demanded.

“I don't know.”

He let out a noise. It might have been a growl.

“I don't!” Marie-Claire protested. “I was with her earlier, but she ran away.”

Richard felt his heart contract. “
She ran away?
”

“She
tripped
me,” Marie-Claire said. With considerable affront.

Wait . . .
what?
Richard tried to make sense of this. “She tripped you?”

“She did! We were leaving the orangery, and she stuck out her foot and tripped me. I could have been seriously injured.”

“Were you?”

Marie-Claire scowled. And said most grudgingly, “No.”

“Where did she go?”

“Well, I don't exactly
know,
” Marie-Claire snipped, “as I was busy making sure I could still walk.”

Richard rubbed his brow. It really shouldn't be this difficult to find one slip of a girl. “Why were you at the orangery?” he asked.

“Looking for Fle—” Marie-Claire clamped her mouth shut, although Richard couldn't imagine why. Normally he'd be suspicious. Right now he simply didn't have the patience.

“What did she want with Fleur?”

Marie-Claire's mouth clamped firmly into a line.

Richard let out an impatient exhale. Really, he didn't have time for this nonsense. “Well, if you see her, tell her I'm looking for her.”

“Fleur?”

“
Iris
.”

“Oh.” Marie-Claire let out an affronted sniff. “Of course.”

Richard nodded curtly and strode out the front door.

“Wait!” Marie-Claire called out.

He didn't.

“Where are you going?”

He kept walking. “To the orangery.”

“But she's not there,” Marie-Claire's voice was a little breathless. He assumed she had to run to keep up with him.

“She's not in the hall,” he said with a shrug. “I might as well try the orangery.”