“This particular branch of the Smythe-Smith family is somewhat . . .” Winston sighed, unable to finish the sentence. He really was a good sort, Richard thought with a smile. He might stuff his ears with cotton and drink from a flask during a concert, but he could not bring himself to speak ill of a lady, even if his only insult was that she was unpopular.

“If you court one of the Misses Smythe-Smith,” Winston finally said, “people will be curious why.”

“Because I’m such a catch,” Richard said in a dry voice.

“Aren’t you?”

“No,” Richard said. It was just like Winston to be oblivious to such a thing. “I’m not.”

“Come now, things can’t be as bad as that.”

“I’ve only just managed to save Maycliffe’s lands from my father’s neglect and mismanagement, there is an entire wing of the house that is presently uninhabitable, and I have two sisters of whom I am the sole guardian.” Richard gave him a bland smile. “No, I would not say I’m a splendid catch.”

“Richard, you know I—” Winston frowned. “Why is Maycliffe uninhabitable?”

Richard shook his head and went up the steps.

“No, really, I’m curious. I—”

But Richard had already brought down the knocker. “Flood,” he said. “Vermin. Probably a ghost.”

“If you’re that hard up,” Winston said quickly, eyeing the door, “you’re going to need a bigger dowry than you’ll find here.”

“Perhaps,” Richard murmured. But he had other reasons to seek out Iris Smythe-Smith. She was intelligent; he had not needed long in her company to assure himself of that. And she valued family. She must. Why else would she have participated in that wretched musicale?

But could she value his family as well as she did her own? She would need to, if he married her.

The door was swung open by a somewhat portly butler who took his and Winston’s cards with a stiff bow. A moment later they were ushered into a small but elegant drawing room, decorated in shades of cream, gold, and green. Richard immediately noticed Iris on the sofa, quietly watching him through her lashes. On another woman the expression might have been flirtatious, but on Iris it was more watchful. Assessing.

She was taking his measure. Richard wasn’t certain how he felt about that. He ought to be amused.

“Mr. Winston Bevelstoke,” the butler announced, “and Sir Richard Kenworthy.”

The ladies rose to greet them, and they gave their attention first to Mrs. Smythe-Smith, as was proper.

“Mr. Bevelstoke,” she said, smiling at Winston. “It has been an age. How is your dear sister?”

“Very well. She is nearing the end of her confinement, else she would have attended last night.” He motioned to Richard. “I do not believe you have been introduced to my good friend, Sir Richard Kenworthy. We were at Oxford together.”

She smiled politely. “Sir Richard.”

He bowed with his head. “Mrs. Smythe-Smith.”