Ransom supposed that was true.
“And I may be useless when it comes to performing a footman’s table service, but I can get your legal matters sorted. If you’ll accept the help, that is.”
Wendell stuck something blurry and flesh-colored in Ransom’s face.
His hand.
A last pang of bruised pride knocked about his chest, heaving in its death throes. He didn’t need help rising to his feet, that pride insisted. He wasn’t an invalid or a child.
But he was human. Hopelessly in love, for the first time in his life. And in danger of losing everything. As Duncan had said, he needed all the friendly help he could get.
He swallowed back his instinctive refusal and accepted the man’s hand.
Once Ransom had gained his feet, Wendell called for the knights to circle close. Their hands clapped on his shoulders and back.
“All knights salute!”
Fists thumped armor. “For my lady, and for Moranglia!”
Chapter Twenty-five
Izzy, you’re not going to believe this.” Abigail pulled her toward the turret window.
“What is it? Oh, please tell me it’s not the solicitors. We’re not ready at all. I’m not dressed. Ransom isn’t even here.”
“It’s not the solicitors. Look.”
Izzy poked her head out the narrow window. There in the distance, winding down the road to the castle’s barbican, was the familiar, gaily colored sight of the West Yorkshire Riding Knights of Moranglia. Accompanied by their sister chapter of Cressida’s Handmaidens. Their banners waved briskly in the breeze, and sunlight glinted off armor.
“The duke did it,” Abigail said, clutching Izzy’s arm. “He convinced them to come back.”
“I suspect you had something to do with it, too,” Izzy said. “Sir Wendell obviously has his own reasons for returning. But it doesn’t matter why they came. It just matters that they’re here.”
A silly tear came to her eye. Even after everything yesterday, they hadn’t abandoned her. They were still here, still her friends. They still believed.
Doubt not.
The next few hours were a flurry of activity. Cook and the handmaidens were busy in the kitchen. The knights had another course in table service. Duncan whisked Ransom off for a bath, shave, fitted coat, and gleaming boots. Abigail expended nearly three-quarters of an hour and a great deal of patience on a quest to tame Izzy’s hair.
When the carriage wheels sounded in the drive, Izzy couldn’t even bring herself to look. Abigail had to do it.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s them. Now they’re here.”
“How many?”
“Two coaches. Three . . . No, four men in all.”
Four of them? Oh, dear. Only two would be the solicitors. The others must be . . . doctors, witnesses, assistants to the Lord Chancellor, perhaps?
She paced back and forth, just hoping everything was going well downstairs. Duncan would be greeting them, seeing them into the hall, and then it would be time for . . .
A knock sounded at the door.
Ransom.
“Are you ready?” He offered her his arm, and together they made their way down the corridor. “Don’t worry about anything. Just stay close to me.”
“Won’t they find it strange if I’m plastered to your side the whole time?”
His mouth tugged to one side. “Believe me. None of my solicitors will be surprised to find a beautiful woman plastered to my side. It will only bolster the impression that I’m my old self.”
His reputation wasn’t the source of her concern. She strongly doubted his solicitors were used to seeing him with women like her.
“Wait.” Izzy held him back.
“What is it?”
“I . . . I have to tell you something.”
“Hm. Right. That would be lovely, but perhaps it can wait until after this crucial meeting we’ve been preparing for all week?”
“It can’t wait,” she said, pulling on his sleeve. “There’s something you need to know. Urgently.”