The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (Smythe-Smith Quartet, #4)

by Julia Quinn

“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 cras...