Page 144 of Courting the Wrong Duke

Rosalind pulled the ledger closer.

Once she knew what to look for, she could not stop seeing it.

Father’s handwriting moved across the page without effort. It was imperfect in all the familiar ways she had never thought to notice before. Some letters crowded together. Others stretched. His pen grew heavier when he changed direction and lighter when he wrote quickly.

The letter imitated every one of those habits.

But it imitated them.

It was too careful. Too deliberate.

Someone had learned how Papa wrote and reproduced it well enough to fool his own daughter.

Rosalind’s hands began to tremble. “He did not write this.”

Isabella reached for her arm. “No. I do not believe he did.”

Rosalind barely heard her.The carriage returned to her with sickening clarity.

Algernon’s carriage.

Her father had climbed into it willingly, trusting whoever had sent it. Then he had vanished, and a letter in his own hand had conveniently appeared to assure his family that he had gone of his own accord.

Except it was not his hand.

Rosalind looked at Isabella, and the same realization was already written across her friend’s face.

This had not happened by chance.

Someone had taken her father.

And before they did, they had made certain no one would come looking for him.

Chapter 21

By the time William reached Gabriel’s house, he had managed to make sense of absolutely nothing.

He had ridden hard enough that his horse was breathing heavily beneath him, yet the speed had done little to quiet his thoughts. If anything, the rhythm of hooves against the road had given them somewhere to run.

Lord Eastmere had left White’s in Algernon’s carriage.

That much appeared undeniable.

But why?

William searched through every conversation he could remember having with the earl in the weeks before his disappearance. Had Eastmere mentioned leaving London? An appointment? Some private matter involving Algernon?

Nothing came to him.

The earl had seemed entirely himself. William remembered seeing him at White’s just before he vanished, complaining cheerfully about the weather and declaring that London society would be considerably improved if half its members were required to remain silent after dinner.

Nothing about a journey. Nothing about danger.

Certainly nothing that explained why he would climb into Algernon’s carriage and disappear.

Then there was Augusta.

William had spent much of the ride trying to persuade himself that the note he had seen her pass to the footman meant nothing. She was a duchess. She sent servants on errands every day. Had William witnessed the exchange a week ago, he would not have spared it another thought.