From the courtyard, a voice floated up. “Doubt not, Miss Goodnight. We have returned from thither to offer our service anon.”
Ransom wrested her away from the windows. “Izzy, no. No. I’m supposed to be displaying my sanity and competence in all things ducal. Having the castle overrun by delusionals with play swords and an unnatural fondness for the words ‘thither’ and ‘anon’ is not going to help.”
“We don’t have a choice. There’s no time left to find, train, and outfit servants locally. These people want to help. They’ve drilled to act in unison, and . . . well, they do have matching attire.”
“They are wearing breastplates from some blacksmith’s scrap heap. It’s hardly proper livery.”
“I know it’s unusual, but we’ll play it off as my eccentricity,” she said. “You know how everyone sees me. I’m a dreamy little girl, living in my father’s storyland.”
Damn it, he hated that she had to pretend that. He especially hated that she had to pretend one more moment of it for his sake.
“You’re forgetting one more problem,” he said. “Which is that all these people have me mistaken for their hero. They’ll be calling me Ulric.”
“No, no. You’re the one who’s mistaken. Everyone understands that stories are just stories. These people never believed you were Ulric. They just think . . . Well, they think you’re one of them.”
“One of them?”
“Yes. Ransom, they’d gladly be your friends if you’d let them.”
Friends.
Friendship with these people was not what he needed. But the hard truth of it was, he did need servants. He couldn’t appear to be moldering in a decrepit castle alone with his valet. Even though that’s exactly what he had been doing up until a few weeks past.
“Just give them a chance,” she whispered, kissing his cheek before she descended to greet her adoring throng. “Do it for me?”
Do it for me.
The woman had no idea the trials he would suffer for her. A great deal more than this foolishness.
He’d imprisoned himself in this castle to rot. He’d cut off all contact with the outside world. And just when he thought he’d burned all his bridges, this woman—this impossible, sweet, foolish woman—arrived, determined to swim the moat. Breach his defenses. Make a home. Stay.
If not for her, this room would still be filled with rats and bats. If not for her, he’d be sitting unshaven and drunk in the great hall, morosely counting his steps to nowhere. And if not for her, he would have no reason to fight this battle at all.
Perhaps he would have no title or fortune to offer her, but he was determined to see her safe.
Everything he did, from this point forward . . .
It was all for her.
Chapter Twenty-one
Gather round, everyone. This will be our final time through the paces.”
Izzy called down from the window of the ducal chamber, addressing the assembled knights, handmaidens, servants, and friends below.
Tomorrow, the solicitors arrived. This would be their last chance to practice.
She cleared her throat, and called, “Take your places, please.”
The knights, cook, and servant-handmaidens disappeared inside, leaving only the Inquisitioners in the courtyard.
The “Inquisitioners” were Abigail and a few of the handmaidens who’d offered to pose as the visiting party. The girls had thrown themselves into the roles with enthusiasm, pulling their hair back into severe knots and donning dark, somber topcoats and beaver hats from the old vicar’s wardrobe. They’d even taken bits of kohl and drawn sideburns and moustaches on their faces.
Except for the occasional burst of giggling, they made a fair approximation of a stern-faced party of solicitors and doctors.
“Now, when the visitors arrive, Duncan will welcome them to Gostley Castle.”