Page 172 of Courting the Wrong Duke

Another sound followed, unmistakably movement this time.

Someone was in there.

William leaned closer to the door. “Lord Eastmere?” he whispered.

For several terrible seconds, there was no answer.

Then a faint voice came through the door.

“Who is there?”

Rosalind’s knees nearly gave way.

She knew that voice.

It was weaker than she remembered, roughened by exhaustion, but there was no mistaking it. She had heard it every day of her childhood, soothing her after nightmares, laughing across the dinner table, calling after her when she left a room without remembering whatever shawl or book she had brought with her.

Her father was alive.

“Papa.”

She rushed toward the door.

“Rosalind?” His voice broke over her name. “Rosalind?”

William caught her arm before she collided with the locked door, steadying her before immediately letting go.

“The key,” he whispered. “There must be one nearby.”

Rosalind nodded, unable to tear her gaze from the door while William lifted the lamp and searched the walls. A row of hooks hung beside the stairs, most of them empty, but one held a ring of keys.

William seized it.

The first did not fit. Neither did the second.

Rosalind could hear her father moving on the other side.

“Rosalind?”

“I am here.”

“What are you doing here?”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “I came for you.”

The third key turned.

William pulled open the door, revealing a short passage beyond. At the end of it, iron bars caught the glow of the lamp.

And behind them stood her father.

A cry tore from Rosalind before she could stop it.

“Papa!”

For one terrible moment, she could only stare at him.

Her father had always been slender, but the man behind the bars was thinner than she had ever seen him. His clothes hung loosely from his frame, his hair had grown long enough to curl untidily around his ears, and there was more gray at his temples than she remembered.