Chapter 17
William waited longer than he intended before leaving the drawing room.
At first he told himself his mother and Rosalind had only just begun their tour and that following them too quickly would make him look ridiculous.
Then twenty minutes became thirty, and the book he had taken from the table remained open upon the same page while his thoughts wandered everywhere except the words before him.
He was glad Rosalind had come.
The admission felt almost embarrassingly simple after everything the last day had contained, but there was no point denying it.
The house had seemed lighter from the moment she entered it.
Even his mother, who had spent most of the morning troubled by everything Algernon revealed, had brightened in Rosalind's company.
William had too.
That did not mean the weight of the previous night had disappeared. His brother's confession remained lodged somewhere painfully beneath his ribs, altering memories William had never expected to question. Yet beneath that confusion was another frustration he could not ignore.
Lord Eastmere was still missing.
For all the questions they had asked and every faint lead they had pursued, they seemed no closer to finding him than when they began. The auction clerk had vanished. The horse remained unclaimed. Every inquiry opened another door only to reveal an empty room beyond it.
William had promised Rosalind he would help.
Lately, it felt as though promising was all he had managed to accomplish.
He finally closed the book and rose.
His mother had mentioned taking Rosalind into the gardens after the tour. Enough time had certainly passed that he could join them without appearing to have spent the last half hour waiting impatiently for precisely that opportunity.
Rather than take the main staircase down, William found himself turning toward the smaller gallery on the upper floor.
He often went there when the house felt too crowded or his thoughts too loud.
The narrow room received afternoon light from a row of western windows, and unlike the grand portrait gallery below, it contained landscapes, sketches, and small watercolors collected over generations. No ancestors stared accusingly from gilded frames. No one expected anything of him there.
Today, however, he was not alone.
Rosalind stood before the far wall.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps, surprise widening her eyes.
“Lord William.”
He stopped just inside the doorway. “Lady Rosalind.”
For a moment they simply stared at one another.
The doors behind him remained open, and the distant movement of servants carried faintly through the corridor, but the gallery itself felt strangely removed from the rest of the house.
“I hope I am not somewhere I ought not to be,” Rosalind said. “Your mother showed me much of the house before Lady Whitcombe arrived, and afterward I wandered farther than I intended.”
“You are perfectly welcome here.”
Her expression eased. “Good. Though I was rather surprised when I found this.”
William followed her gaze.
The painting hung upon the wall before them, the rolling countryside and broad peach-gold sky immediately familiar.
Rosalind looked back at him. “I thought your brother donated it to the exhibition.”
“He did.”
“Then what is it doing here?”
William suddenly felt rather more self-conscious than the question warranted. “I asked for it back.”
Her brows lifted. “You did?”
“Before the exhibition ended.”
“Why?”
He crossed the remaining distance and stopped beside her, turning his attention toward the painting rather than immediately answering.
It had seemed a perfectly reasonable decision at the time.
His mother loved the piece. Algernon had no particular attachment to it, and after hearing Rosalind explain what she saw in that solitary traveler and endless afternoon sky, William had found himself thinking about the painting rather more often than a man ought to think about a landscape.
So he had sent word asking that it be returned.
He had not examined too closely why he had been unwilling to let it go.
“My mother has always loved it,” he said. “I suppose after our conversation at the exhibition, I finally understood why.”
Rosalind’s gaze returned to the canvas.
“The freedom.”
“The freedom,” he agreed.
That was reason enough.
At least, it was the reason he could comfortably give her.
He did not mention that the painting now carried another memory for him entirely. He could no longer look at that sweep of countryside without remembering Rosalind standing beside him at the exhibition, nor the accidental brush of her fingers against his.
Apparently his mother was no longer the only person who had become sentimental about a bit of peach-colored sky.
Rosalind’s gaze remained upon the painted sky. “The color is familiar.”
William glanced at her. “Is it?”
She nodded thoughtfully, studying the soft wash of peach and gold. “It reminds me of your hair.”
That caught him entirely unprepared. “My hair?”
“In the afternoon light,” she explained, turning toward him with amusement already gathering in her expression. “That day we met for tea. The sun made it look almost this exact shade.”
William looked from her to the painting and laughed. “I confess that may be the strangest compliment I’ve ever received.”
“It was not a compliment.”
“Then that makes it considerably worse.”
Her smile widened. “I merely observed that your hair looked peach-gold.”
“Peach-gold,” he repeated, wondering when, precisely, she had spent enough time looking at his hair to determine such a thing.
The thought pleased him far more than it ought to. “I shall have to remember that,” he said.
“For what purpose?”
“The next time we are somewhere sufficiently crowded for people to overhear us. Such detailed observations would do wonders for convincing London of your devotion.”
Rosalind laughed softly. “You are becoming far too dedicated to this performance.”
“I take my responsibilities seriously.” William leaned one shoulder against the wall, smiling at her. “Which reminds me, have you finished your manual yet?”
Recognition sparked in her eyes. “Not quite. I fear further research is required.”
“An alarming prospect.”
“It is proving more complicated than anticipated. There are certain things that simply refuse to fit the established rules.”
William’s amusement softened into curiosity. “Such as?”
For a moment, she did not answer. Her attention returned to the painting, lingering upon the solitary path and the enormous sweep of peach-colored sky above it.
“A gentleman reclaiming a painting from an exhibition because he finally understands why his mother loves it.”
Something in William went unexpectedly still.
Rosalind glanced at him again, and the teasing in her expression had softened.
“I do not think there is a chapter for that in the fake-courting manual.”
The gallery suddenly felt smaller.
Or perhaps it was simply the distance between them.
William became acutely aware that only a few feet separated them. That Rosalind was looking at him with an expression he could not dismiss as teasing. That the afternoon light brought out the warmer shades in her brown hair and made her green eyes appear brighter than they had downstairs.
They should not be alone.
Technically, they were not. The doors stood open, servants passed periodically through the corridor, and anyone walking by could see them without effort. Yet none of that did much to lessen the intimacy of standing so close to her.
William took a step forward before good sense had the opportunity to object.
Rosalind did not move.
For one dangerous heartbeat, he thought of closing the remaining distance entirely. Instead, he reached for her hand, and when her fingers settled willingly into his, the contact carried him back to that morning in the square.
She had held both his hands then and somehow understood what he was feeling without requiring him to find the words for it.
His thumb moved once across the back of her glove. “I am sorry.”
The change in his voice made her smile fade. “For what?”
“For failing you.”
Rosalind frowned. “William.”
“I told you I would help find your father, and I have nothing to give you.” He glanced down at their joined hands before meeting her eyes again.
“The auction clerk disappeared before we could question him properly. Every inquiry seems to lead nowhere, and Lord Eastmere has been gone longer with every day we spend chasing rumors.”
“You have not failed me.”
“It feels very much as though I have.”
Her fingers tightened gently around his, and William swallowed against the unexpected comfort of it.
“I wish I had something better to tell you,” he admitted. “Some discovery that proved we were moving closer instead of merely circling the same questions.”
He had expected frustration from her, perhaps even disappointment. Instead, Rosalind regarded him with the same quiet understanding she had offered that morning.
“You are still here,” she said. “You keep searching and asking questions. You have stood beside me when half of London decided doing so was inconvenient.” Her gaze dropped briefly to their hands before returning to his. “That is not nothing.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside him.
For the second time that day, Rosalind had managed to offer comfort without pretending there was an easy answer, and William found himself wondering how quickly he was becoming accustomed to turning to her for precisely that.
Something shifted in her expression then, as though his mention of their fruitless search had reminded her of something.
For a moment, William expected her to release him.
She did not.
Instead, she glanced once more at their joined hands before looking up at him. “Actually, you may not have failed quite as badly as you imagine.”
William frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nelly has learned something.”
His attention sharpened immediately. “About your father?”
Rosalind nodded, though she hesitated before continuing. “She has been making inquiries among the servants. Maids, footmen, coachmen. Anyone who might have heard something that never reached the drawing rooms.”
William knew enough of London households to understand the wisdom of that approach. Servants might be expected to remain invisible, but very little escaped their notice.
“What did she learn?”
“There are indications that Papa may not have left London in the manner everyone assumes.”
William straightened. “What indications?”
Rosalind’s gaze remained fixed upon his face.
Something about the intensity of it caught his attention.
She was not merely telling him what she had learned. She was watching him.
William resisted the instinct to glance away. “Rosalind?”
She hesitated.
“There are a few details I would like to confirm.”
She was choosing her words.
More than that, she was watching him while she chose them.
William had spent enough time with Rosalind by now to recognize the difference between her ordinary caution and the particular look she wore when she was trying to learn something without asking the question outright.
“You know more than you are telling me.”
Her brows rose. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“That is a rather serious accusation.”
“You are weighing every word before you say it.”
“I always choose my words carefully.”
“Not with me.”
The answer escaped before William could consider it.
Something flickered across her face, and he realized with a small jolt that it was true.
Rosalind observed nearly everyone around her, measuring reactions and storing away details others scarcely noticed.
Somewhere during the course of their investigation, however, she had stopped guarding herself quite so carefully with him.
Or perhaps he had simply learned to recognize when she did.
Her thumb moved absently against the side of his hand.
“I don’t know enough yet,” she admitted. “But Nelly may have found something important.”
“Something you do not trust me enough to tell me?”
Her eyes widened. “That is not what I said.”
“No.” William held her gaze. “It is not.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Rosalind seemed on the verge of answering when rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor.
They sprang apart.
Or rather, William attempted to. Rosalind’s fingers remained tangled with his for one startled heartbeat before she seemed to realize she was still holding him and released him abruptly.
Nelly appeared in the open doorway.
The maid was breathing hard, her face flushed from haste, and every trace of William’s amusement vanished at the sight of her.
“My lady.”
Rosalind turned fully toward her. “Nelly?”
The maid glanced at William.
Whatever she had come to say, she plainly had not expected to find him there.
Rosalind must have seen something in her expression, because she took a step forward. “What is it?”
Nelly swallowed. “My lady, I need to speak with you.”
Rosalind’s brow furrowed. “You can speak freely.”
Another glance toward William.
This time there could be no mistaking the reluctance in it.
Nelly looked back at her mistress. “Now, my lady.”
The urgency in those three words changed the air in the gallery.
William felt Rosalind go still beside him.
Only moments earlier, she had been standing with her hand in his, telling him that perhaps they finally possessed a lead.
Now her maid looked as though whatever she had learned could not wait another minute.
Rosalind turned her head toward William.
Their eyes met.
And William knew, before either woman said another word, that something had changed.