Within a matter of minutes, it was decided. Miss Pelham was overjoyed at the prospect. Duncan offered to accompany her to the vicarage to help fetch her things.
“There,” Izzy said, clapping her hands once the two had left. She turned to the duke. “That’s all settled. While they’re gone, the two of us can get to work.”
“What the devil was that?” the duke asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You. Your behavior, the moment Miss Pelham arrived. It was like you became an entirely different person.” He mimicked her girlish lilt. “ ‘Oh, yes, Miss Pelham.’ ‘I’d be so grateful, Miss Pelham.’ ”
She sighed. “There’s no need for you to be concerned about it.”
“I’m not concerned. I’m envious. Why does she get the compliant Miss Goodnight, and I get the weasel-wielding harridan?”
“Because she’s a Moranglian.”
“A what?”
“A Moranglian. My father’s stories took place in a fictional country called Moranglia. His most devoted admirers call themselves Moranglians. They have clubs and gatherings and circular letters. And they expect a certain wide-eyed innocence from Izzy Goodnight. I don’t want to disappoint them, that’s all.”
He tapped his fingers on the back of a chair. “So. If I read these stories of your father’s, does that mean you’ll be meek and docile with me?”
“No.”
She was never going to be meek or docile with him, and she was never going to let him read The Goodnight Tales. The possibility was out of the question. In fact, the possibility was so far out of the question, the possibility and the question were on separate continents.
“Even if you did read my father’s stories, I doubt you’d enjoy them. They require the reader to possess a certain amount of . . .”
“Gullibility?” he suggested. “Inexperience? Willful stupidity?”
“Heart. They require the reader to possess a heart.”
“Then you’re right. They’re not for me. And I’m certainly never going to style myself a Mordrangler.”
“Moranglian.”
“Really,” he said, clearly annoyed. “Does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. Not to you.” She moved to the table. “And we don’t have time to be reading stories anyhow. Not with all this correspondence to go through.”
She surveyed the snowdrifts of letters and packets, debating how best to proceed.
“It looks as though they’re somewhat chronological. The older letters are the ones nearest to me, and the newer ones spill toward the far end of the table. Do you want to begin with the old or the new?”
“The old,” he said without hesitation. “If I’m going to understand just what’s going on here, I need to start at the beginning.”
Going through every bit of this correspondence would likely take weeks, but Izzy wasn’t going to complain. More work meant more money for her fix-the-castle fund. And if she was being honest, as difficult as the Duke of Rothbury was to live with, she wasn’t terribly eager to be left alone in the place. Not until it had a good scrubbing. Perhaps an exorcism.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll start here at the beginning. As I read, we’ll sort papers into two piles: Significant, to be revisited later, and Insignificant, to be set aside. Does that plan meet with your approval?”
“Yes.” He reclined on the sofa, sprawling across the full length of it. It was a largish sofa, but he was an even more largish man. Magnus curled in a heap nearby.
“So while I read, you’re just going to lie there. Like a matron reclining on her chaise longue.”
“No. I’m going to lie here like a duke, reposed in his own castle.”
Hah. He ought to recline while he still could. This wouldn’t be his castle for long.
Making use of a nearby letter opener, Izzy started breaking seals and prying open old envelopes. She opened the first, and fattest, one her fingers could locate.
It would seem she’d chosen well. A long list of lines and figures and sums fell out.
“This one looks promising,” she said.