Page 151 of Courting the Wrong Duke

He had seen the same initials upon books Lord Eastmere had loaned him, upon correspondence, even upon the silver traveling case the earl had carried for as long as William could remember.

Gabriel must have seen something change in his face because he came closer. “What is it?”

William could not answer immediately.

Behind him, the unsigned letter remained open upon Algernon’s desk.

You must make a decision regarding the prisoner at Bryn Hir.

He looked from the initials inside the boot to the letter, and the possibility he had been resisting became almost impossible to deny.

Lord Eastmere had disappeared after entering Algernon’s carriage. His boots were in Algernon’s study, and somewhere upon a remote estate in Wales, Algernon was being urged to decide the fate of a prisoner.

William slowly lifted his gaze to Gabriel. “I think we know where Rosalind’s father is.”

Gabriel’s expression changed. “Bryn Hir.”

William nodded.

For weeks, they had been searching London for a man who might never have been there at all.

A coldness settled through him as his gaze returned to the letter.

You must make a decision.

He had been so relieved to finally have a place to search that he had almost overlooked the far more frightening implication of those words.

William was already moving toward the door. “We need to find Rosalind.”

Gabriel followed. “And then?”

William thought of the carriage. The lies. The boots abandoned in his brother’s study.

Then of Rosalind beside the pond, telling him she would find her father without him.

His hand tightened around the letter.

“Then we go to Wales.”

Chapter 22

By midnight, Rosalind had abandoned any pretense of sleeping.

Isabella had apparently reached the same conclusion.

Neither had suggested she ought to leave.

They had endured dinner with Rosalind’s mother in near silence, exchanging only the occasional glance across the table whenever her mother attempted to draw them into conversation. Rosalind had pleaded exhaustion after the events of the afternoon.

Isabella had claimed a headache in an admirable display of loyalty, though the quantity of pudding she consumed afterward had somewhat undermined the performance.

Now they sat in Rosalind’s bedchamber with the forged letter spread between them.

“I still cannot believe I missed it,” Rosalind murmured.

“You are not a painter.”

“I have eyes.”