“Are you testing my hearing now?” Ransom tried to sound bored. “I believe he did.”
“Surely you don’t permit the footmen to address you in that familiar manner, Your Grace. Or have you forgotten yourself?”
“I haven’t forgotten myself.”
“You, there.” Riggett called to the young knight, who had clanked his way back to the side of the room. “Why did you just address his grace as ‘brother’?”
“B-because we are both members of the same brotherhood,” the youth answered. “The Order of the Poppy.”
When Ransom heard the resulting laughter, there was no gray in his vision any longer.
Only red.
“The Order of the Poppy?” Blaylock was like a greedy boy with a bowl of trifle and two spoons. “Do tell us more.”
“It’s the Moranglian order of knighthood, sir. We have banners, tournaments. Badges, and an oath.”
“And the duke is a willing part of this?”
“I . . . I don’t know, sir.” Alfred hesitated.
Of course he hesitated. Ransom recognized the youth’s voice now. He was the one of the knights who’d been arguing against Ransom’s inclusion. And perhaps for good reason. Alfred had known this moment would come even if he hadn’t guessed it would be so soon.
He’d known Ransom would be put to the test.
So, here it was. He could have his fortune, title, and authority restored today—but only if he denounced Izzy’s hard work and everything her friends stood for.
Yesterday, he’d had no difficulty doing just that. He’d mocked and belittled every person standing on the fringes of this room.
And today, they’d come back. For Izzy, and for him. Was he supposed to abuse them all over again?
“Do you believe me now?” Riggett was eager to seal the matter. “He’s addled, clearly. His blow to the head has left him hopelessly confused. A lunacy trial is our only course.”
The doctor leaned close. “Your Grace. Do you know who you are?”
“Yes.” Ransom rose to his feet. “I know precisely who I am. I’m Ransom William Dacre Vane, the eleventh Duke of Rothbury. I’m also the Marquess of Youngham, Earl of Priorwood, Lord Thackeray. And . . .”
“And?” the doctor prompted. “And you believe you’re someone else, as well?”
He heard Izzy’s small hiss of warning. But damn it, he’d sworn an oath. On her name. He couldn’t deny it now.
“I’m a Knight of Moranglia.”
Izzy clapped a hand to her mouth.
Oh, no. He’d done it now.
Ransom thumped his chest, and all the knights saluted in return.
Half of Izzy wanted to cheer, and half of her wanted to weep. It was a sweet, valiant gesture on his part—but at what cost?
The solicitors moved into action at once.
“You see, Havers? We have no choice.” Riggett pointed at the duke. “He needs to stand for a lunacy trial. He’s delusional. Probably dangerous.”
The doctor agreed. “In my professional opinion, he should be taken into custody, held for examination in London.”
“Please,” Izzy said. “Please wait a moment. Let’s discuss this further. Surely an asylum isn’t necessary.”
But her pleas were lost in the din. Other objections drowned them out.
All around the great hall, the knights and handmaidens were rousing themselves to Ransom’s defense.
One of the knights drew his saber—a saber that didn’t look sharp enough to cut sponge cake—and thrust it into the air. “You can’t take him!”
“This is a brotherhood,” another cried out.
“I knew all this training would be for something.”
“We stand as one. We will fight to the death.”
Even Magnus began to growl and bark.
A shout lifted over all: “Release the ermine!”
“Stop!” Izzy ran to the end of the hall, clambered up on the table, and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Stop!” she cried, putting the force of her full body into it. “Stop, all of you! Stop!”
They stopped. And turned to her.
When she had the room’s attention, she took a deep breath. She made her hands flat in front of her, as if she could use them to physically smooth the tension in the room.
“No battles will be necessary. No examinations, either. This is all a misunderstanding. The duke is perfectly sane. Mr. Blaylock, Mr. Riggett, Mr. Havers, Dr. Mills. You must believe me. I have been sharing this castle with the Duke of Rothbury for weeks now, and I know him to be perfectly sound of mind. The knights, the handmaidens, the romantic stories . . . he doesn’t believe in all this. He shouldn’t believe in this.”
“You see . . .” Her eyes flitted over the knights and handmaidens. “The Goodnight Tales were . . . Well, they were a lie. I was never that innocent little girl with sleek amber hair. Sir Henry wasn’t a doting father though he tried his best. I didn’t want a weasel for a pet, and I didn’t ask for this.” She indicated the castle. “Cressida might be brave, but I’m terrified of the dark. Ulric can say, ‘Doubt not,’ but I have doubts all the time. I’ve doubted the truth of happy endings. I’ve doubted the existence of lasting love. Most of all, I’ve doubted myself.”
To the solicitors, she said, “The duke is humoring me. But he knows this is just pretense. Shite and bollocks, I believe he called it yesterday.” She looked around the room. “Didn’t he? You all were there.”
A murmur of reluctant confirmation swept the room.
She turned to Ransom. “So tell them. It’s all right. I don’t need to pretend any longer, and you don’t need to protect me. Just tell them everything you’ve been saying to me for weeks. You’re perfectly sane. Romance is the delusion.” She pressed her hand to her belly. “It’s all right. Truly.”
Ransom considered. She watched his chest expand with a deep breath. He scratched his neck as he stared at the floor.
Blaylock moved forward. “Well, Your Grace?”
Do it, she silently willed him, trying to send the message all the way across the hall to where he stood. Disclaim all of this. Save yourself.
Just tell the truth.
“I will say only this.” When Ransom lifted his head, a sly smile played about his lips. “Doubt not.”
Her heart flipped over in her chest. “No. No, Ransom, don’t.”
“Doubt not, my lady. I shall return.”