But not very well, apparently. Or maybe Fleur was simply a spectacular liar. But that was neither here nor there. The truth was out. And Iris was about to get to the bottom of it.
Chapter Twenty-four
RICHARD HAD NOT slept. Or at least he thought he hadn’t. His eyes had closed once or twice during the night, but if he’d found any slumber, it had been fitful at best. He reckoned he must have dozed once dawn had broken; it was nearly half ten by the time he finally hauled himself from his bed and eleven before he was ready to head downstairs.
His valet had managed to wrestle his appearance into something approaching that of a gentleman, but one look in the mirror told Richard that he looked almost as bad as he felt, which was to say, tired.
Dejected.
And most of all, bleak.
The door to Iris’s bedroom was open as he walked past, and he heard the maids moving about inside, indicating that she had already risen. But when he reached the breakfast room, his wife was nowhere in sight.
Neither was breakfast, but this was less of a disappointment.
He tapped his hand against the sideboard, wondering what he should do next. The accounts, he supposed. His stomach was rumbling, but he could last until the midday meal. He didn’t really feel like eating, anyway.
“There you are, lad!”
He glanced over at the door that led to the kitchens. “Mrs. Hopkins. Good morning.” He smiled. She only called him lad when they were alone. He liked it. It reminded him of his childhood.
She gave him a vaguely scolding look. “Morning? Barely. I’ve not known you to lie abed so late in years.”
“Trouble sleeping,” he admitted, ruffling his hand through his hair.
She nodded knowingly. “Your wife, too.”
Richard’s heart leapt at the mention of her, but he forced himself not to react visibly. “You’ve seen Lady Kenworthy this morning?”
“Briefly. She went out with your sister.”
“Fleur?” This he found difficult to believe.
Mrs. Hopkins shook her head. “Marie-Claire. I got the impression that Lady Kenworthy had not perhaps intended to be up and about so early.”
Early? Iris?
“Not early to me, mind you,” Mrs. Hopkins went on. “It was gone past ten before I saw her. She did miss breakfast.”
“She didn’t take a tray in her room?”
Mrs. Hopkins clucked disapprovingly. “Marie-Claire was rushing her out the door. I made sure to give her something to eat on the walk, though.”
“Thank you.” Richard wondered if he ought to make a comment about a woman in Iris’s “condition” needing to eat properly. It seemed the sort of thing a caring husband might do.
But instead he heard himself saying, “Did they mention where they might be going?”
“Just for a walk, I think. It does my heart good to see them acting like sisters.” The housekeeper leaned in, her smile warm and maternal. “I do like your lady, sir.”
“I like her, too,” Richard murmured. He thought about the evening they had met. He had not originally been planning to attend her family’s musicale; he had not even been invited. It was only when Winston Bevelstoke had described the event to him that he’d thought it might be a good opportunity to look for a bride.
Iris Smythe-Smith was surely the happiest accident of his life.
When he had kissed her the night before, he had been consumed with the most exquisite sense of longing. It wasn’t merely desire, although that had certainly been present in abundance. He had been nearly overcome with the need to feel the warmth of her body, to breathe the same air.
He wanted to be near her. He wanted to be with her, in every sense of the word.
He loved her. He loved Iris Kenworthy with every last drop of his soul, and he might well have destroyed their only chance at lasting happiness.
He had been so sure that he was doing the right thing. He had been trying to protect his sister. He had been willing to sacrifice his very birthright to save Fleur’s reputation.
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 cr
ied 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.”
“Fleur—”
“I can go somewhere else.” As if to indicate direction, Fleur flung her arm out in a wide, hysterical circle. She did not notice when Iris was forced to hop back to avoid the tip of the shears. “I can pretend to be a widow. Why won’t Richard let me do that? No one will know. Why would anyone know?”
Iris ducked as the clippers swung toward her once again. “Put down the damned shears!”
Fleur sucked in a breath, staring at the shears with horror. “I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I’m so—I—I—” With shaking hands she set the shears down on the bench. Her movements were slow and careful, as if she were measuring them out in her head. “I’m going to go away,” she with quiet hysteria. “I shall become a widow. It will be best for everyone.”
“For the love of—” Iris cut herself off, trying to control her temper. She took a breath, and then another, letting the air out in a slow tight stream. “You are not making sense,” she said. “You know as well as anyone that if you wish to be a true mother to this child, you ought to be married.”
Fleur hugged her arms to her body, looking away, through the bower’s opening toward the distant horizon.
Iris finally voiced the question that had to be asked. “Does he even know?”
Fleur grew so stiff she trembled. With the tiniest of motions, she shook her head.
“Don’t you think you should tell him?”
“It would break his heart,” Fleur whispered.
“Because . . . ?” Iris prompted. And if she sounded derisive, well, she hadn’t much patience when she’d entered this conversation. Now it was bloody well gone.
“Because he loves me,” Fleur said simply.
Iris closed her eyes, summoning patience and an even demeanor as she asked, “Do you love him?”
“Of course I do!” Fleur cried. “What sort of woman do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” Iris said plainly. And when Fleur drew back with an affronted glare, she added, somewhat irritably, “Do you know what sort of woman I am?”
Fleur stood stiff as a board, then finally dipped her chin with a curt, “Fair enough.”
“If you love Mr. Burnham,” Iris said with patience that was more forced than felt, “surely you see that you must tell him about the baby so that he may marry you. I realize that he is not what your family hoped for you—”
“He is a good man!” Fleur interrupted. “I won’t have you denigrating him.”
Lord help me, Iris thought. How could she talk sense when Fleur’s every sentence contradicted the last?
“I would not dream of speaking ill of Mr. Burnham,” Iris said carefully. “I was saying only that—”
“He is a wonderful man.” Fleur crossed her arms belligerently, and Iris wondered if she’d even noticed that no one was arguing with her. “Honorable and true.”
“Yes, of course—”
“Better than any of the so-called”—she sneered the last—“gentlemen I see at local assemblies.”
“Then you should marry him.”
“I can’t!”
Iris took a long, steadying breath through her nose. She was never going to be the sort of woman who cradled distraught friends and sisters in her arms and murmured, “There, there.”
She decided she was at ease with that.
Instead, she was the plainspoken, occasional termagant who yelled, “For the love of God, Fleur, what the devil is wrong with you?”
Fleur blinked. And stepped back. With real concern in her eyes.
Iris forcibly unclenched her teeth. “You already made one mistake. Don’t compound it with another.”
“But—”
“You say you love him, but you don’t respect him enough even to tell him he is to be a father.”
“That is not true!”
“I can only deduce that your refusal has to do with his social status,” Iris said.
Fleur gave a small, bitter nod.
“Well, if that’s the case,” Iris snapped, shaking a finger perilously close to Fleur’s nose, “you should bloody well have taken that into consideration before you gave him your virginity.”
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 speci
es 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 . . .”