Chapter 5
“Iris!” Margaret cried and flung herself at Iris. “You took an age! Papa was about to send a search party.”
Iris let herself be folded into her sister’s arms. Margaret always smelled of rosemary, like Mama did.
“I am only late because my coachman insists on being cautious,” Iris said, managing a small smile. “One cannot gallop through every puddle.”
“One can if one is not encumbered by dignity.” Margaret pulled back to study her face. Her merriment slipped into a little frown. “You look tired. More tired than usual.”
“I am merely… preoccupied.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked over her. “Is it more letters from creditors?”
Before Iris could respond, Lord Lempster appeared in the doorway, leaning more heavily than before on his cane. He still carried his look of slightly distracted charm, and grief had etched a deeper gentleness into his features.
“There is my girl,” he said, his voice already rough with emotion. “Come in, come in. Or you will freeze on the step.”
Warmth met her in the hall, along with the faint scent of pipe smoke and beeswax, and the squeak of boards she could have navigated blindfolded. They led her to the small sitting room where the armchairs sagged, and the fire was always coaxed beyond propriety.
Once she was settled, with a cup of tea in her hands she could hardly taste, Papa sank opposite, and Margaret perched on the arm of his chair, restless as a bird.
“So,” he said, looking at Iris over the rim of his teacup. “What news from Hentley House? Mr. Earnest plagues you again, I suppose.”
She had known they would ask. The familiar mixture of worry and helplessness in his gaze pricked at her more sharply than anger would have.
“It is nothing I cannot manage,” she said lightly. “The dowry covers the remaining debts, and they are almost paid off.”
“You have said that for three years,” Margaret muttered.
“Because it has been true for three years,” Iris replied. “Almost.”
Papa’s lips twitched. “We could make it completely true if you would only allow Camelia and her husband to assist.”
“Papa.” Iris set her cup down carefully. “Camelia has given more than enough.”
“That girl did not sacrifice herself,” Margaret objected. “She snagged a duke who adores her. If that is martyrdom, sign me up at once.”
Their father gave a pained laugh. “Even so. His Grace has deep pockets, and he is willing to help. It is no shame to accept help.”
Iris’s stomach twisted. She pictured Camelia agreeing to marry for money rather than inclination, because the family was drowning.
If the Duke of Brentmere had not fallen in love with her, would she have been happy with her decision?
Iris should have been the one to marry first. Instead, she had been given to an aging viscount with ruinous habits.
“I am not here about the debts,” she said before Papa could continue. “Something else has occurred.”
Both turned to her at once. She steadied her voice.
“The new heir of Hentley House has arrived.”
Papa’s brows drew together. “Earnest wrote that he would be in town, but I thought—”
“He did not write,” Iris broke in. “He came himself. Without notice.”
Margaret straightened. “How improper of him.”
“Improper is one word.” Iris forced her fingers to relax around the porcelain. “He announced that Hentley House, and everything in it, is now his. And that I have been… trespassing upon his property.”
Papa flinched as though struck. “He said that to you? Himself?”
“Yes.”
Margaret’s indignation crackled. “What an odious man. Did you throw him out?”
“I attempted to,” Iris said, remembering the click of the latch between them, the feel of his hand on her wrists, and the astonishing, infuriating heat that had shot through her. “He did not leave.”
Papa scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked older all at once, not just from grief but from the weight of all his daughters’ fates.
“Earnest will look into it,” he said slowly.
“But you must know, my dear… as the widow of a viscount, you have no legal claim to the main estate. The house itself passes with the title.”
Iris had known, but she had simply hoped for some fortunate tangle in the law. Hearing it so calmly stated made her realize that perhaps she was in the wrong.
“I signed every paper,” she whispered. “I dealt with every man who came to sneer at the furniture and paw through the plate. I thought… I thought that must count for something.”
“It does,” Papa said gently. “It counts in justice, if not in law. The new heir has a duty to provide for you and to support you suitably.”
“He cannot cast you into the street,” Margaret said fiercely. “If he does, I shall—”
“You shall do nothing reckless,” Papa said, but without heat. His attention stayed on Iris. “Listen to me, daughter. Until Mr. Earnest has confirmed the particulars, the wise course is to keep the peace with this man. He holds more power than is comfortable over your circumstances.”
It is far too late for that.
Iris chewed on her bottom lip.
“I do not think he and I are likely to be… compatible,” she eventually said.
“Compatibility is not required.” Margaret waved a hand. “Only civility. And you are the calmest of all of us, so I am certain that you would not provoke him. Men with titles dislike being thwarted.”
Iris almost laughed. The Duke of Knoxford was pushing her limits and enjoying every second of it. She was anything but calm around him.
“I will speak with him again,” she said at last, surprising herself with the certainty in her own voice. “About our new circumstances. And surely there is some arrangement to be made. I do not believe that he would simply strip the house from me… or at least I hope he would not.”
Papa nodded, relieved to have something he could call a plan. “Yes. Speak to him. Be frank, but… conciliatory.”
Margaret snorted. “You sound like Mr. Earnest.”
“It is regrettably sound advice,” he said with a weary smile. “We will see what the solicitor discovers. In the meantime, you must not let despair run away with you, Iris. You have survived worse.”
Had she? She was no longer certain. Widowhood had been a shock, followed by a long, satisfying settling. But this felt different. It was as if someone had reached into her chest and begun to unwind the one thread she had wrapped around herself for seven years.
“I will see you at dinner, dear.” Papa stood up shakily and waddled to his chamber, leaving Iris alone with Margaret.
Rain began to patter against the windowpanes, soft as tapping fingers. Margaret curled her legs beneath her on the sofa, all her decorum abandoned as usual.
“Tell me everything,” she said. “From the beginning. And do not leave out the dreadful parts. They are always the most interesting.”
Iris stared into the fire. “The heir is the Duke of Knoxford,” she said simply, and Margaret gasped.
“Oh! Is he not that dreamy, scarred duke who hosted that exquisite ball? Camelia cannot stop talking about it.”
Iris sighed. “Yes, that is him.”
Margaret’s brows climbed. “Young and handsome, then. That explains everything. Handsome men are the worst.”
Handsome did not begin to describe him, but Iris refused to admit that.
“It does not matter what he looks like,” Iris said, heat creeping up her neck. “What matters is that he stood there and told me I was a trespasser. That my husband’s room was his, that the whole house was his, and that I must move.”
Margaret side-eyed Iris. “At least he took the old man’s chambers and not yours.”
“He almost took my chambers,” Iris said softly.
“What?” Margaret gaped.
Iris heard the soft, inexorable snick of the latch again.
“I felt…” She searched for the words. “As if someone had taken a broom to my life and swept every effort, every little proof that I am capable, into a corner and brushed it away. As if the last seven years were… temporary. Or just a mistake to be corrected.”
“Oh, Iris.” Margaret slid closer, her voice losing its bright edge. “You have done wonders with that ramshackle place. You rescued it from bankruptcy, and you made it a home.”
“It is the only thing I have ever been allowed to be in charge of,” Iris said.
The admission tasted like sorrow. “When Mama died, I was supposed to hold everything together, and I did not. Camelia married to save us. You almost got married off, and Papa crumbled. And then Hentley died, leaving nothing but debts and this house. For once, the burden was mine alone. It was… something I could do.”
Her gaze drifted to the window.
“It was shabby and leaking and full of angry men wanting money. And yet I could answer them. I could say, ‘No, you must wait,’ or ‘Yes, now we can.’ I learned the accounts, I bargained with coal merchants and roofers. Every small victory was mine. The carpets I chose. The repairs I ordered. Even the cracks in the plaster feel like they belong to me because I kept them from becoming holes.”
Margaret’s eyes shone. “I know.”
“And now a man walks in with a key and a title, and it is as if I am a part of the furniture that could be moved aside while he admires his property. How can I be civil to him, or even grateful, when he has the power to turn me out or keep me? It is as though my life is a question to be answered by his convenience.”
“It is preposterous,” Margaret said fiercely. “You are not furniture. And you are not a question. You are—”
“An encumbrance,” Iris supplied softly. “In the eyes of the law, at least.”
“In the eyes of idiots,” Margaret corrected. “Iris, listen to me. Whatever happens with that house, whatever that wretched duke decides, it does not unmake what you have done. It does not erase the woman you became because of it.”
Iris’s throat ached. “But if I lose it, what am I left with? A small income, and the knowledge that I must lean yet again on those I love. I do not know if I can bear that. I wanted, just once, to be the one others leaned upon.”
Margaret slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her close, the way she had when they were girls and Iris had returned from some humiliating dance, empty-handed.
“Then we will lean on each other,” Margaret said.
* * *