“I’m not,” she told him, hugging his arm tight. “I’m not worried about that at all.”

And with that, Ransom went to face the Inquisitioners.

When he entered the great hall, everyone stood. He saw a group of four gray figures, adrift in a sea of gray mist. Brilliant. He couldn’t tell them one from the other. Had no idea who the others might be, once Blaylock and Riggett were accounted for.

These four ominous shadows had come to pass judgment on his life.

But he had Izzy on his arm. The subtle creaking of the knights around him was an unexpected source of reassurance.

And he had a new lawyer. A good one. One he could trust.

He was among friends.

One of the visitors approached him. Ransom could feel the man taking in his appearance, scrutinizing his scars. “Your Grace, it’s a relief to see you in such good health.”

A relief? Ransom snorted. Somehow he doubted relief was what the man felt right now. Despicable, grasping swindler.

Izzy pressed her fingertips against his wrist, letting him know the solicitor’s identity.

“Blaylock,” he said. “This is Miss Isolde Goodnight. The new owner of Gostley Castle. Lynforth willed the place to her.”

Izzy curtsied. “How do you do?”

“We’ve brought along with us Mr. Havers,” the man went on, “from the office of the Lord Chancellor.”

Havers came forward. “A pleasure, Miss Goodnight. The Lord Chancellor sends his regards. His son is a great admirer of your father’s stories.”

Blaylock completed the introductions. “You’ll remember my colleague, Mr. Riggett. And this kind gentleman is Dr. Mills, from the Holyfield Sanitarium for the Mentally Dispossessed.”

Ransom acknowledged their vague forms with a curt nod. “If your introductions are concluded, I’ll proceed with mine. This is Mr. Wendell Butterfield, esquire. My new legal counsel. And before we proceed any further this afternoon, we will make one thing clear. I will answer any questions. About how I ended here seven months ago, and why. About what I’ve been doing since. About my injuries, my blindness”—he waited for them to absorb this news—“and my mental state. I will submit to your examinations. But first . . .” He snapped his fingers, and Wendell put the papers in his hand. “You will sign this.”

“What is it?”

“It creates an irrevocable trust for Miss Goodnight in the amount of twenty thousand pounds.”

His solicitor balked. “What? Twenty thou—”

“Your neglectful management meant she inherited this castle from her godfather and arrived to find it in a shameful state of disrepair. The least we can do is provide her the funds to restore it.”

“Your Grace, we cannot authorize—”

“It is my fortune. I am the duke. Until a court decides otherwise, I do the authorizing.” He thrust the papers in the solicitor’s hand. “I will sign. You will witness. Then, and only then, will I be at your disposal. If you refuse . . . ? I swear to you this. I will fight you, every step of the way, and I will see you brought up on charges of fraud.”

The solicitors conferred.

Izzy’s arm tightened on his. “What are you doing?” she murmured.

“I’m ensuring your future here in this castle. Everything else is secondary.”

“Your fate’s not secondary,” she whispered. “Not to me.”

Ransom acknowledged her sweet words with a squeeze of his fingers. But he didn’t withdraw his demand. Twenty thousand was a significant sum, but it was only a small portion of what they’d control if they succeeded in wresting his fortune away. He was relying on their greed to carry the day.

“Well?” he prodded. “Perhaps I should rescind the offer and press straight for the charges of fraud.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Blaylock said. “In the interests of Miss Goodnight, we will sign.”

“Good.” Once he’d scrawled his name at the bottom of the papers, and the solicitors had done likewise, Ransom could breathe easier. Izzy was safe.

Now, to make her a duchess.

The doctor approached him. “These fraud remarks concern me. Do you often see conspiracies surrounding you, Your Grace?”

Here it came. The interrogation.

Ransom dropped onto the sofa and settled in. He answered query after query. What year it was, the current ruling monarch, the color of the sky. They asked questions about his injury, poked at his scar.

He mined every reserve of patience he possessed. He could tell they were waiting to pounce on the slightest error or irregularity. With this many witnesses, they couldn’t fabricate a lunacy charge. If it came to a formal trial, Ransom knew he’d prevail. But it would be so much easier to be done with this today.

After an hour or so of their questioning, he couldn’t be patient any longer. A headache threatened at the base of his skull. “Someone get me a drink. Whisky.”

The doctor made a note. “Devoted . . . to . . . whisky.”

“That’s hardly a new development,” Ransom said.

“I must admit,” Mr. Havers remarked, “I find your house staff’s attire to be . . . fascinating.”

“Oh, that’s my whimsy,” Izzy said, adopting that girlish, treacly voice he despised. “You know how devoted I am to my father’s wonderful stories. And now, with the backdrop of this magnificent castle, I just can’t resist bringing a bit of The Goodnight Tales to life. I’m so lucky to have the handmaidens and knights here with me. Do you have any sweetmeats?”

The doctor leaned forward. “How do you feel about this atmosphere, Your Grace? Do you enjoy living in a fairy tale, too?”

One of the knights—Sir Alfred, Ransom thought he was called—creaked and clanked forward. He placed a tumbler of whisky in Ransom’s hand. The glass jostled in the exchange, and spirits splashed them both.

“Apologies, my brother,” Alfred said.

“Brother?”

Damn it. Ransom knew that sound. That was the sound of a pounce.

Blaylock’s voice sharpened. “Did that footman just address you as brother?”

“Are you testing my hearing now?” Ransom tried to sound bored. “I believe he did.”

“Surely you don’t permit the footmen to address you in that familiar manner, Your Grace. Or have you forgotten yourself?”

“I haven’t forgotten myself.”

“You, there.” Riggett called to the young knight, who had clanked his way back to the side of the room. “Why did you just address his grace as ‘brother’?”

“B-because we are both members of the same brotherhood,” the youth answered. “The Order of the Poppy.”

When Ransom heard the resulting laughter, there was no gray in his vision any longer.

Only red.

“The Order of the Poppy?” Blaylock was like a greedy boy with a bowl of trifle and two spoons. “Do tell us more.”

“It’s the Moranglian order of knighthood, sir. We have banners, tournaments. Badges, and an oath.”

“And the duke is a willing part of this?”

“I . . . I don’t know, sir.” Alfred hesitated.

Of course he hesitated. Ransom recognized the youth’s voice now. He was the one of the knights who’d been arguing against Ransom’s inclusion. And perhaps for good reason. Alfred had known this moment would come even if he hadn’t guessed it would be so soon.

He’d known Ransom would be put to the test.

So, here it was. He could have his fortune, title, and authority restored today—but only if he denounced Izzy’s hard work and everything her friends stood for.

Yesterday, he’d had no difficulty doing just that. He’d mocked and belittled every person standing on the fringes of this room.

And today, they’d come back. For Izzy, and for him. Was he supposed to abuse them all over again?

“Do you believe me now?” Riggett was eager to seal the matter. “He’s addled, clearly. His blow to the head has left him hopelessly confused. A lunacy trial is our only course.”

The doctor leaned close. “Your Grace. Do you know who you are?”

“Yes.” Ransom rose to his feet. “I know precisely who I am. I’m Ransom William Dacre Vane, the eleventh Duke of Rothbury. I’m also the Marquess of Youngham, Earl of Priorwood, Lord Thackeray. And . . .”

“And?” the doctor prompted. “And you believe you’re someone else, as well?”

He heard Izzy’s small hiss of warning. But damn it, he’d sworn an oath. On her name. He couldn’t deny it now.

“I’m a Knight of Moranglia.”

Izzy clapped a hand to her mouth.

Oh, no. He’d done it now.

Ransom thumped his chest, and all the knights saluted in return.

Half of Izzy wanted to cheer, and half of her wanted to weep. It was a sweet, valiant gesture on his part—but at what cost?

The solicitors moved into action at once.

“You see, Havers? We have no choice.” Riggett pointed at the duke. “He needs to stand for a lunacy trial. He’s delusional. Probably dangerous.”

The doctor agreed. “In my professional opinion, he should be taken into custody, held for examination in London.”

“Please,” Izzy said. “Please wait a moment. Let’s discuss this further. Surely an asylum isn’t necessary.”

But her pleas were lost in the din. Other objections drowned them out.

All around the great hall, the knights and handmaidens were rousing themselves to Ransom’s defense.

One of the knights drew his saber—a saber that didn’t look sharp enough to cut sponge cake—and thrust it into the air. “You can’t take him!”

“This is a brotherhood,” another cried out.

“I knew all this training would be for something.”

“We stand as one. We will fight to the death.”

Even Magnus began to growl and bark.

A shout lifted over all: “Release the ermine!”

“Stop!” Izzy ran to the end of the hall, clambered up on the table, and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Stop!” she cried, putting the force of her full body into it. “Stop, all of you! Stop!”

They stopped. And turned to her.

When she had the room’s attention, she took a deep breath. She made her hands flat in front of her, as if she could use them to physically smooth the tension in the room.

“No battles will be necessary. No examinations, either. This is all a misunderstanding. The duke is perfectly sane. Mr. Blaylock, Mr. Riggett, Mr. Havers, Dr. Mills. You must believe me. I have been sharing this castle with the Duke of Rothbury for weeks now, and I know him to be perfectly sound of mind. The knights, the handmaidens, the romantic stories . . . he doesn’t believe in all this. He shouldn’t believe in this.”

“You see . . .” Her eyes flitted over the knights and handmaidens. “The Goodnight Tales were . . . Well, they were a lie. I was never that innocent little girl with sleek amber hair. Sir Henry wasn’t a doting father though he tried his best. I didn’t want a weasel for a pet, and I didn’t ask for this.” She indicated the castle. “Cressida might be brave, but I’m terrified of the dark. Ulric can say, ‘Doubt not,’ but I have doubts all the time. I’ve doubted the truth of happy endings. I’ve doubted the existence of lasting love. Most of all, I’ve doubted myself.”

To the solicitors, she said, “The duke is humoring me. But he knows this is just pretense. Shite and bollocks, I believe he called it yesterday.” She looked around the room. “Didn’t he? You all were there.”

A murmur of reluctant confirmation swept the room.

She turned to Ransom. “So tell them. It’s all right. I don’t need to pretend any longer, and you don’t need to protect me. Just tell them everything you’ve been saying to me for weeks. You’re perfectly sane. Romance is the delusion.” She pressed her hand to her belly. “It’s all right. Truly.”