If you lose all control of your fortune, what becomes of me?
Izzy chided herself for thinking it, but the fear was creeping in fast. It would seem the castle was legally hers, after all. But she’d never be able to keep the place—or find another home—without the wages he’d promised her.
“My goodness.” Abigail and Duncan entered the room, surveying the drifts of paper. “What’s happened here?”
Ransom rose to his feet. “Treachery. That’s what’s happened here.”
“Was there another body in the walls?”
“No.” Izzy lifted the letter that had come express. “We’re expecting important visitors next week. Apparently, His Grace is to be the subject of a mental-competence hearing.”
“A lunacy hearing? But that’s absurd. The duke’s not mad.” She turned and whispered to Izzy, “He isn’t mad, is he?”
Oh, Abigail. Izzy lifted her eyebrows and shook her head no.
The vicar’s daughter continued in a not-quite-confidential murmur, “I mean, he did behave rather strangely last night.”
Ransom cleared his throat. “Miss Pelham, I am standing right here. I am not deaf. And as it will be plain for the lawyers and doctors to discern, I am not mad.”
But he was blind.
That was the true unspoken source of concern, and everyone was thinking it. Blind people were often put in asylums even if they were otherwise of sound mind. Considering the neglected state of his business affairs and his prolonged, dramatic absence from society, Ransom wasn’t going to have an easy time of this. If his solicitors wanted him gone, the truth would be a heavy stroke against him.
“Christ.” He pushed both hands through his hair. “I could lose everything.”
“No, you won’t,” Izzy said. “We won’t let it happen. Because if you lose everything, so do I. For that matter, so do Duncan and Abigail.”
If Ransom wasn’t the duke any longer, Duncan wouldn’t have a post. If Izzy had to abandon the castle for lack of funds, Abigail would lose the support for the local parish.
They were all in this together now.
“Forget everything I said about honesty. If these solicitors have been lying to you, you can lie right back to them. They never have to know the extent of your injuries. When I arrived at this castle, it took me hours to realize you were blind.”
“You were unconscious for most of them,” he pointed out.
“Just the same. You know what I mean. You know this castle in the dark, and you can focus well enough that your eyes don’t wander. All you have to do is bluff your way through this one interview. Once they’re gone, you can sack Blaylock and Riggett and hire new solicitors.”
“But the castle, Miss Goodnight.” Duncan looked around. “It doesn’t look like a ducal residence.”
“Then we’ll make it one.” She squared her shoulders. “We have a week. The castle—the public parts of it, anyhow—need to be immaculate. But we mustn’t change the arrangement of the rooms by even one inch. The duke will need a wardrobe. For that matter, I could use a new gown or two.” Izzy twisted her fingers. “And we’ll need servants. A great many servants. To clean, garden, serve at table . . .”
“Refreshing the duke’s wardrobe will be a distinct pleasure,” Duncan said.
“And Izzy, you know I’d love to help with yours. We’re all ready for hard work. But that last bit—the servants—will be a challenge.” Abigail looked regretful. “It was already difficult to convince the local people to come work at the castle . . . what with its bloody history, the ghostly rumors, and the duke’s months of seclusion. But after the bones were found in the wall . . .” She shook her head. “In time, I’m certain I could convince them to come back. But this week?”
“Even if we did manage to hire them,” Duncan said, “I don’t know that I could train village folk to an acceptable standard in that time. Then there’s the matter of uniforms and livery. It all seems rather hopeless.”
“It can’t be hopeless,” Izzy said.
Abigail smiled. “You’re right, Izzy. Would Cressida and Ulric just give up? Of course not. We’ll pull through somehow. Doubt not.”
And with that, all four of them fell silent.
Doubting.
But they couldn’t waste much time with doubt. Not when there was so much to be done.
Over the next few days, everyone in Gostley Castle worked hard. And no one more so than Ransom.
A few days later, Izzy watched from the entryway as he scrawled a line of script across a blank page—once, then again and again. After ten repetitions, he lifted the paper and held it to the light, as if trying to judge the straightness of the lines.
Apparently dissatisfied, he cursed and crumpled the paper into the grate.
She held her breath and waited for all the evidence to be destroyed. Only when he drew out a fresh sheet of paper did Izzy gather the courage to approach.
“I’m busy, Goodnight.”
He knew her footsteps too well.
“This won’t take long,” she assured him.
“Let it wait, then. Go sweep a cobweb from the rafters or polish a mirror. There must be some household task that needs attention.”
“There is a task that needs attention. It’s this one.” She set her tray on the tabletop next to him. “You need to eat.”
He ignored her.
She sliced a pear into wedges, then offered him one. “Your eyesight is better when you’ve eaten. And you need your eyesight because I have something important to show you.”
“Fine.” He reached out, catching her by the wrist. Then, using his teeth, he took the slice of pear straight from her fingers and devoured it. “There.”
She offered him another slice. “More.”
He ate more. Slice after slice until the pear was gone. He finished by licking her palm and sucking the juice from each finger in turn. That wicked tongue of his swirled around her knuckles and teased the sensitive webs between her fingers.
At last, her littlest finger slid from his mouth with an audible pop.
“Now,” he said. “What’s this important thing you have to show me?”
Dashed if Izzy could remember after that sensual onslaught. She had to shake her head to clear it.
Oh, yes.
“Your new bedchamber.”
His mouth tipped in that roguish half grin. “Perfect.”
As she led him up the stairs and down the corridor, Izzy felt rather like a chicken leading a fox straight to his own den.