Romancing the Duke

And just in case it wasn’t apparent enough, Ransom slid his arm about her shoulders, drawing her close.

“Abigail,” she said. “Good morning. I was just—I mean, we were . . .”

“It’s all right, Izzy.” Abigail moved into the room, drawing Izzy aside. “I won’t tell a soul. In fact, I’m here to ask you for a favor. If anyone asks you, I stayed here at the castle last night.”

“Oh?” Understanding dawned. “Oh. Of course you did.”

“I most definitely did not spend the night at the Moranglian Army encampment,” Abigail went on in a low whisper, “allowing Mr. Butterfield some mildly unchivalrous liberties.” A wash of pink touched her cheeks.

Izzy smiled. “Of course you didn’t.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. What are friends for?”

Abigail gave her a squeezing hug and heaved a sigh of relief. “Now,” she said brightly, “what’s to be done about these solicitors? How do we prove that the duke’s not an incompetent lunatic? Surely we haven’t given up.”

Izzy looked to Ransom. “We haven’t given up. Have we?”

“No, we haven’t,” he said. “Let them come. No more charades. No more pretense. I will answer their questions, honestly. If, at the end of it, they mean to challenge my fitness as duke, I will see them in the Lord Chancellor’s court.”

“I like that plan,” she said. “Abigail, can we still count on your help?”

“Of course.”

“Duncan has resigned,” Ransom said, scratching his unshaven jaw. “But I think I can convince him to stay. As a friend. We’ll still need footmen.” He looked to Abigail. “You said the Moranglian Army is still camped nearby? Perhaps I can persuade them to come back.”

Izzy wasn’t sure that was a wise idea.

“Ransom, you were so hurtful to them yesterday. Lord knows what they’re thinking of me. Whatever you say to them . . . I suggest you consider beginning with a sincere apology. And concluding with the word ‘please.’ ”

He chewed a bite of his pancake and shrugged. “They’re reasonable men. I’m certain with a bit of conversation, we can reach an understanding.”

Evidently, an understanding wouldn’t be so easily reached.

Not two hours later, Ransom found himself in the Moranglian encampment. Surrounded, hooded, and held at sword point, with both hands bound behind his back.

And now they were taking him into the woods.

He tried to make himself heard through the clanking of armor and the sacking thrown over his head. “Good sirs, truly. I know yesterday I said hurtful things. But today, I’ve come in peace. I wish to join your ranks.”

A pointed object jabbed him in the kidneys. “One does not simply join the Knights of Moranglia. It’s not that easy. There’s a ceremony and an oath.”

“And a trial,” another said.

“Very well. I will submit to your trials. But really, is the hood necessary? I am already blind.”

He took another jab to the kidneys. “Kneel.”

He knelt. Someone removed his hood.

Ransom took a greedy gulp of fresh air. “So what do I do? What do I need to say?” He cleared his throat. “Anon I pledge mine fealty thither . . .”

They put the hood back over his head.

“Prithee,” he protested, “if thou wouldst waiteth a goddamned second—”

“Brother Wendell, he’s not taking this seriously,” one of the knights said. “Our order is a sacred trust. We’re here because we’re united by a higher purpose.”

Another chimed in. “If we admit him to our ranks, we must treat him as one of our own. As a brother. Do you think he’s going to treat us the same way?”

Ransom bowed his head and managed to shake his hood loose. Unburdened, he lifted his eyes and spoke to the faceless men surrounding him.

“Listen,” he said. “I know. I’m not your friend. I’m the bastard who thrashed you and took your pocket money at school. But right now, I’m on the ground. In the woods. Kneeling in something highly unfortunate, on the day after my valet quit his post. I am serious about this. I am seriously apologetic for what I said. And I seriously need your help.”

That was the first time Ransom could recall ever saying those words: I need your help. And look, he hadn’t even collapsed of humiliation.

The first knight spoke again. “Don’t allow it, brother. He’s not a true Moranglian.”

“But I am now,” Ransom insisted. “And Sir Wendell should know it. He was there at the vicarage for dinner when we read through the first part.”

“Then prove your worth,” the second knight said. “In installment seventeen, what three ingredients did Ulric fetch for the Witch of Graymere’s potion?”

Bloody hell. That was very specific. Ransom searched his memories of the previous night. He’d been paying attention to the story—he’d been lost in it, truly—but he hadn’t taken sodding notes. “Toe of troll, hair of newt, and . . . and unicorn piss? Damn it, I don’t know.”

“Do you see?” the knight said. “He’s not sincere. I bet he doesn’t even know the Doubt Nots.”

“Wait,” Ransom said, perking up. “Those, I know.”

He remembered this part. It was a good part, with Ulric taking his leave of Cressida before departing on his quest to slay the Beast of Cumbernoth. He’d made quite a speech.

“Doubt not, my lady,” he recited. “Doubt not. I shall return. Doubt not my blade.”

“It’s steel,” someone corrected, adding a corrective thump to the back. “Doubt not my steel.”

“Right, right.” He concentrated on the muddy ground. “Doubt not my steel. Doubt not my strength. And there’s something more, and something else about the king, and then ‘you remain queen of my heart’ and it ends with, ‘For my lady, and for Moranglia.’ ” He lifted his head. “There, is that good enough?”

“No.” He recognized Wendell Butterfield’s voice. “That was pathetic.”

“He’s just using us,” the first knight said again. “Once he gets what he wants, he’ll forget us. Cut us in the street. Make sport of our rituals at his fancy gentlemen’s clubs. He doesn’t understand how we are.”

Ransom shook his head. “No, no. No one likes me at those clubs, either. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be reviled. I was gravely injured seven months ago, and guess how many visitors and well-wishers I’ve had? Exactly none. I’m an outcast, too.”

“A wealthy, highly ranked outcast with a half dozen estates,” Wendell pointed out.

“At the moment, yes. But if my solicitors and heir have their way, I could lose everything. Make no mistake, I’m not asking your help for me. I need to protect Miss Goodnight. If this hearing doesn’t go well, she will be forced to sell the home of her dreams. Allow me to join your ranks, and I swear to you: We will be united in a higher purpose. Her.”

There was a prolonged silence.

Ransom didn’t know what more he could say.

“I’ll take that as your solemn oath.” Sir Wendell laid a blunted sword to his shoulder. “I dub thee Sir Ransom, a brother in the Order of the Poppy and a true knight of Moranglia.”

Thank God.

“Order of the Poppy,” Ransom mused, as his hands were cut loose. He rubbed his chafed wrists. “Does this mean we get to smoke opium now?”

“No,” Wendell said. But to his compatriot, he added, “Pass him the mead.”

A flask of sweet, sticky wine was offered to him. Ransom drank from it. “Not bad. You have my thanks, Sir Wendell.”

“Brother Wendell,” he corrected. “You’re one of us now.”

Really. He was one of them now.

How unexpected. There, kneeling in the forest, surrounded by men who represented the odd pegs and loose ends of English public schools, Ransom was seized by the strangest, most unfamiliar sensation.

Acceptance.

“And when we’re not on guard,” Wendell went on, “it’s Mr. Wendell Butterfield, Esquire.”

“Esquire?” Ransom repeated. “But . . . you can’t mean you’re a barrister?”

“Oh, yes. I am.”

“I didn’t know they allowed barristers to spend their free time tromping the forest in makeshift armor.”

Wendell answered, “Why not? We spend our work days wearing long black robes and powdered wigs.”

Ransom supposed that was true.

“And I may be useless when it comes to performing a footman’s table service, but I can get your legal matters sorted. If you’ll accept the help, that is.”

Wendell stuck something blurry and flesh-colored in Ransom’s face.

His hand.

A last pang of bruised pride knocked about his chest, heaving in its death throes. He didn’t need help rising to his feet, that pride insisted. He wasn’t an invalid or a child.

But he was human. Hopelessly in love, for the first time in his life. And in danger of losing everything. As Duncan had said, he needed all the friendly help he could get.

He swallowed back his instinctive refusal and accepted the man’s hand.

Once Ransom had gained his feet, Wendell called for the knights to circle close. Their hands clapped on his shoulders and back.

“All knights salute!”

Fists thumped armor. “For my lady, and for Moranglia!”

Chapter Twenty-five

Izzy, you’re not going to believe this.” Abigail pulled her toward the turret window.

“What is it? Oh, please tell me it’s not the solicitors. We’re not ready at all. I’m not dressed. Ransom isn’t even here.”

“It’s not the solicitors. Look.”

Izzy poked her head out the narrow window. There in the distance, winding down the road to the castle’s barbican, was the familiar, gaily colored sight of the West Yorkshire Riding Knights of Moranglia. Accompanied by their sister chapter of Cressida’s Handmaidens. Their banners waved briskly in the breeze, and sunlight glinted off armor.

“The duke did it,” Abigail said, clutching Izzy’s arm. “He convinced them to come back.”

“I suspect you had something to do with it, too,” Izzy said. “Sir Wendell obviously has his own reasons for returning. But it doesn’t matter why they came. It just matters that they’re here.”

A silly tear came to her eye. Even after everything yesterday, they hadn’t abandoned her. They were still here, still her friends. They still believed.

Doubt not.

The next few hours were a flurry of activity. Cook and the handmaidens were busy in the kitchen. The knights had another course in table service. Duncan whisked Ransom off for a bath, shave, fitted coat, and gleaming boots. Abigail expended nearly three-quarters of an hour and a great deal of patience on a quest to tame Izzy’s hair.

When the carriage wheels sounded in the drive, Izzy couldn’t even bring herself to look. Abigail had to do it.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s them. Now they’re here.”

“How many?”

“Two coaches. Three . . . No, four men in all.”

Four of them? Oh, dear. Only two would be the solicitors. The others must be . . . doctors, witnesses, assistants to the Lord Chancellor, perhaps?

She paced back and forth, just hoping everything was going well downstairs. Duncan would be greeting them, seeing them into the hall, and then it would be time for . . .

A knock sounded at the door.

Ransom.

“Are you ready?” He offered her his arm, and together they made their way down the corridor. “Don’t worry about anything. Just stay close to me.”