“Wonderful,” Miss Goodnight called back, rising from her chair. “I’ll be right there.” To Ransom she said, “We’ll have to continue this tomorrow, Your Grace.”
“Hold a moment,” Ransom objected. “I’m not waiting until tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid there’s no choice.”
Oh, that’s where she was wrong. He was a duke. He always had the choice.
Through gritted teeth, he told her, “You have a post as my secretary. I’m not paying you two hundred pounds a day to rearrange furniture and hang drapes. Now, sit back down and find that list of payments.”
“Did I hear a please?” She waited a beat. “No, I didn’t think so.”
“Damn it, Goodnight.”
“Dock my wages for the afternoon, if you like.” She began walking away. “The accounting will have to wait for tomorrow. If you don’t allow me and Miss Pelham to prepare a warm, comfortable, rat-and-bat-free bedchamber before nightfall, I promise you—there won’t be a tomorrow at all.”
Miss Pelham called down from the gallery. “Do come along, Miss Goodnight! Let’s set about making this castle into a home.”
A home.
Those words sent dread spiraling through him.
There was no use fighting it any longer. Miss Goodnight was settling in. Making a home. Just bloody wonderful.
Ransom began to wonder if he’d made such an excellent bargain after all.
As young ladies went, Miss Abigail Pelham was everything that made Izzy despair. From the moment the vicar’s daughter had walked—nay, floated—into the great hall, Izzy had known they were creatures of different breeds.
Miss Pelham was the sort of young woman who had plans, made lists, kept a beauty regimen. The sort who knew, somehow, which straw bonnets in the milliner’s shop would suit her and never ended up looking a beribboned scarecrow. The sort who always smelled of vanilla and gardenias, not because she liked baking or working in the garden—but because she’d decided it was her signature scent, and she kept sachets tucked between her stored undergarments.
She was competent in the art that motherless, awkward Izzy had never mastered. The art of being feminine. If she had met Miss Pelham at a party, they would have had less to say to each other than a bright-winged parrot sharing a perch with a common wren.
Luckily, this was not a party. This was a housecleaning, and it became immediately clear that in this endeavor, Izzy couldn’t have asked for a more enthusiastic partner.
Miss Pelham surveyed the ducal chamber, sniffing at the moth-eaten hangings. “It was horrid of the duke to put you in this chamber. This room isn’t without its potential. But it’s hardly the place to start, either.”
“I agree,” Izzy said.
“We’ll make a tour of the whole castle this morning.” Miss Pelham left the room in a brisk swoop. “This afternoon, we’ll choose one room to begin with,” she went on. “One that’s small and easy to clean. We’ll sweep it out, fit it with a proper bed by tonight. Check the chimney, of course. Some of them are clogged with birds’ nests and only the good Lord knows what else.”
She stopped in her paces, shivered—and squealed.
“I can’t tell you how excited I am to be doing this. At last. It’s been torture, living down the hill from this wonderful castle all my life and watching it slip further and further into ruin. And, finally, we will have some jobs and custom for the local parishioners.”
Izzy followed the relentless ribbon of chatter, amused. If Miss Pelham was at all winded by their pace, she didn’t show it.
For her part, Izzy kept her mouth shut and her eyes open. As they moved through the corridors, the daylight revealed most of the chambers to be in a discouraging state. Many of the windows were broken out. Everything that could be chewed by moths or mice, had been. Dust and cobwebs coated the rest, like a blanket of grayish snow.