Castle of Dreams: A Midnight Tale

Chapter 3

“Indeed.”

In a matter of moments, the intruder’s steps sounded in the courtyard. “Hullo, there? Miss Goodnight?”

She flew to the window and called down. “Up here, my lord. The great hall.”

Once the man entered the hall, his steps arrowed straight toward their place near the hearth. Confident, clipped. Much too fast.

William gritted his teeth. Damn, he hated this. Being at this constant disadvantage, unable to control the situation.

The fireplace poker was close at hand. He lifted it. “Stop there.”

The footsteps halted, some ten feet away. He felt the fresh source of scrutiny burning over his scarred face.

“Is that . . . ? But it can’t be.” The newcomer took one step forward. “Greysberg? Good God. It’s like coming face-to-face with a ghost.”

“I don’t know you,” William said.

“No, but I know you.” Archer lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was on the guest list, you see. Bride’s side.”

William steeled his jaw and kept his expression impassive. He wouldn’t give this cur the pleasure of a reaction.

“No one’s seen you in months,” Archer went on. “The rumor about Town is that you’re dead.”

“Well, the rumor has it wrong.”

The truth was even worse.

William gave the poker a meaningful tap against stone. This was his castle. He didn’t answer questions here; he asked them. “Explain yourself. What are you doing, luring unsuspecting women to my home?”

“To your home?” Archer chuckled in a low, disconcerting way. “Well, this should prove interesting.”

Daisy felt as though she’d wandered into the third act of a play. She had no idea what was going on, but it was unbearably dramatic.

Lord Archer did make a fine-looking player. She was comforted by his starched cravat and fitted gloves. Signs that civility still existed somewhere in the world.

“If you’ll permit me to speak with Miss Goodnight,” Archer said, unperturbed by the makeshift weapon leveled at his chest, “I think you’ll find all your questions answered.”

The Duke of Greysberg—for it would seem he was the duke, after all—lowered his poker. Grudgingly. “Speak.”

Lord Archer turned to Daisy. He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “So. I’ve been most anxious to meet the famous Daisy Goodnight. My nieces will be green with envy.” His enthusiasm faded as he looked her over. “I must say, you’re not quite what I expected.”

Daisy held back a sigh. She never was.

“I always pictured you as a wide-eyed child,” he said.

“I was twelve when my father’s stories began appearing in the Gentleman’s Review. But that was almost fourteen years ago. And, in the natural way of things, I’ve aged one year every year since.”

“Yes.” He shook his head. “I suppose you would have.”

Daisy merely smiled in response. She’d long made a habit of rationing her remarks when speaking with her father’s admirers. The Lord Archers of the world didn’t want Daisy to be a grown woman with her own set of likes and dislikes, dreams and desires. They wanted her to be the wide-eyed young girl of the stories. That way, they could continue to read and reread their beloved tales, imagining themselves in her place.

For that was the magic spell of The Goodnight Tales. When they settled down with each weekly installment, readers felt themselves tucked beneath that warm purple quilt. They saw themselves staring up at a ceiling painted with silver moons and golden stars, their hair fanned across the pillow for a loving father’s hand to stroke. They looked forward to that same, familiar promise:

Put out the light, my darling Daisy, and I shall tell you such a tale . . .

The truth of her childhood didn’t match what was printed in the magazines. But if she ever let it slip—oh, how people resented her for it. They looked at her as if she’d just ripped the wings off the Last True Fairy in England.

Lord Archer sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning toward her in confidence. “Say, I know you must be asked this all the time. But my nieces would garrote me with their skipping ropes if I didn’t try. I don’t suppose your father . . .”

“No, my lord.” Her smile tightened. “I don’t know how Cressida escapes from the tower. And I’m afraid I’ve no idea of the Shadow Knight’s true identity.”

“And Ulric’s still dangling from that parapet?”

“As far as I know. I’m sorry.”

“Never mind it.” He gave her a good-natured smile. “It’s not your fault. You must be more tortured by the uncertainty than anyone.”

You have no idea.

Tortured by the uncertainty, indeed. She was asked these same questions at least three times a week, in person or in letters. When her father died suddenly of an apoplexy, his ongoing saga had been interrupted, too. His beloved characters had been left in all sorts of perilous situations. Locked in towers and dangling from cliffs.

Daisy found herself in the most desperate straits of all. Stripped of all her possessions, cast out of the only home she’d ever known. But no one thought to inquire after her well-being. They all worried over Cressida locked in her tower, and her beloved Ulric, hanging by three fingers from the parapet.

“My father would be most gratified that you asked,” Daisy told him. “I’m thankful, too.” It was the truth. Despite her current circumstances, she was proud of the Goodnight legacy.

Over by the hearth, the duke cleared his throat.

“My lord,” she said, “I think our host is eager to have us gone. Might I ask about this bequest my godfather left me?”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Archer rummaged in a small portmanteau. “I’ve brought all the papers with me. We can have it done today. Greysberg can hand over the keys if there are any.”

“Keys?” She sat tall. “I don’t understand.”

“Your inheritance, Miss Goodnight. It’s this. The castle.”

Her breath left her. “What?”

In a dark voice, the duke protested, too. “Impossible.”

Lord Archer squinted at the documents. “Here we are. ‘To Miss Daisy Finch Goodnight, I leave the property known as Ravenwood Castle.’ Is it pronounced like ‘Ghostly’ or ‘Ghastly’? Either one seems accurate.”

“I thought the bequest was money,” Daisy said, shaking her head. “A hundred pounds, perhaps two.”

“There is no money, Miss Goodnight. Just the castle. Lynforth had several goddaughters, and apparently he gifted them with too few ponies or hair ribbons over the years. In the last months of his life, he decided to leave each of them every girl’s dream. Her very own castle.”

“Now wait,” the duke interrupted. “This castle has been in my family for hundreds of years.”

Archer looked at the papers. “And apparently it was sold to Lynforth just a few months back.” He looked over his papers at Daisy. “I take it you’re surprised by this?”