Iris closed her eyes. Maybe she could take a nap. She hadn’t slept very well the night before. She never did, the night after the musicale. She always told herself she would, now that she had another whole year before she had to start dreading it again.

But sleep was not her friend, not when she couldn’t stop her brain from replaying every last moment, every botched note. The looks of derision, of pity, of shock and surprise . . . She supposed she could almost forgive her cousin Sarah for feigning illness the year before to avoid playing. She understood. Heaven help her, no one understood better than she.

And then Sir Richard Kenworthy had demanded an audience. What had that been about? Iris was not so foolish to think that he was interested in her. She was no diamond of the first water. She fully expected to marry one day, but when it happened, it wasn’t going to be because some gentleman took one look at her and fell under her spell.

She had no spells. According to Daisy, she didn’t even have eyelashes.

No, when Iris married, it would be a sensible proposition. An ordinary gentleman would find her agreeable and decide that the granddaughter of an earl was an advantageous thing to have in the family, even with her modest dowry.

And she did have eyelashes, she thought grumpily. They were just very pale.

She needed to find out more about Sir Richard. But more importantly, she needed to figure out how to do that without attracting attention. It wouldn’t do to be seen as chasing after him. Especially when—

“Callers, ma’am,” their butler announced.

Iris sat up. Time for good posture, she thought with false brightness. Shoulders up, back straight . . .

“Mr. Winston Bevelstoke,” the butler intoned.

Daisy straightened and preened, but not before tossing an I-told-you-so glance at Iris.

“And Sir Richard Kenworthy.”

Chapter Three

“YOU KNOW,” WINSTON said to him as they paused at the bottom of the steps to the Smythe-Smith home, “it will not do to raise the girl’s hopes.”

“And here I thought it was an accepted custom to pay a call upon a young lady,” Richard said.

“It is. But these are the Smythe-Smiths.”

Richard had started to climb the stairs, but at this he halted. “Is there something exceptional about this family?” he inquired in a mild tone. “Other than their unique musical talents?” He needed to marry quickly, but he also needed gossip—and—God forbid, scandal—to be kept to a minimum. If the Smythe-Smiths had dark secrets, he had to know.

“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.