Chapter 22
By midnight, Rosalind had abandoned any pretense of sleeping.
Isabella had apparently reached the same conclusion.
Neither had suggested she ought to leave.
They had endured dinner with Rosalind’s mother in near silence, exchanging only the occasional glance across the table whenever her mother attempted to draw them into conversation. Rosalind had pleaded exhaustion after the events of the afternoon.
Isabella had claimed a headache in an admirable display of loyalty, though the quantity of pudding she consumed afterward had somewhat undermined the performance.
Now they sat in Rosalind’s bedchamber with the forged letter spread between them.
“I still cannot believe I missed it,” Rosalind murmured.
“You are not a painter.”
“I have eyes.”
“So does Gabriel, and I would not trust him to distinguish between vermilion and crimson.”
Despite herself, Rosalind smiled. “You think about him rather often for someone who claims to dislike him.”
“I think about murder rather often too. I have yet to act upon it.”
Rosalind’s smile widened.
Isabella reached for the letter again, studying the familiar strokes that had fooled everyone for weeks.
Everyone except her.
The discovery had changed everything.
Her father had not written the letter implying his intention to leave London. Someone else had written it and taken considerable pains to make the world believe Edmund Carlisle had departed willingly.
Someone had wanted people to stop searching for him.
Rosalind had no intention of obliging them.
“What do we do tomorrow?” Isabella asked.
“Continue without William.”
The words hurt less than they had earlier.
Not very much less.
Isabella glanced at her but, mercifully, did not comment.
“We know the letter was forged,” Rosalind continued. “We know Papa left White’s in Algernon’s carriage. We know Augusta attempted to send us chasing a woman who appears not to exist, and we know Algernon lied about leaving London.”
“Which is quite a lot when one says it all together.”
“It is not enough.”
“No.”
Rosalind leaned back in her chair.
Somewhere there was still a piece they had not found. Something that explained where her father had gone after entering that carriage and why a man who had once meant so much to Algernon would have been taken at all.
A sharp tap against the window interrupted them.
Rosalind frowned toward the sound. “What was that?”
Before Isabella could answer, another small object struck the glass, followed several seconds later by a third.
Isabella was already on her feet. “Someone is throwing things at your window.”
“So it would seem.”
“At midnight.”
Rosalind rose and crossed the room, pushed aside the curtain, and peered into the garden. Moonlight stretched across the lawn, while the faint glow from a handful of windows illuminated little beyond the house itself. For several seconds, she could see no one.
Then a figure stepped out from beneath the shadow of a tree.
Her breath caught.
William.
Before she could decide whether the sight of him brought relief or irritation, another man emerged beside him.
Gabriel.
“What on earth are they doing here?”
Isabella came to the window and looked down. The moment she recognized the second figure, her expression hardened.
“Is that Gabriel?”
Apparently hearing his name despite the closed glass, or perhaps merely recognizing the movement above, Gabriel looked up.
And grinned.
It was an extraordinarily foolish grin for a man standing beneath the bedchamber window of an unmarried woman after midnight.
Isabella’s expression darkened. “I am beginning to reconsider my earlier position on murder.”
Rosalind pushed open the window before Isabella could find something suitable to throw. Cool night air swept into the room as she leaned toward the opening.
William stepped forward below. “Rosalind.”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I need to speak to you.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
“Beneath my bedchamber window?”
William glanced toward the front of the house. “In retrospect, the door might have been simpler.”
“No,” Gabriel called from beside him. “I told him this was more romantic.”
Isabella leaned out beside Rosalind. “If you say another word about romance, Mr. Frost, I shall empty the washbasin over your head.”
Rather than appearing concerned, Gabriel grinned up at her. “Good evening, Isabella.”
“It is nearly morning,” she informed him.
“You look lovely.”
“You can barely see me.”
“I have an excellent memory.”
Rosalind caught Isabella by the arm when she leaned a little farther out the window. Whether her friend intended to argue or simply drop the washbasin on Gabriel remained unclear.
William, at least, seemed to appreciate that this was hardly the time for flirting. “Rosalind, please come downstairs. We only need a few minutes.”
Her amusement faded. “No.”
Isabella folded her arms. “An excellent answer.”
“We found something,” William said. “Something important. Meet us in the kitchen, if you prefer. We can speak there without waking your mother.”
That gave Rosalind pause.
Only that afternoon, she had told William she could no longer trust him. Now he had appeared outside her house in the middle of the night, asking her to follow him downstairs, and every instinct warned her to be cautious.
But there was none of William’s usual humor in his expression now. Even from the second floor, she could see the urgency in his face.
Behind her, the forged letter still lay upon the table.
Rosalind looked down at him. “Give me one reason why I should.”
“Because I think we know where your father is.”
Rosalind’s pulse quickened. Beside her, Isabella’s irritation disappeared beneath sudden attention.
“What did you find?” Rosalind asked.
“I cannot explain it from the garden.”
“Why not?”
William glanced toward the house. “Because I would rather not shout information concerning your father loudly enough for half the household to hear.”
Annoyingly, he had a point.
Rosalind exchanged a glance with Isabella before looking down at him again. “We found something too.”
William frowned. “What?”
“The letter Papa supposedly left behind is a forgery.”
The effect below was immediate. Gabriel’s amusement vanished, while William stared up at her in disbelief.
“You are certain?”
“Quite certain.”
“How?”
Rosalind glanced at the woman beside her. “Isabella discovered it.”
William’s attention shifted toward Isabella, who lifted her chin with unmistakable satisfaction.
“The handwriting is an imitation,” she explained. “A very good one, but an imitation nonetheless.”
Gabriel stared at her for a moment before a slow, almost offensively delighted smile spread across his face.
Isabella narrowed her eyes. “Do not look so pleased with yourself. You had nothing to do with it.”
“I know,” Gabriel said. “That is why I am pleased with you.”
For once, Isabella appeared to have no immediate answer.
William ignored him. “Rosalind, that makes what we found even more important.”
She hesitated.
“If you have come here to defend your brother—”
“I haven’t.”
The words cut through the garden.
William looked only at Rosalind. “I am not here to defend Algernon.”
Something in his voice made her grip the sill more tightly. “What happened?”
“We searched his study.”
Rosalind’s heartbeat quickened. “And?”
William glanced once toward the neighboring houses before looking back at her. “Please come downstairs.”
She studied him for several seconds.
Everything she had told Isabella earlier remained true. William did not need to lie to her to place her father in danger. He did not need to deliberately betray her. His ignorance alone had already been enough to make her doubt herself once.
But the man standing below her window did not look ignorant now.
He looked frightened.
The moment Rosalind closed the window, Isabella turned to her. “We are not actually going down there.”
“Yes, we are. They found something.”
“They could be attempting to lure us downstairs so the Duke of Aldermere can stuff us into another carriage.”
Rosalind gave her a pointed look.
Isabella considered her own argument before sighing. “Admittedly, it seems quite unlikely.”
“Quite.”
“Still, I do not trust either of them.”
“Neither do I. Not entirely.” Rosalind pulled her dressing gown more securely around herself. “But if they know something about Papa, I intend to hear it. We listen to what they have to say and nothing more.”
“And if they attempt anything?”
“We scream loudly enough to wake Mother, every servant in the house, the neighbors, and probably half the square.”
Isabella nodded approvingly. “Good.”
Rosalind started toward the door, only to realize her friend had not followed. When she turned, Isabella was surveying the room with a thoughtful expression.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking precautions.”
Before Rosalind could ask what that meant, Isabella crossed to the hearth and reached for the brass poker.
“Absolutely not.”
Isabella looked over her shoulder. “Why not?”
“Because you cannot creep through the house in the middle of the night carrying a fireplace poker.”
“I can if everyone is asleep.”
“Isabella.”
“Fine.” She returned the poker and promptly reached for the heavy brass candlestick on the mantel instead. “Better?”
Rosalind stared at it. “That weighs half a stone.”
“Precisely.”
“It is hardly less conspicuous.”
“No, but it will be considerably more effective if Mr. Frost gives me reason to use it.”
Despite everything, a laugh threatened to escape Rosalind. “I thought William was the one you suspected of luring us into a trap.”
“Yes, but Gabriel is irritating me personally.”
Rosalind pressed her lips together, refusing to give Isabella the satisfaction of laughing.
Isabella tucked it against her side, partially concealed by the folds of her dressing gown. “If either gentleman attempts anything foolish, I intend to be prepared.”
Despite everything, Rosalind nearly laughed.
Then she thought of William’s face beneath the window.
The impulse disappeared.
“Come on.”