“To your home?” Archer chuckled in a low, disconcerting way. “Well, this should prove interesting.”
Izzy felt as though she’d wandered into the third act of a play. She had no idea what was going on, but it was unbearably dramatic.
Lord Archer did make a fine-looking player. She was comforted by his starched cravat and fitted gloves. Signs that civility still existed somewhere in the world.
“If you’ll permit me to speak with Miss Goodnight,” Archer said, unperturbed by the makeshift weapon leveled at his chest, “I think you’ll find all your questions answered.”
The Duke of Rothbury—for it would seem he was the duke, after all—lowered his poker. Grudgingly. “Speak.”
Lord Archer turned to Izzy. He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “So. I’ve been most anxious to meet the famous Izzy Goodnight. My nieces will be green with envy.” His enthusiasm faded as he looked her over. “I must say, you’re not quite what I expected.”
Izzy held back a sigh. She never was.
“I always pictured you as a wide-eyed child,” he said.
“I was twelve when my father’s stories began appearing in the Gentleman’s Review. But that was almost fourteen years ago. And, in the natural way of things, I’ve aged one year every year since.”
“Yes.” He shook his head. “I suppose you would have.”
Izzy merely smiled in response. She’d long made a habit of rationing her remarks when speaking with her father’s admirers. The Lord Archers of the world didn’t want Izzy to be a grown woman with her own set of likes and dislikes, dreams and desires. They wanted her to be the wide-eyed young girl of the stories. That way, they could continue to read and reread their beloved tales, imagining themselves in her place.
For that was the magic spell of The Goodnight Tales. When they settled down with each weekly installment, readers felt themselves tucked beneath that warm purple quilt. They saw themselves staring up at a ceiling painted with silver moons and golden stars, their hair fanned across the pillow for a loving father’s hand to stroke. They looked forward to that same, familiar promise:
Put out the light, my darling Izzy, and I shall tell you such a tale . . .
The truth of her childhood didn’t match what was printed in the magazines. But if she ever let it slip—oh, how people resented her for it. They looked at her as if she’d just ripped the wings off the Last True Fairy in England.
Lord Archer sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning toward her in confidence. “Say, I know you must be asked this all the time. But my nieces would garrote me with their skipping ropes if I didn’t try. I don’t suppose your father . . .”
“No, my lord.” Her smile tightened. “I don’t know how Cressida escapes from the tower. And I’m afraid I’ve no idea of the Shadow Knight’s true identity.”
“And Ulric’s still dangling from that parapet?”
“As far as I know. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind it.” He gave her a good-natured smile. “It’s not your fault. You must be more tortured by the uncertainty than anyone.”
You have no idea.
Tortured by the uncertainty, indeed. She was asked these same questions at least three times a week, in person or in letters. When her father died suddenly of an apoplexy, his ongoing saga had been interrupted, too. His beloved characters had been left in all sorts of perilous situations. Locked in towers and dangling from cliffs.
Izzy found herself in the most desperate straits of all. Stripped of all her possessions, cast out of the only home she’d ever known. But no one thought to inquire after her well-being. They all worried over Cressida locked in her tower, and her beloved Ulric, hanging by three fingers from the parapet.
“My father would be most gratified that you asked,” Izzy told him. “I’m thankful, too.” It was the truth. Despite her current circumstances, she was proud of the Goodnight legacy.
Over by the hearth, the duke cleared his throat.