“Excellent,” she said, beginning to breathe easier. This really needn’t be as difficult as it she’d feared it could be. “Once we’re all seated, it’s just a matter of chatting, drinking. Answering their questions.”
“Wrong,” Ransom said. “I’m going to be the one asking questions.”
“That’s all well and good, too. If the mood is amiable, I’ll offer them a tour of the castle. I’ll lead, of course, and you can bring up the rear. Once we’ve returned to the great hall, it will probably be time for dinner.”
In an instant, Ransom’s demeanor changed entirely.
Izzy’s heart sank. She’d been hoping he would take this well. But it would seem she’d hoped in vain.
He frowned. “What do you mean, dinner?”
Damn it to hell. Ransom hadn’t counted on this.
“Why does there need to be a dinner?”
“With any luck, there won’t be a need,” she said. “But we must be prepared for the possibility. The solicitors will have traveled all this way from London. They’re going to be fatigued, hungry. We’ll probably have to offer them lodging for the night, too.”
He cursed.
“Don’t worry. I’ve planned everything, and we’ll walk through it right now. Duncan will invite us in to dinner.”
She motioned in Duncan’s direction, and the valet-cum-butler did as she asked, intoning, “Dinner is served.”
“Then you offer me your arm,” Izzy said, taking the arm in question before he’d offered it at all, “and we’ll lead the way to the dining room.”
As they walked down the corridor to the dining room, Ransom felt as though he were walking toward the gallows. Every step he took was one step closer to doom.
Dinner. Of all the things. She couldn’t have set him up for failure any better if she’d arranged for a target-shooting demonstration.
They reached the dining room. They must have been planning this out. On either side of the endless dining table stood an armored row of knights, waiting at attention in their role as footmen. He heard a wince-inducing creak as one of them shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“I’ll suggest seats for our visitors.” She directed the costumed ladies in their oversized, dark coats to take various seats.
“You have to sit at the head of the table, of course.” She nudged Ransom toward the appropriate chair. “As hostess, I’ll need to be at the opposite end.”
In other words, miles away.
He caught her arm and pulled it, keeping her close. “We’re not doing this.”
“Please don’t panic.”
He clenched his jaw. “I don’t panic.”
“It’s fine,” she whispered. “I promise. I’ve arranged for all the courses to be served à la russe. All the courses are plated in the kitchen and served individually. No carving, no serving. It’s the newest style in France. We’ll seem fashionable.”
“I’m so glad you’ve thought this through,” he said tightly. “However—”
“The first course is soup, of course. That’s straightforward enough. For the meat course”—she motioned to one of the overgrown toy soldiers—“we have beefsteak.”
A plate appeared on the table before him.
She pulled up a chair and sat next to him.
“I understand,” she whispered. “Ransom, you can’t think I haven’t noticed that you never eat in front of us. You’ll take a bit of bread, maybe, or a sandwich. But never a proper meal. So I tried eating a meal blindfolded, managing a knife and fork by touch. I made a hash of things before getting three bites in my mouth. I do understand.”
Her voice was sweet. But she spoke to him like a damned infant. And bloody hell, she did not understand.
She took his hand and guided it around the plate. “I’ve made arrangements with Cook. Everything on your plate will be in bite-size pieces, save for the bread. Buttered roll at twelve o’clock, then beef from three to seven. Potatoes and broad beans from eight to twelve.” She put a fork in his hand. “Go on, try.”
“Izzy . . .”