Iris’s hand tightened on Marie-Claire’s upper arm. “I have four sisters, Marie-Claire, one of whom is extraordinarily vexing. Trust me when I tell you that I can make your life a living hell.”

“But why does it—”

“Tell me!” Iris roared.

“John Burnham!” Marie-Claire shrieked.

Iris dropped her arm. “What?”

“It was John Burnham,” Marie-Claire said, rubbing her bruised flesh. “I’m almost certain.”

“Almost?”

“Well, she was always running off to meet him. She thought I didn’t know, but really—”

“Of course you knew,” Iris muttered. She knew how it was between sisters. There was no way Fleur could have been sneaking off to meet a man without Marie-Claire’s knowing.

“I’m going to need a sling,” Marie-Claire said petulantly. “Look at these bruises. You didn’t need to be so rough.”

Iris ignored this. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“To whom?” Marie-Claire demanded. “My brother? He would hardly have liked this more than William Parnell.”

“But John Burnham is alive,” Iris cried out. “Fleur could marry him and keep her baby.”

Marie-Claire looked over at her with a disdainful expression. “He’s a farmer, Iris. And not even a yeoman. He does not own his land.”

“Are you really such a snob?”

“And you’re not?”

Iris recoiled at the accusation. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Marie-Claire shot back with a frustrated growl. “But tell me, how would your family have liked it if you married a tenant farmer? Or does it not count because your grandfather was an earl?”

That was it. Iris had had it with her. “Shut your mouth,” she snapped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. If my grandfather’s title gave me leave to misbehave with impunity, I’d hardly have married your brother.”

Marie-Claire gaped at her.

“Richard kissed me, and I found myself trussed up at the altar,” Iris burst out. She hated remembering that, how she’d thought maybe he’d wanted her, maybe he’d been so overcome with desire that he could not help himself. But the truth was nothing so romantic. The truth, she was learning, never was.

She turned to Marie-Claire with what felt like an unbearably hard glint in her eyes. “I can assure you that if I had somehow got myself pregnant by a tenant farmer, I would have married him.” She paused for a moment. “Assuming, of course, that the intimacy had been consensual.”

Marie-Claire didn’t say anything, so Iris added, “From what you have said of your sister and Mr. Burnham, I assume their relations were consensual.”

Marie-Claire gave a terse nod. “I wasn’t there, of course,” she muttered.