For the rest of the morning, any visitor who interrupted them would have discovered nothing more scandalous than a harried secretary and her irate employer, both buried chest deep in paperwork.
They’d opened, read, and sorted through everything.
Everything.
Izzy’s eyes were going crossed.
“Here it is, at last.” She read the paper aloud. “ ‘May it please Your Grace, the business has been completed. Gostley Castle has been sold, at your request.’ ” She lowered the letter. “This was dated three months ago. So they did sell the castle to Lynforth.”
“But I never made any such request. Nor did I ask them to invest in mustard plantations or purchase an Arabian menagerie.” Ransom flicked aside another pile of paper. “This explains the erratic record-keeping and purchases. They’re trying to make me look unstable. I’m being set up.”
“Set up?” Izzy echoed. “By the solicitors? Why would they do that?”
“They’re working in concert with my heir, most likely. You’re not the only one with a grasping cousin. Mine wouldn’t dare throw me in a pond or lock me in a root cellar, but he’d happily take the title and control of my fortune, given the chance.”
Izzy sifted through the pile of notices. “This is beyond my expertise. You need help. A new solicitor, perhaps.”
He dismissed the idea. “I can’t trust anyone.”
“I know, and that’s a problem. You need to start trusting people, Ransom. Start by letting them know you. Not just your strengths, but your weaknesses, too.”
He paced back and forth on the stone floor. “Let them know the real me. All my weaknesses. Yes, I’ll make plans to do that. Right on the heels of your announcement that Izzy Goodnight isn’t a girl anymore but a twenty-six-year-old woman who likes her nipples pinched.”
Izzy supposed his point was valid. They were both hiding parts of themselves. But the consequences weren’t quite the same.
She tapped a stack of papers to tidy them. “I’m just saying that matters progressed to this stage because you were too ashamed—”
“Ashamed?”
“Yes. Ashamed.” Izzy was tired of dancing around it. He was the one who’d insisted he didn’t want coddling. “You’re a duke, and your intended bride ran off with a lowly farmer. Then the farmer bested you in a duel, leaving you blinded. That had to have been humiliating.”
“The farmer did not best me in anything, damn it.” He stopped by the windows. “Do you know the only thing more dangerous than fencing against a master swordsman?”
“What?” she asked.
“Fencing against a love-drunk fool who hasn’t a goddamn clue what he’s doing. It’s like defending both sides at once. He’d never even held a sword before. I had to try like hell not to run him through.”
What was he saying? That he’d incurred his injury while trying not to win?
She rose from the table and moved toward him. “Ransom . . .”
“I couldn’t kill him. What good would that have done anyone? I only chased after them because I feared she hadn’t gone willingly. On that point, I was corrected.”
Izzy ached for him. Now she regretted using the word ashamed. He shouldn’t feel ashamed of his actions. He’d risked everything to protect that girl. He should wear that scar like a badge of pride.
“It was good of you.” She said it firmly. Not as a placating gesture, but as a fact she wouldn’t let him contradict. “You must have cared for her.”
“I was planning to marry her,” he said. “Of course I cared. As much as a man like me is able to care. No, we didn’t share any grand passion or meeting of hearts and minds, but I thought she was . . . practical. Interested in becoming a duchess and spending my money, and patient enough to put up with my faults in exchange.” He flexed one hand. “In the end, it seems I misjudged.”