“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?”
“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.”