Ransom could see what was happening. She was putting distance between them. Which meant she was a sensible, clever woman. Which made her even more attractive. Damn it all.
“I don’t mean to be churlish,” she said. “It’s just . . . I discuss my father’s stories with everyone. And I don’t mind it, but I rather look forward to speaking of something—anything—else when I’m with you. Even if it’s the financial prospects in steam-powered farm machinery.”
He supposed that made sense. He was beginning to understand how those ridiculous tales had made her a prisoner of others’ expectations.
She would need to break free of that prison soon. Because they were halfway through the formidable heap of letters and packets, and Ransom was certain he knew what was happening.
Someone was stealing from him. And that someone had been getting bolder. The amounts of the discrepancies had been small at first, but they were growing into the tens and hundreds.
He had a theory developing. The culprit must be some clerk in his solicitors’ offices, he surmised. Or even one of the solicitors. Whoever the thief was, he has a gaming habit—cards or horses, maybe. Perhaps an expensive mistress. Or maybe he’d decided he deserved better than whatever measly salary his employers paid. So he began by pilfering small amounts, where no one was likely to suspect it. When those went unnoticed, he progressed to larger sums.
And then, one day, he saw his chance to rake in something bigger.
The old Earl of Lynforth’s men must have inquired about purchasing Gostley Castle for his goddaughter. Of course, any such offer would have been summarily refused. Everyone knew Ransom would never agree to sell an ancestral property. But if the thief drew up false papers and took them directly to Lynforth’s bedside—he could bilk a dying man out of a tremendous sum.
So far, it was merely a theory, but it made more sense than any of the alternatives. And if Ransom’s guesses were right, that would mean the sale was invalid.
Soon, Izzy Goodnight would find herself without a home. Again.
“We’ll be finished here in a matter of weeks,” he said. “Have you given any thought to where you’ll go?”
“I ought to ask you that,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ll be going anywhere.”
“But you should. That’s the thing, Goodnight. You should go places.” He sat up and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “The wars are over. Those who have money are beginning to travel again. Find some naughty old relic who wants to do the Grand Tour. One who needs a companion to read aloud in voices on tedious ship crossings, make sketches of nude sculptures for her keepsake box, and walk her lapdog twice a day. You could visit Paris, Vienna, Athens, Rome.”
Even from his seat on the sofa, he could see her wide, claret-red mouth curve in a smile. It was the first smile he’d seen from her in days.
“Unfortunately, I don’t know any wealthy, naughty old ladies with lapdogs,” she said. “But that does sound like a lovely adventure.”
It was settled then. He didn’t know any old women who met the description, either. But he’d find one. If need be, he’d hire a Drury Lane actress past her prime to play the part of Aunt What’s-her-face, and he’d foot the bill for the entire journey.
It was time for Izzy Goodnight to stop living in other people’s storybooks. She needed to see more of the world than dusty castles and quaint English villages. Ransom couldn’t offer her everything she needed or deserved. But he could do this much.
The decision eased his conscience as he watched her pluck another letter from the heap, reducing her time remaining in this castle by a few minutes more. One more grain of sand slipping through the hourglass.
Sometime later, she put her work aside. “That will have to do for today.” Her voice brightened as she said, “I’m going upstairs to dress for dinner.”
“You’re dressing for dinner?”