Page 46 of Courting the Wrong Duke

Even so, he found himself hoping the auctioneer's clerk had spoken truly.

Not because it might ease the suspicions still hanging over him.

But because, for the first time in weeks, Rosalind had looked as though she believed there was reason to hope.

A knock sounded at the breakfast room door.

“Come.”

The butler entered carrying a silver tray. “A messenger for you, my lord.”

William accepted the folded note with mild curiosity.

There was no seal, only his name written hastily across the front. He unfolded it, expecting some ordinary social communication, but before he realized it he had reached the end of the message and found himself reading it a second time.

His brow furrowed.

“Is something amiss, my lord?” the butler asked.

William lowered the note. “The messenger?”

“Still waiting.”

“Good.”

He read the message a second time, then a third, more slowly than before.

Lady Rosalind Carlisle requests the favor of Lord William's company this afternoon, should it be convenient. Lady Isabella will accompany her. If agreeable, they shall be waiting at Hatchard’s Bookshop at two o'clock. The matter is most urgent and cannot wait until this evening's ball.

William lowered the note, his mind already racing through possibilities.

There was no explanation, no indication of what had changed since the exhibition. Only the insistence that the matter could not wait.

Had the magistrates uncovered some new evidence? Had another witness finally come forward?

Or had Rosalind discovered something herself?

His pulse quickened despite himself.

If she had merely confirmed what he had told her about the auction house, a brief note of thanks would have sufficed. No, this was something else. Something important enough to summon him to Hatchard's only hours before one of the final balls of the Season.

He glanced toward the clock upon the mantel. There was still time to keep his appointment with the bootmaker beforehand, though he doubted he would give the man's work the slightest attention. His thoughts would remain fixed upon the meeting awaiting him that afternoon.

“Tell the messenger,” he said, folding the note with deliberate care, “that I shall be there.”

The butler inclined his head. “At once, my lord.”

Left alone once more, William slipped the note into his pocket.

He could not have said why, but he found himself strangely certain that whatever awaited him at Hatchard's would alter the course of the investigation.

***

The bell above the shop door chimed as William stepped inside.

The familiar scent of polished leather and beeswax greeted him immediately, accompanied by the rhythmic scrape of a brush somewhere beyond the workroom.

“Lord William.” Mr. Pritchard looked up from his bench, a smile already forming. “Your boots are ready.”