“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.”

“Are you sure? It’s actually very clever.”

“Are you planning to teach our hounds?”

“We have hounds?”

“Of course.”

Iris wondered what else she didn’t know about her new home. Loads, probably. She tugged him to a halt in the middle of the hall, gazed up into his eyes, and solemnly said, “I promise not to teach any of our dogs how to fire a weapon.”

Richard hooted with laughter, prompting more than one servant to poke his head into the hall. “You are a treasure, Iris Kenworthy,” he said, guiding her once again toward the front door.

A treasure, Iris thought with a touch of angst. Really?

“Do you like your new name?” he inquired idly.

“It does roll off the tongue with a bit more ease than Smythe-Smith,” she allowed.

“I think it suits you,” he said.

“I should hope so,” she murmured. It was difficult to imagine a name more unwieldy than the one she’d been born with.