This was almost too easy.
Ransom followed her out of the room and back down the corridor, to the stairs that led down to the great hall.
“You needn’t leave this very moment,” he said. “At least wait until my manservant returns. I can give you a bit of money, and he can find you a coach in the village.”
“I don’t need a coach or money. I’ll walk.”
“Walk?”
“I know some people in Newcastle. Newcastle can’t be that far.”
“Oh, not far at all. Just . . . some twenty-five miles or so.”
She paused midstep. “Then I’ll be walking for some time. I had better get started.”
He followed her toward the entryway. Walking to Newcastle, his eye. What the hell was she thinking? Perhaps those fairy tales she’d grown up with had rotted her brain. Was she planning to skip through the woodlands and meadows, plucking mushroom caps for parasols and letting friendly woodland animals guide her way?
“Don’t think this is over,” she informed him as she gathered up her caged weasel and valise. “You were right, I do have many friends. Influential friends. There are thousands of people scattered all over England who’d love nothing more than to have little Izzy Goodnight as a houseguest. Some of them are surely solicitors.” He heard the rustle of papers. “So I will be in contact with Mr. . . . Blaylock and Mr. Riggett, and I’ll see you at Chancery in three years. Farewell, Your Grace.”
As she breezed past him, his arm shot out. He snagged her by the elbow.
“Not so fast. What do you know of Blaylock and Riggett?”
“Their names are on the deed. I told you, I served as my father’s secretary. I do know how to read a legal document. Now, if you’ll kindly release me, I will bid you a not-very-fond farewell.”
His hand tightened on her arm. “No.”
“No?” she echoed.
“No.”
Ransom kept a firm grip on Miss Goodnight’s arm. After what she’d just said, he wasn’t letting her go anywhere. Not tonight.
“I’m confused, Your Grace. You just put a great deal of effort into scaring me off.”
Yes, he had. But that was before he heard the names of his own most trusted solicitors fall from his lips. Blaylock and Riggett had been his men of business for years. They had power to manage everything in his absence. But they should never sign away a property without his knowledge and consent.
Something was going on. Ransom didn’t know what it was, but he knew he didn’t like it.
“Your efforts worked, Your Grace. Congratulations. I’m leaving. I’ve no desire whatsoever to spend a single night in that horrid room.”
“You’re not leaving.”
She gave a little hiccup of laughter. “Are you conceding your claim of ownership and forfeiting the property?”
“No,” he said. “And I’m not offering to host you as a guest in my house, either.”
“Well, then I fail to see what—”
“I’m offering you a post. As my secretary.”
The silence with which she received this news was stony.
Hell, Ransom wasn’t happy about it, either. But with those two words—“Blaylock” and “Riggett”—she’d made it painfully clear that he needed someone to go read his correspondence for him. He had estates and responsibilities. If his solicitors were mismanaging his affairs in his absence, thousands would be affected. He needed to unravel just what was going on.
“I will hire you to read through my correspondence for me,” he said. “I know it’s hardly the ideal arrangement.”
“You’re right. It’s not.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, I would never entrust a woman with the task. But time is of the essence, and there’s no one else around.”
He heard her inhale slowly.
“I mean to compensate you handsomely,” he said. “Fifty pounds.”
“Per annum?”
“Per day.”