“I promise not to overeat.” Izzy smoothed her palms over the luscious red silk. “Thank you so much for the loan of it.”
“It’s nothing. I’m glad to help.” Miss Pelham pulled on the first of her elbow-length gloves, then held it out for Izzy to button. “It is taking a dreadfully long time for your belongings to arrive, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” As Izzy worked the tiny buttons, a pang of guilt twisted in her chest.
“Is something wrong, Miss Goodnight?”
“Only that I wish . . .”
Only that I wish I didn’t have to lie to you. Only that I’m wickedly envious of your golden hair and blushing cheeks and confidence. And I wish I could make you the tiniest bit envious of me by confessing everything I’ve done with the duke.
“Only that I wish you’d call me Izzy.”
Miss Pelham’s fan clattered to the floor. Her face lit with a radiant, sunbeam smile. “Truly?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then you must call me Abigail.”
“I’d like that.”
Miss Pelham—Abigail—caught her in a tight hug. “Oh, I knew it. I knew we would be best of friends.”
Friends.
So strange. Izzy would have never believed she could be close friends with a woman like Abigail. The Abigail Pelhams of her youth had treated shy, awkward Izzy with disdain, even cruelty. They called her Frizzy Izzy, Witch’s Broom, Mop Head, Funny Face . . . the list went on and on.
But this wasn’t her youth, she reminded herself. She and Abigail were grown women, and perhaps it had been unfair of Izzy not to give their friendship a chance.
Abigail pulled back from the hug. “Now that we’re friends, will you let me do your hair?” She took one of Izzy’s wayward curls and regarded it pityingly. “I have a recipe for an egg-yolk and rosewater preparation that will have this smooth as pressed satin.”
Izzy started to protest that it wouldn’t work. She’d tried every preparation known to womankind, and none of them had worked.
But Abigail would hear none of it.
She turned Izzy toward the mirror. “You’ll see. With the right coiffure and a bright new ribbon . . . this could be almost pretty.”
Almost.
Izzy reached for her shawl, trying to ignore the unintended slight. “Let’s go down to dinner, shall we?”
Abigail took her arm. “Yes, let’s. I have some questions I’ve been saving for tonight.”
Oh, dear.
To her credit, Abigail made it almost through the soup course before beginning the interrogation.
An apologetic smile tipped her mouth. “You must know what I’m going to ask.”
I have a feeling I do.
“Forgive me. I can’t help it.” Abigail lowered her voice to a whisper. “The Shadow Knight. Who is he, really? Don’t worry, I won’t ever tell a soul.”
Izzy allowed the suspense to build while she swallowed her mouthful of creamy parsnip soup and took a moment to enjoy the splendor.
They’d worked for two full days on this dining room, washing down the walls, beating the carpet, polishing the furniture, and recovering the chairs. By day, one could still see the faded patches on the carpet and the nicks on the paneling.
But by candlelight . . . ? Oh, it looked magical.
The whole room glittered. The table was laid with crisp, pressed white linen, and every object—from the tiniest spoon to the largest candlestick—had been polished until it gleamed. It could not have been more beautiful if it had been laid with diamonds. The crystal was borrowed from the vicarage, but everything else belonged here. Duncan had found a chest of silver and two crates of straw-packed china that had escaped looting, having been stashed under boards in the cellar.
The soaring ceilings overhead gave the impression of grandeur, but the general aura was one of warmth and welcome, and the scent of roasted lamb curled through the air.
It felt like a home.
“Well?” Abigail prompted.
Yes, yes. The Shadow Knight.