and you may be right. My peers call me John Lackland, which conveys the measure of their lack of respect for my position, would you not say? I prefer to spend my time and energies on what I can achieve.’
‘King John lost all the English lands in France to earn the title Lackland. As far as I am aware you did nothing to deserve losing your birthright.’ She was used to dealing with difficult men and she had steeled herself to confront this one. He was not going to make her stop probing until she understood who she was dealing with—there was too much at stake.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But that does not make me any less inclined to carry on as though I command rolling acres. I prefer reality and I dislike fantasy.’ Madelyn noticed that he did not glance around as he said it: clearly he expected her to be able to take his point. It seemed he despised her father’s creation.
‘I chose to make my own place in the world by my own efforts,’ Jack Ransome continued. ‘And I assume that is why you have summoned me, rather than to hold a discussion about my landholdings. Or lack of them.’
Best to stop probing before he got up and walked out on her, Madelyn concluded. Or loses his temper. She smoothed out a crease in the fabric across her knee until her fingers were steady and made herself continue. ‘You are an enquiry agent.’ She knew that, of course, but she was interested in how this man described himself.
‘I act on behalf of others, for payment. I cause things to happen, or I prevent them happening. Often that involves making enquiries,’ he said. The level, dark blue gaze held neither resentment nor impatience, but neither did he show pleasure at the invitation to talk about himself. A novelty in itself… He was intriguing and that helped steady her nerves.
‘If sons find themselves entangled with unsuitable women or being bear-led by some sharp, I disentangle them. If the suitor for a daughter’s hand seems just too good to be true, I establish his bona fides. If sensitive correspondence goes missing, or anonymous letters arrive, I’ll get to the bottom of it for you. If you want a safe escort somewhere, I will provide it. If you wish to disappear, I can arrange that. Or perhaps you are being blackmailed. I remove blackmailers.’
She wondered if she was supposed to ask how he removed them. Or where to. Madelyn resisted the temptation. She needed none of those services.
Mr Ransome leaned back in the chair, crossed one booted leg over the other and raised an interrogative dark brow. ‘And what do you want me to do for you, Miss Aylmer?’
Madelyn found she was not ready to tell him yet. She needed to find the courage first. Or perhaps she needed to bury her doubts about her father’s will even deeper. Her conscience was troubling her. ‘You know who I am, who my father was, why I live in a castle?’ she asked.
She sensed rather than saw that she now had his full attention: he had studied his brief, it appeared. ‘Your father, Mr Peregrine Aylmer, was obsessed with two things, the Middle Ages and his lineage, not necessarily in that order. He inherited a large fortune and used it to restore this castle in order to create and immerse himself in a fantasy world which, I gather, he could well afford to do, given the size of his inheritance and, no doubt, his successful investments. He has recently died and you are his sole heir.’
‘Yes, that is all correct. There are no men of our name left. It derives from the Anglo-Saxon aethelmaer, which means famous noble. Our lineage stretches back beyond any recorded English kings, beyond any title of nobility surviving today.’
‘All families, even the humblest, could be traced to the beginning of time if only the records existed,’ said the man whose rejected title was a Tudor creation. She suspected that she knew the details of his family tree far better than he did. He shrugged. ‘We all go back to Adam. Some know more about their history—or the fantasies about it—than others, that is all.’
‘Our lineage is documented. All my father wanted was a son to hand the name down to, to continue the line, to continue his work. My mother died along with my infant brother six years ago. I have proved to be the only survivor of seven infants from two wives. He lost heart at that death.’
‘Is that when the obsession with this castle became intense?’ Ransome enquired coolly.
‘He was not obsessed,’ she protested. Father had been right, she had to believe that. Everyone was prejudiced against him. Even me, sometimes, she thought guiltily.
She had meant to rattle Jack Ransome’s composure, but it seemed he had turned the tables on her. Madelyn lowered her voice, forced herself into her habitual calm. ‘Castle Beaupierre is a work of great scholarship, an artistic creation, bringing a lost world back. My father’s entire life was dedicated to that.’ Surely anyone could see it? Even she, knowing the cost, had no doubts about the results, and Jack Ransome was an educated man: he would understand what it had cost in time and money and devotion.
‘And were you a work of scholarship, a piece of art, to your father, Miss Aylmer?’
I was a disappointment. A girl. Of course I was not a piece of art. I was… I am…a failure.
‘I naturally supported my father. He chose to live in an age of chivalry and beauty. A world set in the countryside of England, a world of craftsmanship. Not in a modern world of steam and speed and cities, of poverty and ugliness.’ She knew all the arguments by rote.
‘I see.’
It was clearly a polite lie. The face of the man opposite her was set in a severe expression that probably hid either a sneer or a desire to laugh. The fine lines in the corners of his eyes made her think that laughter was a possibility. She had no desire to be a source of amusement to him—in fact, she dreaded it, although not as much as she feared his anger. There was so much to be frightened of, but she was not going to give way now.
Madelyn controlled her breathing and made herself look steadily at Jack Ransome. Every report of him praised his intelligence, none spoke of irrational temper or violence, of ill-treatment of servants—not that he had many—or of either drunkenness or debauchery. He was in good health, a sportsman, which no doubt accounted for the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles revealed by tight breeches. He had turned his back on society, and in return society mocked him as Lackland or disapproved vehemently of his rejection of his title. But many of its members turned to him when they needed his help. He had friends, some unconventional by all reports, some very shady indeed.
He was dangerous, reports said, but they were hazy about who he was a danger to, other than the aforementioned blackmailers, presumably. The judgement was that he was ruthless, but honest. Stubborn, difficult and self-contained.
No one had reported on Jack Ransome’s looks, on that straight nose, on that firm, rather pointed jaw that gave him a slightly feline look. Certainly there had been no mention of a mouth that held the only hint of sensuous indulgence in that entire severe countenance. Other than those faint laughter lines…
So far, so…acceptable.
‘You show no curiosity about why I have engaged your services, Lord… Mr Ransome.’
‘No doubt you will inform me in your own good time. Whether you decide to employ me or not, I will present your man of business with my fee for today and for the time I will spend travelling to and from Newmarket and for my expenses incurred en route. If you wish to expend that money on chit-chat, that is your prerogative, Miss Aylmer.’
Very cool. Very professional, I suppose.
