“Leave it.” He took her arm and pulled it through his. “And don’t be worried about appearances. Stay close to me, every moment. There won’t be any doubt in those solicitors’ minds about what I’m doing with you.” He paused. “Unless you’re worried what your friends will think, in which case—”
“I’m not,” she told him, hugging his arm tight. “I’m not worried about that at all.”
And with that, Ransom went to face the Inquisitioners.
When he entered the great hall, everyone stood. He saw a group of four gray figures, adrift in a sea of gray mist. Brilliant. He couldn’t tell them one from the other. Had no idea who the others might be, once Blaylock and Riggett were accounted for.
These four ominous shadows had come to pass judgment on his life.
But he had Izzy on his arm. The subtle creaking of the knights around him was an unexpected source of reassurance.
And he had a new lawyer. A good one. One he could trust.
He was among friends.
One of the visitors approached him. Ransom could feel the man taking in his appearance, scrutinizing his scars. “Your Grace, it’s a relief to see you in such good health.”
A relief? Ransom snorted. Somehow he doubted relief was what the man felt right now. Despicable, grasping swindler.
Izzy pressed her fingertips against his wrist, letting him know the solicitor’s identity.
“Blaylock,” he said. “This is Miss Isolde Goodnight. The new owner of Gostley Castle. Lynforth willed the place to her.”
Izzy curtsied. “How do you do?”
“We’ve brought along with us Mr. Havers,” the man went on, “from the office of the Lord Chancellor.”
Havers came forward. “A pleasure, Miss Goodnight. The Lord Chancellor sends his regards. His son is a great admirer of your father’s stories.”
Blaylock completed the introductions. “You’ll remember my colleague, Mr. Riggett. And this kind gentleman is Dr. Mills, from the Holyfield Sanitarium for the Mentally Dispossessed.”
Ransom acknowledged their vague forms with a curt nod. “If your introductions are concluded, I’ll proceed with mine. This is Mr. Wendell Butterfield, esquire. My new legal counsel. And before we proceed any further this afternoon, we will make one thing clear. I will answer any questions. About how I ended here seven months ago, and why. About what I’ve been doing since. About my injuries, my blindness”—he waited for them to absorb this news—“and my mental state. I will submit to your examinations. But first . . .” He snapped his fingers, and Wendell put the papers in his hand. “You will sign this.”
“What is it?”
“It creates an irrevocable trust for Miss Goodnight in the amount of twenty thousand pounds.”
His solicitor balked. “What? Twenty thou—”
“Your neglectful management meant she inherited this castle from her godfather and arrived to find it in a shameful state of disrepair. The least we can do is provide her the funds to restore it.”
“Your Grace, we cannot authorize—”
“It is my fortune. I am the duke. Until a court decides otherwise, I do the authorizing.” He thrust the papers in the solicitor’s hand. “I will sign. You will witness. Then, and only then, will I be at your disposal. If you refuse . . . ? I swear to you this. I will fight you, every step of the way, and I will see you brought up on charges of fraud.”
The solicitors conferred.
Izzy’s arm tightened on his. “What are you doing?” she murmured.
“I’m ensuring your future here in this castle. Everything else is secondary.”
“Your fate’s not secondary,” she whispered. “Not to me.”
Ransom acknowledged her sweet words with a squeeze of his fingers. But he didn’t withdraw his demand. Twenty thousand was a significant sum, but it was only a small portion of what they’d control if they succeeded in wresting his fortune away. He was relying on their greed to carry the day.
“Well?” he prodded. “Perhaps I should rescind the offer and press straight for the charges of fraud.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Blaylock said. “In the interests of Miss Goodnight, we will sign.”
“Good.” Once he’d scrawled his name at the bottom of the papers, and the solicitors had done likewise, Ransom could breathe easier. Izzy was safe.
Now, to make her a duchess.
The doctor approached him. “These fraud remarks concern me. Do you often see conspiracies surrounding you, Your Grace?”
Here it came. The interrogation.
Ransom dropped onto the sofa and settled in. He answered query after query. What year it was, the current ruling monarch, the color of the sky. They asked questions about his injury, poked at his scar.
He mined every reserve of patience he possessed. He could tell they were waiting to pounce on the slightest error or irregularity. With this many witnesses, they couldn’t fabricate a lunacy charge. If it came to a formal trial, Ransom knew he’d prevail. But it would be so much easier to be done with this today.
After an hour or so of their questioning, he couldn’t be patient any longer. A headache threatened at the base of his skull. “Someone get me a drink. Whisky.”
The doctor made a note. “Devoted . . . to . . . whisky.”
“That’s hardly a new development,” Ransom said.
“I must admit,” Mr. Havers remarked, “I find your house staff’s attire to be . . . fascinating.”
“Oh, that’s my whimsy,” Izzy said, adopting that girlish, treacly voice he despised. “You know how devoted I am to my father’s wonderful stories. And now, with the backdrop of this magnificent castle, I just can’t resist bringing a bit of The Goodnight Tales to life. I’m so lucky to have the handmaidens and knights here with me. Do you have any sweetmeats?”
The doctor leaned forward. “How do you feel about this atmosphere, Your Grace? Do you enjoy living in a fairy tale, too?”
One of the knights—Sir Alfred, Ransom thought he was called—creaked and clanked forward. He placed a tumbler of whisky in Ransom’s hand. The glass jostled in the exchange, and spirits splashed them both.
“Apologies, my brother,” Alfred said.
“Brother?”
Damn it. Ransom knew that sound. That was the sound of a pounce.
Blaylock’s voice sharpened. “Did that footman just address you as brother?”