Romancing the Duke (15 page)

Chapter Fifteen

A
stonishing. In the morning, when she sat working at that table of correspondence, silhouetted by sunlight . . .

Her hair truly did look like an octopus.

It was the way she wore it, he thought. Or maybe the way it wore
her.
It all sat perched atop her head in that big, inky blob. And no matter how strenuously she pinned it, dark, heavy curls worked loose on all sides, like tentacles.

Of course, it was an entrancing, strangely
erotic
octopus. Ransom worried this might be how fetishes developed.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Goodnight.”

Her dark head lifted from her work. “I have?”

“Yes. You have.”

She paused. “Your Grace, my presence in this room right now—and this very conversation we’re having—would seem to argue against it.”

“I’m not saying I blame you.” He reclined on the sofa and propped his laced hands behind his neck. “If it were in any way physically possible, I would avoid myself, too.”

She picked up the next envelope and cleaved the seal with a savage slice of the letter opener. “I’m not avoiding you, Your Grace. I don’t know what you mean.”

Little liar. She knew very well what he meant.

Ever since the Invasion of the Idiots, and that sublime, stolen embrace in the folly, Ransom had noted a marked change in Izzy Goodnight’s demeanor.

There hadn’t been any more surprise visitors, and as many hours as Ransom walked the castle at night, he never bumped into her again. She was always waiting nearby when he awoke, but there were no more queer conversations on elephant-sized rats or rat-sized elephants.

And, queerly enough, Ransom found himself missing them.

Or perhaps just missing her.

“I have a question,” he said, interrupting her reading of an assessment regarding some new finance scheme with steam engines. “Are there dragons in Merlinia?”

“Moranglia.”

“Right.”

“If there are, why do you care?” she asked, sounding wary.

He shrugged. “Just wondering what further madness to expect, that’s all. Whether I’ll have a herd of unicorns visiting some morning, or discover trolls camping under my bridge.”

“No. No, Your Grace. No dragons, unicorns, or trolls.”

“Good,” he said. She hadn’t made it through another paragraph before he interrupted again. “What news do you have from Lord Bedridden?”

“Nothing that would interest you, I’m sure.” The flat side of her fist met the tabletop. “Your Grace, you’ve hired me to read your correspondence. Not discuss my own.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

Ransom could see what was happening. She was putting distance between them. Which meant she was a sensible, clever woman. Which made her even more attractive. Damn it all.

“I don’t mean to be churlish,” she said. “It’s just . . . I discuss my father’s stories with everyone. And I don’t mind it, but I rather look forward to speaking of something—anything—else when I’m with you. Even if it’s the financial prospects in steam-powered farm machinery.”

He supposed that made sense. He was beginning to understand how those ridiculous tales had made her a prisoner of others’ expectations.

She would need to break free of that prison soon. Because they were halfway through the formidable heap of letters and packets, and Ransom was certain he knew what was happening.

Someone was stealing from him. And that someone had been getting bolder. The amounts of the discrepancies had been small at first, but they were growing into the tens and hundreds.

He had a theory developing. The culprit must be some clerk in his solicitors’ offices, he surmised. Or even one of the solicitors. Whoever the thief was, he has a gaming habit—cards or horses, maybe. Perhaps an expensive mistress. Or maybe he’d decided he deserved better than whatever measly salary his employers paid. So he began by pilfering small amounts, where no one was likely to suspect it. When those went unnoticed, he progressed to larger sums.

And then, one day, he saw his chance to rake in something bigger.

The old Earl of Lynforth’s men must have inquired about purchasing Gostley Castle for his goddaughter. Of course, any such offer would have been summarily refused. Everyone knew Ransom would never agree to sell an ancestral property. But if the thief drew up false papers and took them directly to Lynforth’s bedside—he could bilk a dying man out of a tremendous sum.

So far, it was merely a theory, but it made more sense than any of the alternatives. And if Ransom’s guesses were right, that would mean the sale was invalid.

Soon, Izzy Goodnight would find herself without a home. Again.

“We’ll be finished here in a matter of weeks,” he said. “Have you given any thought to where you’ll go?”

“I ought to ask you that,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ll be going anywhere.”

“But you should. That’s the thing, Goodnight. You should go places.” He sat up and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “The wars are over. Those who have money are beginning to travel again. Find some naughty old relic who wants to do the Grand Tour. One who needs a companion to read aloud in voices on tedious ship crossings, make sketches of nude sculptures for her keepsake box, and walk her lapdog twice a day. You could visit Paris, Vienna, Athens, Rome.”

Even from his seat on the sofa, he could see her wide, claret-red mouth curve in a smile. It was the first smile he’d seen from her in days.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know any wealthy, naughty old ladies with lapdogs,” she said. “But that does sound like a lovely adventure.”

It was settled then. He didn’t know any old women who met the description, either. But he’d find one. If need be, he’d hire a Drury Lane actress past her prime to play the part of Aunt What’s-her-face, and he’d foot the bill for the entire journey.

It was time for Izzy Goodnight to stop living in other people’s storybooks. She needed to see more of the world than dusty castles and quaint English villages. Ransom couldn’t offer her everything she needed or deserved. But he could do this much.

The decision eased his conscience as he watched her pluck another letter from the heap, reducing her time remaining in this castle by a few minutes more. One more grain of sand slipping through the hourglass.

Sometime later, she put her work aside. “That will have to do for today.” Her voice brightened as she said, “I’m going upstairs to dress for dinner.”

“You’re dressing for dinner?”

This was new. There was never any formal dinner. She and Miss Pelham took their meals in the kitchen with Duncan, or so he assumed. Ransom never joined them.

“We finished the dining room yesterday. Duncan, Miss Pelham, and I. So we decided to take a holiday from dusting and celebrate with a formal dinner tonight.” She rose from her chair. “Miss Pelham has been working on the menu all day.”

He scratched the thick growth of whiskers on his chin. “No one mentioned it.”

“I . . .” Her voice softened to that soothing, wild-honey tone. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have thought to tell you. Are your feelings hurt?”

“What?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t be absurd. My feelings—not that I’m admitting to possessing any, mind you—are not hurt.”

“We didn’t mean for you to feel left out. You’re welcome to join us, of course. It’s just . . . you never do. You never take dinner with us at all.”

It was late in the day, and his vision had faded. She was just a roving patch of darker gray in a sea of light gray mist. He couldn’t tell whether her invitation was sincere or pitying.

But then, it didn’t matter. She was right; he never dined with their group. For good reason.

He rose to his feet. “Goodnight, I do appreciate your generous invitation to attend this dinner that
my
money paid for, in
my
own home, but—”

“Oh, please do come.”

The words rushed from her, impulsive—but they were no more reckless than her concurrent gesture.

She took his
hand.

She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. Sweetly. As if he were a reluctant child who needed a bit of compassion and encouragement.

At least, that’s what he assumed those gestures felt like. His own childhood had been utterly devoid of compassion or encouragement.

“I’d be very glad if you joined us for dinner, Ransom. If only because it means one person at the table who couldn’t care less about the true identity of the Shadow Knight.”

He frowned. “What’s a Shadow Knight?”

“Exactly.” She squeezed his hand again. “That’s the best thing anyone’s said to me in ages. Do come to dinner and be your ill-tempered, unromantic self. Please.”

“I
told the duke about our dinner this evening.” Izzy sucked in her breath as Miss Pelham gave her corset laces a firm tug. “I invited him to join us.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Miss Pelham tugged again.

“He declined.”

Another tug. “Oh. Too bad.”

Izzy wondered how many more times she could muster the courage to reach out to him. He was so obstinate and determined to isolate himself. Ever since Duncan’s story, she didn’t know what to think. Was he heartbroken over his lost intended? Angry about the loss of his sight and independence? Or was he merely a jilted man licking the wounds to his pride?

In any case, he needed to make his way into the world again—and soon.

She’d read through more than half his correspondence now, and Izzy was forming suspicions. Without conclusive proof, she didn’t dare mention the idea. But she was almost certain the duke’s solicitors were conspiring against him. For what reason, she couldn’t imagine. But he stood to lose far more than this castle if he didn’t rejoin the England of the living soon.

Tonight’s dinner could have been a step in the right direction.

If only.

Miss Pelham gave the corset laces another yank. When Izzy winced, she apologized. “Sorry, Miss Goodnight. But I have to cinch it tight, or the gown won’t fit you.”

She helped Izzy into a gown of poppy red silk. It was Miss Pelham’s gown, of course. Izzy’s wardrobe offered nothing appropriate for a dinner like this one.

“Oh, that color does look well on you. Even if the fit is too tight up top.”

The bodice
was
tight. Her breasts were pale, quivering scoops overflowing the neckline. Rather scandalous attire, for little Izzy Goodnight. But she had a shawl, and it was only Miss Pelham and Duncan.

“I promise not to overeat.” Izzy smoothed her palms over the luscious red silk. “Thank you so much for the loan of it.”

“It’s nothing. I’m glad to help.” Miss Pelham pulled on the first of her elbow-length gloves, then held it out for Izzy to button. “It is taking a dreadfully long time for your belongings to arrive, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” As Izzy worked the tiny buttons, a pang of guilt twisted in her chest.

“Is something wrong, Miss Goodnight?”

“Only that I wish . . .”

Only that I wish I didn’t have to lie to you. Only that I’m wickedly envious of your golden hair and blushing cheeks and confidence. And I wish I could make you the tiniest bit envious of me by confessing everything I’ve done with the duke.

“Only that I wish you’d call me Izzy.”

Miss Pelham’s fan clattered to the floor. Her face lit with a radiant, sunbeam smile. “Truly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you must call me Abigail.”

“I’d like that.”

Miss Pelham—Abigail—caught her in a tight hug. “Oh, I knew it. I knew we would be best of friends.”

Friends.

So strange. Izzy would have never believed she could be close friends with a woman like Abigail. The Abigail Pelhams of her youth had treated shy, awkward Izzy with disdain, even cruelty. They called her Frizzy Izzy, Witch’s Broom, Mop Head, Funny Face . . . the list went on and on.

But this wasn’t her youth, she reminded herself. She and Abigail were grown women, and perhaps it had been unfair of Izzy not to give their friendship a chance.

Abigail pulled back from the hug. “Now that we’re friends, will you let me do your hair?” She took one of Izzy’s wayward curls and regarded it pityingly. “I have a recipe for an egg-yolk and rosewater preparation that will have this smooth as pressed satin.”

Izzy started to protest that it wouldn’t work. She’d tried every preparation known to womankind, and none of them had worked.

But Abigail would hear none of it.

She turned Izzy toward the mirror. “You’ll see. With the right coiffure and a bright new ribbon . . . this could be almost pretty.”

Almost.

Izzy reached for her shawl, trying to ignore the unintended slight. “Let’s go down to dinner, shall we?”

Abigail took her arm. “Yes, let’s. I have some questions I’ve been saving for tonight.”

Oh, dear.

T
o her credit, Abigail made it almost through the soup course before beginning the interrogation.

An apologetic smile tipped her mouth. “You must know what I’m going to ask.”

I have a feeling I do.

“Forgive me. I can’t help it.” Abigail lowered her voice to a whisper. “The Shadow Knight. Who is he, really? Don’t worry, I won’t ever tell a soul.”

Izzy allowed the suspense to build while she swallowed her mouthful of creamy parsnip soup and took a moment to enjoy the splendor.

They’d worked for two full days on this dining room, washing down the walls, beating the carpet, polishing the furniture, and recovering the chairs. By day, one could still see the faded patches on the carpet and the nicks on the paneling.

But by candlelight . . . ? Oh, it looked magical.

The whole room glittered. The table was laid with crisp, pressed white linen, and every object—from the tiniest spoon to the largest candlestick—had been polished until it gleamed. It could not have been more beautiful if it had been laid with diamonds. The crystal was borrowed from the vicarage, but everything else belonged here. Duncan had found a chest of silver and two crates of straw-packed china that had escaped looting, having been stashed under boards in the cellar.