Richard had a feeling she was out of luck there. “Is there any chance it will remain a secret?”
“None whatsoever. But I shall cling to my false hope. With any luck, we shall have a terrible scandal tonight, and no one will notice that Frances has gone to bed with her horn still attached.”
Richard started to cough. And then kept coughing. Good Lord, was that dust in his throat or a boulder of guilt?
“Are you all right?” Iris asked, her face drawn with concern.
He nodded, unable to voice his answer. Dear God, a scandal. If she only knew.
“Shall I fetch you something to drink?”
He nodded again. He needed to pour liquid down his throat almost as much as he needed not to look at her for a moment.
She would be happy in the end, he told himself. He would be a good husband to her. She would want for nothing.
Except the choice in marrying him.
Richard groaned. He had not expected to feel so bloody guilty about what he was going to do.
“Here you are,” Iris said, holding out a crystal goblet. “A bit of sweet wine.”
Richard nodded his thanks and took a fortifying sip. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Iris made a sympathetic noise and motioned to the woodsy piano. “The air is probably dusty from all those twigs Harriet brought in. She was out collecting them in Hyde Park for hours yesterday.”
He nodded again, draining his glass before setting it down on a nearby table. “Will you sit with me?” he asked, realizing that while he had assumed she would, he owed her the politeness of an invitation.
“I would be delighted,” she said with a smile. “You shall probably need someone to translate, in any case.”
His eyes grew wide with alarm. “Translate?”
She laughed. “No, no, don’t worry, it’s in English. It’s only . . .” She laughed again, her smile wide in her face. “Harriet has her own singular style.”
“You’re very fond of your family,” he observed.
She started to make a reply, but then something caught her attention behind him. He turned to see what she was looking at, but she’d already started saying, “My aunt is signaling. I think we’re meant to take our seats.”
With some trepidation, Richard sat next to her in the front row and regarded the piano, which he assumed marked the stage. The audience’s voices dimmed to whispers, and then to silence as Lady Harriet Pleinsworth stepped out of the shadows dressed as a humble shepherdess, crook and all.
“O beautiful, brilliant day!” she proclaimed, pausing to bat away one of the ribbons on her wide-brimmed bonnet. “How blessed am I with my noble flock.”
Nothing happened.
“My noble flock!” she repeated, quite a bit louder.
There was a crashing noise, followed by a grunt and a hissed “Stop it!” and then five small children dressed as sheep ambled forth.
“My cousins,” Iris whispered. “The next generation.”
“The sun shines down,” Harriet went on, spreading her arms wide in supplication. But Richard was too fascinated by the sheep to listen. The largest of the lot was bleating so loudly, Harriet finally had to give him a little kick, and one of the smaller ones—good God, the child could not be more than two—had crawled over to the piano and was licking the leg.
Iris clamped her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh.
The play continued in this vein for several minutes, with the fair shepherdess extolling the wonders of nature until somewhere someone crashed a pair of cymbals and Harriet shrieked （as did half the audience）。
“I said,” Harriet ground out, “that we are lucky it’s not likely to rain for the next week.”
The cymbals crashed again, followed by a voice yelling, “Thunder!”
Iris gasped, and a second hand flew up to cover the first, which was still wrapped over her mouth. Eventually he heard her utter the word, “Elizabeth” in horrified whisper.
“What’s happening?” he asked her.
“I think Harriet’s sister has just changed the script. All of act one will be lost.”
Luckily, Richard was saved from having to stifle his smile by the arrival of five cows, which on closer inspection appeared to be the sheep with brown splotches of fabric pinned onto their wool.
“When do we get to see the unicorn?” he whispered to Iris.
She shrugged helplessly. She didn’t know.
Henry VIII trundled forth a few minutes later, his Tudor tunic stuffed with so many pillows the child within could barely walk.