Chapter 18
For a moment, Rosalind could only stare at Nelly.
The urgency in her maid’s expression was impossible to miss, but so was the quick glance she cast toward William.
Rosalind understood.
Whatever Nelly had learned, she did not wish to say it in front of him.
“We were just going into the gardens,” Rosalind said. “Come with us. We can speak there.”
She held Nelly’s gaze a moment longer, hoping the maid understood what she could not politely say aloud.
Not here.
Nelly hesitated before dipping her head. “Of course, my lady.”
William looked between them, and Rosalind wondered whether he had noticed the exchange. Knowing him, he almost certainly had.
He did not question it.
They left the gallery together, Nelly following several paces behind while Rosalind walked beside William toward the conservatory.
“You were telling me she had discovered something,” he reminded her.
Rosalind nodded. There was little reason to conceal the first part now, particularly when William might be able to help confirm it.
“Someone remembers seeing my father leave White’s on the night he disappeared.”
William’s attention sharpened. “Someone saw him?”
“A footman, apparently. Papa left the club quite normally. He bade goodnight to several gentlemen and then entered a carriage.”
William slowed. “His own?”
“No. That is what makes it interesting.”
They had reached the conservatory, but neither paid much attention to the flowers surrounding them as they continued toward the garden doors.
“Nelly’s sources described it as a private carriage,” Rosalind continued. “A very fine one. Expensive enough to be noticed, although none of the servants Nelly has spoken to remembers the crest.”
William frowned. “And no one knows who sent it?”
“Not yet.”
“But your father entered willingly?”
“As far as anyone could tell. There was no commotion. No argument. Nothing to suggest he believed himself in danger.”
William was quiet for several steps.
Rosalind watched him carefully. She had deliberately withheld the carriage when they were alone in the gallery, wanting first to discover whether he knew anything of it. His surprise now appeared genuine.
Either William Sinclair possessed a truly extraordinary talent for deception, or this was the first he had heard of it.
Rosalind found herself relieved by how readily she believed the latter.
“If the carriage collected him from White’s,” William said, his thoughts already moving ahead of hers, “someone at the club may remember it arriving.”
“That was my thought.”
“The footmen certainly would. Carriages were coming and going all evening, but a private equipage waiting specifically for Lord Eastmere narrows matters considerably.” He glanced at her. “Do you know approximately when he left?”
“Late. That is all Nelly has learned so far.”
“It may be enough. I can ask at White’s. Someone may remember the horses, the livery, even the coachman if not the crest.”
Hope stirred despite Rosalind’s determination not to become too excited by another uncertain lead.
“That is more than we had yesterday.”
“It is.”
William smiled at her, and something in Rosalind’s chest loosened.
For the first time in days, they had somewhere concrete to look.
They stepped from the conservatory into the gardens, and Rosalind immediately searched for somewhere sufficiently private to speak with Nelly.
She had barely turned before the Dowager Duchess spotted them.
“There you are!”
Rosalind stopped.
The dowager stood upon the lawn with Lady Whitcombe, both women holding battledores and looking considerably less dignified than they had inside.
A small table had been arranged beneath a nearby tree with lemonade, wine, sliced fruit, and the remnants of whatever refreshments had survived the afternoon.
“Come,” the dowager called. “We require two more.”
Rosalind glanced helplessly toward Nelly.
Her maid’s expression remained serious.
“I believe Lady Rosalind may have intended to—”
“Nonsense,” the dowager interrupted William. “Whatever she intended can wait ten minutes. I have spent the better part of an hour losing to Lady Whitcombe, and I refuse to endure the humiliation alone.”
Lady Whitcombe laughed. “Honoria, you have lost twice.”
“Precisely. A pattern is forming.”
Rosalind could hardly refuse without appearing peculiar.
She caught Nelly’s eye and mouthed, Later.
Nelly did not look particularly pleased about it, but she nodded and withdrew toward the shade near the conservatory.
Only then did Rosalind notice they were not the only guests.
Lady Sophronia stood near the refreshment table with two other young ladies, all three engaged in conversation. At least, they had been until Rosalind appeared.
Now their attention seemed distinctly divided.
Sophronia’s gaze moved from Rosalind to William.
Something unpleasant pinched beneath Rosalind’s ribs.
Ridiculous.
Lady Sophronia was perfectly entitled to stand in the Duke of Aldermere’s garden.
She was acquainted with the family, had danced with William only the evening before, and possessed absolutely no knowledge that the courtship everyone believed existed between Rosalind and William was entirely fabricated.
If anything, Rosalind was the one behaving dishonestly.
That did not explain why she suddenly wished Lady Sophronia would find something fascinating to examine on the opposite side of London.
“Rosalind?”
William’s voice pulled her attention back to him. He stood before her holding out a battledore, though the faint amusement in his expression suggested he had noticed precisely where her attention had wandered.
“You appear concerned.”
“Not at all,” Rosalind replied.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Lady Sophronia before returning to her, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
Rosalind narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are smiling.”
“I frequently smile.”
“Not like that.”
His smile only widened as he held the battledore closer. “Take it, Rosalind.”
She snatched it from his hand.
“Very graceful,” William murmured.
From across the lawn, the dowager laughed. “I am beginning to understand why my son likes you.”
Rosalind’s fingers tightened around the handle.
William, apparently deciding not to acknowledge his mother’s choice of words, sighed. “This is becoming a remarkably hostile environment.”
That drew a laugh from Rosalind, and once the game began, she found it surprisingly difficult to stop.
Lady Whitcombe proved alarmingly competitive, while the dowager disputed every questionable point with the solemnity of a magistrate. William, meanwhile, appeared considerably more interested in making Rosalind miss than in winning.
When he sent the shuttlecock sailing just beyond her reach for the second time, Rosalind turned on him. “You did that deliberately.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” William replied, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You smiled before you struck it.”
“I was enjoying myself.”
“At my expense.”
William lifted one shoulder. “Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”
Rosalind retaliated by sending the next shot directly toward the far edge of his reach.
He caught it easily.
“Vindictive,” William observed.
“Competitive,” she corrected.
His grin flashed as he sent it back toward her. “Dangerously so.”
They changed positions, partners, and battledores as the game continued, until Rosalind lost track of who was supposed to be defeating whom.
At some point William ended up beside her rather than opposite her, and their attempts at cooperation proved considerably less successful than their efforts to torment one another.
Rosalind did not care.
For weeks, every day had been measured by what she had failed to discover. Every conversation carried the possibility of another rumor, another disappointment, another reminder that her father was somewhere beyond her reach.
Here, beneath the afternoon sun, none of it disappeared.
But for a little while, it loosened its hold upon her.
She laughed when William nearly collided with his mother. She protested when Lady Whitcombe accused her of an illegal strike and demanded to know precisely where such laws governing battledore and shuttlecock had been written.
When William solemnly offered to compose them himself, she informed him that his literary endeavor would pale in comparison to her own manual.
Even William seemed lighter.
She had seen him exhausted that morning, shaken by truths he had never asked to learn. Now his hair had fallen slightly out of place, his coat had been abandoned over the back of a garden chair, and he was laughing while his mother accused him of cheating.
Rosalind watched him for a moment longer than she should have.
Peach-gold.
The thought arrived without permission, and she quickly looked away.
Unfortunately, her gaze landed upon Lady Sophronia. The other woman was watching William too.
Rosalind struck the shuttlecock rather harder than necessary and it sailed directly over the hedge.
Silence fell across the lawn before William’s laughter broke it.
Rosalind lowered her battledore and fixed him with a warning look. “Not one word.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
“I would never.”
The brightness in his eyes suggested otherwise, and Rosalind tried very hard to remain annoyed with him.
She failed.
Her laughter joined his, and something inside her seemed to loosen with it. For weeks, every moment of happiness had been interrupted by guilt or worry, as though enjoying anything while her father remained missing was somehow a betrayal of him.
Yet standing in the sunshine with William laughing beside her, his mother arguing cheerfully with Lady Whitcombe over whether the shuttlecock had crossed an imaginary boundary, Rosalind forgot to feel guilty.
She knew the reprieve could not last. Nelly was still waiting near the edge of the garden, and there were questions Rosalind would have to return to soon enough.
For now, however, she allowed herself this.