“We should thank the duke. I believe it was his suggestion.” He couldn’t see it, but just the same—Izzy cast a defiant smile in the direction of his scowl. “Isn’t he brilliant?”
Chapter Eight
Within a matter of minutes, it was decided. Miss Pelham was overjoyed at the prospect. Duncan offered to accompany her to the vicarage to help fetch her things.
“There,” Izzy said, clapping her hands once the two had left. She turned to the duke. “That’s all settled. While they’re gone, the two of us can get to work.”
“What the devil was that?” the duke asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You. Your behavior, the moment Miss Pelham arrived. It was like you became an entirely different person.” He mimicked her girlish lilt. “ ‘Oh, yes, Miss Pelham.’ ‘I’d be so grateful, Miss Pelham.’ ”
She sighed. “There’s no need for you to be concerned about it.”
“I’m not concerned. I’m envious. Why does she get the compliant Miss Goodnight, and I get the weasel-wielding harridan?”
“Because she’s a Moranglian.”
“A what?”
“A Moranglian. My father’s stories took place in a fictional country called Moranglia. His most devoted admirers call themselves Moranglians. They have clubs and gatherings and circular letters. And they expect a certain wide-eyed innocence from Izzy Goodnight. I don’t want to disappoint them, that’s all.”
He tapped his fingers on the back of a chair. “So. If I read these stories of your father’s, does that mean you’ll be meek and docile with me?”
“No.”
She was never going to be meek or docile with him, and she was never going to let him read The Goodnight Tales. The possibility was out of the question. In fact, the possibility was so far out of the question, the possibility and the question were on separate continents.
“Even if you did read my father’s stories, I doubt you’d enjoy them. They require the reader to possess a certain amount of . . .”
“Gullibility?” he suggested. “Inexperience? Willful stupidity?”
“Heart. They require the reader to possess a heart.”
“Then you’re right. They’re not for me. And I’m certainly never going to style myself a Mordrangler.”
“Moranglian.”
“Really,” he said, clearly annoyed. “Does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. Not to you.” She moved to the table. “And we don’t have time to be reading stories anyhow. Not with all this correspondence to go through.”
She surveyed the snowdrifts of letters and packets, debating how best to proceed.
“It looks as though they’re somewhat chronological. The older letters are the ones nearest to me, and the newer ones spill toward the far end of the table. Do you want to begin with the old or the new?”
“The old,” he said without hesitation. “If I’m going to understand just what’s going on here, I need to start at the beginning.”
Going through every bit of this correspondence would likely take weeks, but Izzy wasn’t going to complain. More work meant more money for her fix-the-castle fund. And if she was being honest, as difficult as the Duke of Rothbury was to live with, she wasn’t terribly eager to be left alone in the place. Not until it had a good scrubbing. Perhaps an exorcism.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll start here at the beginning. As I read, we’ll sort papers into two piles: Significant, to be revisited later, and Insignificant, to be set aside. Does that plan meet with your approval?”
“Yes.” He reclined on the sofa, sprawling across the full length of it. It was a largish sofa, but he was an even more largish man. Magnus curled in a heap nearby.
“So while I read, you’re just going to lie there. Like a matron reclining on her chaise longue.”
“No. I’m going to lie here like a duke, reposed in his own castle.”
Hah. He ought to recline while he still could. This wouldn’t be his castle for long.
Making use of a nearby letter opener, Izzy started breaking seals and prying open old envelopes. She opened the first, and fattest, one her fingers could locate.
It would seem she’d chosen well. A long list of lines and figures and sums fell out.
“This one looks promising,” she said.
“Then don’t tease, Goodnight. Just read it.”
“ ‘May it please Your Grace,’ ” she began. “ ‘We were most distressed to hear news of your recent injury. Please accept our wishes for your speedy recovery and a return to good health. Per your request, we will forward all estate-related correspondence to your holding in Northumberland, Gostley Castle, until such time as we are given other notice. Enclosed, please find a list of all bills and payments drawn on estate accounts in the previous—”
The duke interrupted. “Are you aware that you’re doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Reading in voices.”
“I’m not doing any such thing.” Her cheeks warmed. “Am I?”
“Yes. You are. I never knew my accounting clerk sounded just like Father Christmas.”
Very well. She had been reading the letter in a puffed, clerkish baritone. What of it? Izzy didn’t believe he had any cause for complaint.
“Everything’s more amusing when read in voices.” With a mild shrug, she carried on. “ ‘Enclosed, please find a list of all bills and payments drawn on estate accounts in the previous fortnight.’ And then the list follows. One hundred fifteen pounds paid to the wine merchant. Horseflesh purchased at auction, eight hundred fifty. Monthly credit at the Dark Lion gaming club, three hundred.”
Wine, fast horses, gambling . . .
The further she scanned, the less favorable a portrait this list painted.
However, she perked with interest at the next line. “Charitable subscription to support the Ladies ‘Campaign for Temperance’ . . .” She looked over the page at him. “Ten whole guineas. What generosity.”
“Never let it be said I do nothing for charity.”
“There are lines for servants’ wages, the costermonger . . . Nothing strikes me as out of the ordinary.” Izzy squinted at a scribbled line. “Except this. One hundred forty paid to The Hidden Pearl. What’s that, a jeweler’s shop?”
“No.” That now-familiar smirk curved his lips. “But they do have lovely baubles on display.”
“Oh.”
The meaning behind his sly answer and devilish expression sank in. The Hidden Pearl was a bawdy house, of course. And she was a fool.
“You could call it a charitable establishment, if it helps,” he said. “Some of those poor women have hardly anything to wear.”
Izzy ignored him. She held up the letter. “Significant or Insignificant?”
“Significant,” he said. “Anything to do with money is significant.”
She set the letter on a clear patch of table, making it the base of what would become a small, yet steadily growing stack.
They worked through the envelopes, one by one. A few invitations for long-ago events went into the Insignificant heap, as did the months-old newspapers and charitable appeals. Estate reports and accounting tables went in the Significant pile.
Izzy pulled a thin envelope from the sea of unread letters. “Here’s something that was franked by a member of Parliament. It must be very important.”
“If you think every letter bearing an MP’s frank is important, you have fairy-tale notions of government, too. But by all means, read.”
As she opened the letter, a hint of stale, soured perfume assaulted her senses. The penmanship within was scrawling and florid—very feminine. It would seem the letter was not written by the MP himself. Most likely by his wife.
“ ‘Rothbury,’ ” Izzy began aloud.
Well, there was a remarkably familiar salutation. The letter must come from someone who knew him well.
She continued. “ ‘It will shock you to hear from me. It’s been months, and we are not the sort to exchange tender missives. But what is this news of you suffering a mysterious injury? In Northumberland, of all the godforsaken places. I hear a hundred rumors if I hear one. Some report you’ve lost an eye, your nose, or both. Others insist it was a hand. I, of course, care little which appendages you might lop off, so long as no harm comes to that marvelously wicked tongue of yours, and no inches disappear from your magnificent—”
Izzy froze, unable to read further.
“Do go on,” the duke said. “I was enjoying that one. And I’ve changed my mind—feel free to be creative with the voices. Something low and sultry would be excellent.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary for me to read on. Clearly this letter belongs in the Insignificant pile.”
“Oh, Miss Goodnight.” His unmarred eyebrow arched. “Weren’t you paying attention? There’s nothing insignificant about it.”
She burned with embarrassment.
“Don’t think you’ll shame me with your prim silence. I’m not ashamed in the least. Just because you make friends by acting as though you were found under a turnip leaf and raised by gnomes, it doesn’t mean everyone takes pleasure in being prudish.”
“Prudish?” she echoed. “I’m not a prude.”
“Of course not. The reason you stopped reading that letter had nothing to do with being England’s innocent sweetheart.”
He laced his hands behind his neck and propped his boots on the opposite arm of the sofa. If an artist were to capture this image, it would have been labeled, Smugness: A Portrait. She wanted to shake him.
“Cock.” She blurted it out. “There. I said it. Aloud. Here, I’ll say it again. Cock. Cock, cock, cock. And not just any cock.” She glanced at the paper and dropped her voice to a throaty purr. “ ‘Your magnificent cock, which I long to feel deep inside me again.’ ”
He went quiet now.
She released her grip, letting the paper drop from her hand. “Satisfied?”
“Actually, Goodnight . . .” He sat up on the sofa, shifting awkwardly. “I am the furthest thing from satisfied. And heartily sorry I pressed the matter.”
“Good.”
Izzy huffed a breath, dislodging a stray curl from her forehead. Her whole body was hot and achy, and a low throb had settled between her thighs.
Worst of all, her mind was a buzzing hive of curiosity. When it came to a man’s organ, just what constituted “magnificence” anyhow? There were clues in the letter, she supposed. Something about precious inches and the ability to reach depths.
She propped her elbows on the table and extended one index finger into the air. How long was that, she mused? Perhaps four inches, at the most? Four inches didn’t strike her as a measurement one associated with magnificence.
She extended both index fingers toward one another, letting them touch at the tips. Their combined length was more impressive. But also a little bit frightening.
“Goodnight.”
Oh, Lord.
Her elbow slipped, sending a sheaf of papers cascading to the floor. Thank heaven he couldn’t see her. “Yes?”
“Do you intend to carry on with your work?”
“Yes. Yes, Your Grace. Of course. Yes.”
Enough with these missives from his former lovers.
Izzy searched through the letters, hoping to choose something dry and boring. A report on the state of his tenants’ barley crop. Something with absolutely no evidence of his career as a virile, unapologetic, magnificent libertine.
“Here’s something that was sent as an express,” she said, plucking a battered envelope from the bottom of the heap. “It was addressed to you in London, but your people must have forwarded it here.”