Iris turned, measuring the malevolence in her eyes by the degree to which Marie-Claire drew back. “I am about one step away from clubbing you with a cricket bat,” she hissed. “No you may not watch.”

Marie-Claire’s expression took on an almost reverential touch. “Does my brother know you’re so violent?”

“He might by the end of the day,” Iris muttered. She picked up her speed.

“I’m coming with you!” Marie-Claire shouted from behind her.

Iris snorted. She didn’t bother to respond.

Marie-Claire drew up next to her. “Don’t you want to know where she is?”

“She’s in the orangery.”

“What—how do you know?”

“I saw her walking down the path when we left,” Iris snapped. And then, because she felt a ridiculous need to defend herself, she added, “I notice things. It’s what I do.”

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.