Page 157 of Courting the Wrong Duke

The estate is remote, but remoteness is not the same as safety, and every additional day increases the possibility that someone will discover what has been done.

“Bryn Hir?” Rosalind whispered.

“An estate in Wales,” William explained. “It belonged to my mother’s family before passing to Algernon. It is isolated and rarely used.”

Rosalind lowered her eyes to the letter again, reading those terrible lines a second time.

A prisoner was being held at an estate belonging to Algernon. Her father had last been seen entering Algernon’s carriage, and someone had gone to considerable trouble to convince everyone that he had left London of his own accord.

“You think the prisoner is Papa.”

“I do,” William said quietly.

Before Rosalind could respond, she noticed that Isabella had fallen silent. Her friend was no longer looking at either of them. Her attention had fixed entirely upon the letter.

“What is it?” Rosalind asked.

Isabella took the page from the table and moved it closer to the candle. She studied several lines before reaching into the pocket of her dressing gown and withdrawing her father’s supposed farewell letter.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Do you always carry evidence about your person?”

“I began tonight.”

Despite the circumstances, Rosalind almost smiled.

Isabella placed the two letters side by side and bent over them. For several moments, she said nothing, her gaze moving carefully between the pages.

Then Rosalind realized what had caught her attention. “You recognize the handwriting.”

“I believe I do.” Isabella pointed to one of the words in the letter to Algernon. “Look at the final stroke here. See how it curves upward before leaving the page?”

Rosalind leaned closer as Isabella found the same formation in her father’s supposed farewell letter.

“And again here,” Isabella continued. “The letters themselves are different because whoever wrote this one was not attempting to imitate another hand, but the habits are the same.”

William moved closer to examine the pages. “You think the same person wrote both?”

Isabella studied them once more before nodding. “I am certain of it.”

The significance settled slowly over Rosalind.

Whoever had forged her father’s farewell letter knew about the prisoner at Bryn Hir. More than that, the person had written directly to Algernon about what should be done with him.

Algernon had known all along.

William watched her absorb the realization before speaking again. “There is something else.”

He told them about the boots he had found in Algernon’s study, the initials stamped inside identifying them as Edmund Carlisle’s.

Rosalind knew the maker immediately. Her father had ordered his boots from Harcourt and Sons for years.

“I remembered seeing Algernon at the bootmaker some weeks ago,” William continued. “He told me he was collecting an order of his own. At the time, I had no reason to question it.”

“But he was collecting Papa’s.”

“Yes.”

Rosalind looked from William to the two letters on the table.