Chapter 7
William had intended to leave shortly after breakfast.
His appointment with Mr. Pritchard, the bootmaker on Bond Street, had been arranged nearly a fortnight earlier, and his valet had already laid out the dark blue coat William reserved for town calls.
Instead, he found himself standing in the breakfast room, absently stirring tea that had long since grown cold.
His thoughts refused to remain on boots.
Instead, they wandered back to the exhibition, and to Rosalind.
More specifically, to the look that had crossed her face when he told her about the horse.
Hope.
It had appeared so suddenly she had not thought to conceal it. For one fleeting, unguarded instant, she had looked exactly as he remembered her from years ago, before Edmund Carlisle's disappearance had hollowed every smile with uncertainty.
The moment had vanished almost as quickly as it came. Caution had returned, and with it her determination to verify every word he had told her. He would have thought less of her had she done otherwise.
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.”
“I should hope so. You have had them long enough.”
The old bootmaker chuckled. “I prefer a proper repair to a quick one.”
“I cannot argue with that.”
William had scarcely crossed the room before another familiar figure straightened near the counter.
“Algernon.”
His brother turned, one gloved hand resting upon a pair of riding boots William did not recognize.
“I did not expect to find you here.”
“Nor I you.”
William's gaze settled upon the boots. “I confess I do not remember those.”
“They are an older pair,” Algernon replied, brushing an invisible speck of dust from the leather. “I decided they were worth having mended after all.”
William frowned faintly. “They look nearly new.”
“They did not when I brought them.”
Mr. Pritchard busied himself wrapping William's boots in brown paper, saying nothing.
After a moment, Algernon asked, “Any further word of the earl?”
William accepted the parcel before answering. “Perhaps.”
His brother's attention sharpened almost imperceptibly.
“I paid another visit to Tattersall's yesterday. One of the clerks remembered Edmund.”
“And?”
“He had not merely bid upon a horse.” William watched him carefully. “He had already paid the first installment the day before he disappeared.”
For the briefest instant, Algernon's expression tightened. “So he intended to return,” he murmured.
“It would seem so.”
Silence settled between them.
William had expected surprise. Instead, Algernon merely stood very still, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before returning to William.
Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat quietly. “Your boots, my lord.”
William accepted the parcel with an appreciative smile. “My thanks, Mr. Pritchard. You have done excellent work. Mine always return looking better than when I left them, and evidently my brother's as well.”
The bootmaker's smile faltered.
His eyes dropped briefly toward the boots resting beside Algernon before he inclined his head.
“You are very kind, my lord.”
There was something peculiar about the man's manner.
William could not have said precisely what. Only that the compliment had seemed to make him uncomfortable.
He dismissed the thought almost as soon as it came. Perhaps the man was simply modest.
The brothers stepped back onto Bond Street together, the afternoon bustle flowing around them. William settled the parcel beneath one arm before breaking the silence.
“I am meeting Lady Rosalind this afternoon.”
Algernon glanced toward him. “Indeed?”
“She sent word this morning requesting that I meet her and Miss Hartwell at Hatchard's. Whatever she has discovered, she considers it urgent.”
“I see.”
William hesitated. “She is in a very difficult position.”
Algernon said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
“Whether society believes her father fled or met with foul play, it is she who bears the consequences. Every whisper follows her. Every unanswered question becomes another accusation.”
His brother's gaze remained fixed upon the passing traffic.
“We have known the Carlisles since childhood,” William continued. “If I can help restore the truth, I believe I have an obligation to do so.”
At length, Algernon nodded. “You are an honorable man.”
William smiled faintly. “I should have expected you to say the same of yourself.”
That earned him a puzzled look.
“I confess I am surprised.”
“By what?”
“You have done very little to discover what became of Edmund.”
Algernon's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. “I would not say that.”
“No?” William met his brother's eyes. “Then forgive me. That has been the appearance.”
For several moments, Algernon remained silent.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “Perhaps I have neglected the matter longer than I ought.”
William studied him but said nothing.
“I shall begin making inquiries of my own,” Algernon said. “If there is anything to discover, I shall discover it.”
William inclined his head. “I am glad to hear it.”
They parted at the next crossing, William continuing toward Hatchard's with his parcel tucked beneath one arm.
Behind him, Algernon remained standing upon the pavement for several moments longer, watching the traffic pass with an expression William could no longer see.
***
Hatchard's was quieter than William had expected for so late in the afternoon.
A handful of gentlemen browsed the histories near the front of the shop while two ladies stood debating the merits of a newly published volume of poetry. The familiar scent of paper, leather, and fresh ink lingered pleasantly in the air.
Rosalind and Isabella were already waiting.
Gabriel stood beside them, absently turning the pages of a travel journal while Rosalind kept one gloved hand resting upon a folded letter.
She looked up as William approached.
For the briefest instant, he forgot the mysterious message that had brought him to Hatchard's.
He saw only Rosalind.
The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He had spent the better part of the afternoon wondering why she wished to see him again, only to discover that some part of him had simply been looking forward to seeing her.
It was a dangerous distinction.
Only yesterday he had been grateful for the opportunity to speak with her at the exhibition. Now, scarcely a day later, he found himself welcoming these unexpected meetings far more than he ought.
Every conversation between them was born of the same unhappy circumstance. Edmund Carlisle remained missing, and Rosalind still regarded William with the careful reserve of a woman who could not decide whether she stood before an ally... or the last man to see her father alive.
The knowledge tempered whatever foolish satisfaction he had taken in seeing her again.
“Lord William.”
“Lady Rosalind. Miss Hartwell. Mr. Frost, I am surprised to see you here.”
Gabriel smiled at his friend, “As am I. I was aimlessly wandering the streets when I was rescued by these ladies and asked to join them.”
After the briefest exchange of greetings, Rosalind glanced around the shop.
“I fear I have asked you here for something rather unusual.”
William's expression sobered. “You have discovered something.”
“I believe so.”
Without another word, she withdrew the folded letter from her reticule.
“This was hidden amongst Father's account books.”