“Make up as many stories as you wish. Just don’t make me the hero in them.”
“When can we expect Lord Archer to arrive?”
Damned if Ransom knew. He hadn’t the faintest idea who this Archer might be. “There’s been some misunderstanding. Whoever it is you’re searching for, he isn’t here. My manservant will be returning soon. I’ll have him see you back to Woolington.”
She hesitated. “Then I suppose I should dress.”
“Go on.” He waved in invitation. “There’s no dressing room. And if you haven’t gathered as much by now, you needn’t wait for me to avert my eyes.”
Just the same, he turned to the wall. He clucked his tongue, calling Magnus to heel.
Behind him, light footsteps padded across the floor. The rustle of petticoats grated on his calm. He reached down to give the dog a light scratch.
“There’s quite a mountain of correspondence on your table,” she pointed out. “Are you very sure a Lord Archer didn’t write to you?”
Ransom considered. True, he couldn’t be sure of anything that pertained to his written correspondence lately. Duncan had many useful skills, but none of them could be described as secretarial.
“It’s just . . . I’m grateful for the offer of transport to Woolington,” she said. “But I don’t know where I’d go from there. I see you’ve emptied my purse onto the table. You must have noticed how little was in it.”
He had noticed. She had exactly three shillings, ten pence in her purse. No jewelry of any value. He hadn’t searched the valise, but it weighed almost nothing.
“If you force me out tonight, I’ve nowhere to go.”
Ransom heard the slight waver in her voice.
He shut his ears to it.
He couldn’t fathom why a young, unaccompanied woman would make the journey alone to the middle of Northumberland by the grace of her last few shillings.
But this Miss Goodnight needed to say good-bye. He wished her no ill, but he had nothing to offer her, either. If she was looking for a rescuer, she’d found the wrong man.
“My manservant can take you to the village church,” he said. “Perhaps the vicar’s—”
Magnus’s ear perked under his touch. The dog’s skull vibrated with a low, nearly inaudible growl.
A moment later, Ransom heard the sound, too. Hoofbeats coming up the road. An unfamiliar rhythm. It couldn’t be Duncan. “Perhaps this Lord Archer has come for you after all.”
She released a breathy sigh. “Thank heaven.”
“Indeed.”
In a matter of moments, the intruder’s steps sounded in the courtyard. “Hullo, there? Miss Goodnight?”
She flew to the window and called down. “Up here, my lord. The great hall.”
Once the man entered the hall, his steps arrowed straight toward their place near the hearth. Confident, clipped. Much too fast.
Ransom gritted his teeth. Damn, he hated this. Being at this constant disadvantage, unable to control the situation.
The fireplace poker was close at hand. He lifted it. “Stop there.”
The footsteps halted, some ten feet away. He felt the fresh source of scrutiny burning over his scarred face.
“Is that . . . ? But it can’t be.” The newcomer took one step forward. “Rothbury? Good God. It’s like coming face-to-face with a ghost.”
“I don’t know you,” Ransom said.
“No, but I know you.” Archer lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was on the guest list, you see. Bride’s side.”
Ransom steeled his jaw and kept his expression impassive. He wouldn’t give this cur the pleasure of a reaction.
“No one’s seen you in months,” Archer went on. “The rumor about Town is that you’re dead.”
“Well, the rumor has it wrong.”
The truth was even worse.
Ransom gave the poker a meaningful tap against stone. This was his castle. He didn’t answer questions here; he asked them. “Explain yourself. What are you doing, luring unsuspecting women to my home?”
“To your home?” Archer chuckled in a low, disconcerting way. “Well, this should prove interesting.”
Izzy felt as though she’d wandered into the third act of a play. She had no idea what was going on, but it was unbearably dramatic.
Lord Archer did make a fine-looking player. She was comforted by his starched cravat and fitted gloves. Signs that civility still existed somewhere in the world.
“If you’ll permit me to speak with Miss Goodnight,” Archer said, unperturbed by the makeshift weapon leveled at his chest, “I think you’ll find all your questions answered.”
The Duke of Rothbury—for it would seem he was the duke, after all—lowered his poker. Grudgingly. “Speak.”
Lord Archer turned to Izzy. He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “So. I’ve been most anxious to meet the famous Izzy Goodnight. My nieces will be green with envy.” His enthusiasm faded as he looked her over. “I must say, you’re not quite what I expected.”
Izzy held back a sigh. She never was.
“I always pictured you as a wide-eyed child,” he said.
“I was twelve when my father’s stories began appearing in the Gentleman’s Review. But that was almost fourteen years ago. And, in the natural way of things, I’ve aged one year every year since.”
“Yes.” He shook his head. “I suppose you would have.”
Izzy merely smiled in response. She’d long made a habit of rationing her remarks when speaking with her father’s admirers. The Lord Archers of the world didn’t want Izzy to be a grown woman with her own set of likes and dislikes, dreams and desires. They wanted her to be the wide-eyed young girl of the stories. That way, they could continue to read and reread their beloved tales, imagining themselves in her place.
For that was the magic spell of The Goodnight Tales. When they settled down with each weekly installment, readers felt themselves tucked beneath that warm purple quilt. They saw themselves staring up at a ceiling painted with silver moons and golden stars, their hair fanned across the pillow for a loving father’s hand to stroke. They looked forward to that same, familiar promise:
Put out the light, my darling Izzy, and I shall tell you such a tale . . .
The truth of her childhood didn’t match what was printed in the magazines. But if she ever let it slip—oh, how people resented her for it. They looked at her as if she’d just ripped the wings off the Last True Fairy in England.