Chapter 2
Rosalind had imagined this confrontation a hundred different ways over the past three days.
Every version ended differently.
Sometimes he denied knowing anything. Sometimes he lost his temper. Sometimes he betrayed himself with a careless word or an expression he could not conceal.
Only once did he tell her where her father was.
She had clung to that version more desperately than she cared to admit.
She had almost convinced herself she would see guilt the moment she looked into his eyes.
Instead she found surprise. Honest surprise.
It unsettled her far more than anger would have.
She had known William for her whole life.
Their fathers had been friends long before either of them had understood what friendship meant.
Summers at Aldermere had blurred together into races through gardens, muddy boots, stolen fruit, and arguments over absolutely everything. She had never won those arguments because William possessed the infuriating habit of laughing until she laughed too.
The years had changed him.
The lanky boy she remembered had become a broad-shouldered gentleman whose easy smile had long since become familiar in London drawing rooms.
But surely character did not change so completely. Surely the boy her father had trusted had not become a man capable of betraying him.
The thought hurt almost as much as the disappearance itself.
Yet facts remained stubborn things.
Lord William had been the last person to see her father.
Until someone proved otherwise, she could not allow memories to blind her.
Her father had disappeared. Everything else had to wait.
William blinked. “Was I?”
“You know you were.”
His brow furrowed. “I knew I was among the last to see him. I hadn't realized people believed I was the last.”
Rosalind searched his face. The surprise looked genuine. So did the confusion.
She wanted to believe him. Dear God, she wanted to.
His answer carried none of the careful polish she had expected. It sounded painfully sincere.
But if William truly knew nothing, then the hope she had carried with her there had been misplaced.
She had nowhere left to turn. He was the last thread she had left to pull.
“Does the distinction matter?” she asked.
William held her gaze without flinching. “It does if people have begun deciding what happened before they know the truth.”
A bitter ache settled in her chest.
The truth. That was all she had been searching for these last ten days.
“Then tell me the truth.”
For the first time, something softened in his expression.
“I would,” he said quietly. “If I could.”
His answer carried none of the careful polish she had expected.
It sounded painfully sincere.
She folded her arms more tightly beneath her cloak, suddenly aware of the damp wool clinging to her sleeves.
“You expect me to believe that the last man to see my father knows nothing of where he went?”
William shook his head. “No, but I expect you to believe I would never knowingly do Lord Eastmere harm.”
Frustration flared through her. “That was not what I asked.”
A carriage rattled past behind her, its wheels hissing across the rain-darkened street. Neither of them looked away.
At length, William spoke again. “What is it you think I know?”
The question caught her off guard. She had spent three days convincing herself that if anyone could tell her where her father had gone, it would be William.
She wasn't even certain why she believed it anymore.
Perhaps because he had been the last to see him. Perhaps because she couldn't bear the thought that there truly were no answers.
“I think...” Her voice caught unexpectedly. “If anyone knows where my father is, it is you.”
His answer was immediate. “I don't.”
He met her gaze without wavering.
“The truth,” he continued, “is that I know no more than you do.”
A humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
“The truth.” She shook her head. “I've spent the last ten days listening to everyone's version of the truth. According to society, my father abandoned my mother, deserted his family, and ran away with another woman.”
William's expression tightened. “I do not believe that.”
“Then what do you believe?”
“I believe Lord Eastmere intended to return home.”
She frowned. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because the man I spoke to that afternoon had every intention of attending the Tattersall sale in four days.” His voice remained calm, measured. “He spent nearly a quarter of an hour complaining about the price of a particular stallion.”
“My father often discussed horses.”
“He did.”
“That proves nothing.”
William exhaled slowly, and for the first time she caught the faintest crack in his composure. “No,” he admitted. “It does not prove anything.”
His eyes met hers again. “But it tells me he was making plans.”
Rosalind shook her head. “A man may make plans and still change them.”
“He may.”
“A man may also lie.”
“He may.” His voice grew quieter. “But Lord Eastmere did neither.”
The certainty with which he spoke unsettled her.
It wasn't blind loyalty. It sounded like conviction.
“You seem remarkably sure.”
A sad smile touched his mouth, though it never reached his eyes. “I knew your father.”
His words landed more heavily than she wanted them to.
For all her determination not to trust him, William's affection for her father had never once seemed feigned.
That was what made this so impossible.
Still, the words stung unexpectedly.
“So did my mother.”
Silence settled between them once more.
Behind her, her oldest friend, Isabella, watched the exchange without interruption.
William drew a slow breath. “Rosalind...”
The familiar sound of her Christian name startled her more than it should have.
“No.”
He blinked, as though only then realizing what he had done. “No?”
“You do not get to speak to me as though I have come here in search of comfort.”
A flicker of regret crossed his face. “I had no such intention.”
“No?”
“No.” His voice remained infuriatingly steady. “I intended to speak to you as a woman who has every right to demand answers.”
She stared at him.
“But I have none to give.”
“You expect me to believe you.”
“I expect nothing.” He paused before continuing. “I only ask that you believe I cared greatly for your father.”
The words landed heavily.
Memories were dangerous things, but people changed.
“You cared for him,” she repeated quietly.
“I did.”
“And yet you have done nothing.”
Something hardened behind his eyes. “You mistake ignorance for indifference.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but Isabella's hand settled lightly against her arm.
“Rosalind.”
She ignored her as William continued. “I have asked myself the same questions you have.”
“You have?”
“Yes.” His gaze did not waver. “And I have found no answers.”
She searched his face. There was no triumph there.
No fear.
Only exhaustion.
It frightened her more than any lie could have.
Because if William truly had no answers, she had reached the end of every path she knew to follow.
Isabella stepped forward. “We should leave.”
Rosalind did not move.
William looked between the two women before speaking again. “Meet me tomorrow.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Hyde Park.”
She laughed softly. “You cannot possibly imagine I would agree to that.”
“I imagine you are running out of places to look.” The words stung because they were true. “Bring Miss Hartwell.”
He glanced toward his friend. “My friend will accompany me.”
Gabriel inclined his head.
Rosalind knew Gabriel Frost by reputation as much as acquaintance. He and William had been inseparable for years, first as young gentlemen finding their place in society, and now as men. She could not remember attending a ball, musicale, or exhibition where one had appeared without the other.
“We will compare everything we know,” William continued.
Rosalind folded her arms. “Why?”
William hesitated.
Then answered with complete simplicity.
“To clear my name.” His blue eyes held hers. “And because your father deserves better than rumors.”
Something inside her shifted.
Not trust. Not completely.
But every enquiry had ended the same way. The magistrates had found nothing. The servants had heard nothing. Their neighbors offered condolences instead of answers.
William was the first person to suggest doing something different.
Isabella looked at her quietly.
Rosalind closed her eyes for the briefest moment.
When she opened them again, William was still waiting.
“Hyde Park,” she said. “Tomorrow morning.”
He inclined his head. “Tomorrow morning.”
Without another word, she turned and descended the steps.
The moment the carriage door closed behind them, the composure she had clung to since leaving the house finally deserted her.
***
Rosalind sat rigidly upon the upholstered seat, her gloved hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her fingers ached. Outside, the wheels lurched into motion, carrying them away as rain tapped steadily against the windows.
She stared blindly at the passing streets.
She had done it. She had stood before Lord William Sinclair and accused him to his face.
For three days she had imagined the confrontation would leave her feeling vindicated.
Instead she felt only exhausted.
Isabella remained wisely silent. She knew Rosalind well enough not to press before the words were ready.
They came all at once.
“What if I am wrong?” Her voice broke so unexpectedly that she scarcely recognized it as her own.
Isabella shifted closer. “You do not believe he harmed your father.”
Rosalind swallowed hard.
“No.” The admission came almost as a relief. “I do not know what I believe anymore. I only know he was the last person to see Papa.”
She turned toward the rain-streaked window as tears blurred her vision.
“I wanted him to tell me something. Anything.”
“That your father was safe.”
Rosalind nodded.
“Every morning I wake believing they will find him,” she whispered. “Then another day passes, and nothing changes.”
Isabella reached across the carriage and quietly took her hand.
“The magistrate has accomplished nothing. Every question leads nowhere, and society has already decided the rest.”
A bitter laugh escaped her.