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 br**sts 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.