Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(26)

“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.