Page 31 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)

CHAPTER 31

Charity

C harity rushed up to her chamber and closed the door firmly behind her.

How dare he? How dare he speak to her in such a manner? She would not tolerate it. The man was a brute. She had been correct from the start. She had allowed his supposed concern for his tenants and the villagers and his attentions to children and to animals — to deceive her.

She had wished to believe he was more than a brute, more than a man so lost to himself that he could not determine what manner of gentleman he truly was. But she had been mistaken. He was cold and calculating. He might possess wealth and influence, but he lacked kindness. He did not possess a generous heart.

If she were made to endure his declaration that it was his duty to protect her once more , she might very well fall ill on the spot.

No — it was quite enough.

A knock sounded on the door, and she looked up, her eyes wide. A moment later, Jean stepped inside.

“There you are, Your Grace. I had begun to worry.”

“There was no need,” Charity replied. “I was at my mother’s townhouse. In any case, I should like to change quickly. Do not trouble yourself about my hair — I shall tend to it myself. I will take my bath in the morning, so you need not concern yourself with that either.”

“Very good, Your Grace. But if I may say — though you were at your mother’s, I was worried. It was awfully late. And I was not the only one.” She glanced at her sideways, and Charity narrowed her eyes.

“Truly, there was no cause for concern. You and Mrs. Frames need not have worried at all.”

“It was not Mrs. Frames who was concerned but His Grace. He has been pacing the halls below for hours, awaiting your return. Well — I say ‘hours’ — at times he would retreat into the study, remain for a few minutes, then emerge again to pace. He was genuinely fretting over you.”

Charity scoffed. “That is difficult to believe. I daresay His Grace cares for no one but himself…and perhaps his family.”

“Are you not family?” Jean asked.

“Perhaps by law. But that is all. He and I are naught but two persons bound together in marriage — as are so many in our society.”

“I should think there is more to it than that,” Jean said, as she laid out Charity’s nightgown. “He does care for you. I know he does. The other servants are saying so, and they have known him a long while.”

Charity’s head pounded, and she rubbed at her temples.

“Jean, I wish to speak of this no more. Furthermore, what is between His Grace and me shall remain between us. There are things you do not know — things you ought not to trouble yourself over — and I would ask you not to discuss my private affairs with the other staff.”

Jean’s lips parted, and she looked genuinely wounded. At once, Charity felt a pang of guilt. She had not meant to be cruel — Jean had been with her since childhood.

But she was weary. Weary of all that had transpired in recent weeks. Everything that had unfolded had worn her down, and this latest quarrel with Eammon had simply proved the final straw.

“Jean…I beg your pardon. I was unkind. I did not mean to be. Please — go to bed. I shall change on my own.”

“Your Grace, I never meant to upset you,” Jean said, and Charity realised the woman was perhaps now concerned for her.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jean. It was I who was in the wrong. I spoke harshly and you did not deserve it. Please — if you wish to do me a kindness, take yourself off to your chamber. Morning will be better for us both.”

Jean offered a weak smile — one that seemed marked by worry as much as by weariness — but she complied and left Charity to her solitude.

Once she had changed into her nightgown, Charity carried her candle to the nightstand, extinguished the other tapers scattered about the chamber, and sat down on her bed.

She raised her head and looked toward the connecting door — the one between her chamber and his. Long ago, she had pushed the armoire across it. She had ceased to fear he would enter. Even now, after their argument, there was no sound. No — she was not afraid of him. Only…resolved.

Through the narrow space beneath the door, she saw a flickering light, rapid and unsteady — as though he were pacing with a candle in hand.

If only she could walk to the door, knock, and ask him plainly what troubled him so deeply — and perhaps hear from him an answer that might unravel this unhappy state between them. But she could not. Not now. She had no wish to.

As she sat, she glanced at her bedside table. On entering, she had placed two books there: Pride and Prejudice , and Little Goody Two-Shoes . She took the latter, opened it, and retrieved the letter hidden within its pages.

Charity ran a hand over the envelope, feeling the inked letters beneath her fingers. She imagined her father writing those words — and touching them felt almost like touching him once more.

She took a steadying breath and broke the seal, unfolding the letter. It had been written in her father’s fine, neat hand. At once her eyes brimmed with tears. He would never again write her a letter. She would never again look into his face or hear his voice. Already — only seven and a half months since his passing — she could no longer recall his voice with perfect clarity.

Time was cruel. It robbed one of memory, of the little things once taken for granted.

She propped her pillow higher behind her and sat upright. Then she drew the candle nearer.

My beloved Charity,

I understand that by the time you read these words, I shall have died. I may have been gone some time — months, I hope not years. I have debated long whether I ought to deliver this letter sooner. I considered saying all I am now committing to paper aloud — but I was not convinced that would serve.

Thus, it is my determination to write it all down, in the hope that this letter reaches you.

First, I hope you are wed now. My greatest wish is to see you matched with a suitable husband. There is one I have already in mind, who I believe would suit admirably. But as yet, you remain unwed, and I can only pray the good Lord grants me time to see you safely settled with a husband who will protect and cherish you. I must hasten on this quest — for I do not grow younger.

I had entrusted a gentleman friend with the duty of seeing to your welfare, should I pass before your future be secured. But alas, that dear friend has only just passed away himself ? —

Charity stopped, staring. A trusted friend who had just passed away? She looked at the date atop the letter — and gasped. Her father had written it shortly after the death of the Duke of Leith. Had he meant him ? Had he entrusted her to that man, and now the charge had passed to his son? Was the man he thought would suit her admirably, Eammon?

But why?

She read on, her curiosity piqued.

If you are reading this and remain unmarried, then I have failed in my duty to protect you. If you are unwed, then you may have noticed the odd suitors calling at your door — men of ill character, I fear. I pray you and your mother rebuffed such persons.

I cannot say more of their motives, but know this: it is not affection that drives them.

Forgive me, my daughter, for this cryptic tone. I do not know when this letter shall find you, nor who might intercept it. I asked Mr. Barnes, our solicitor, to deliver this to you with the reading of my will. Whether he recalls this instruction, I cannot say — he thought me quite mad for it. In any case, you may find requirements in my will that seem strange. Trust that all is for a purpose. I explain further in another letter.

If the Lord wills it, this letter will be of no consequence because I either will have ensured you are wed, or you will have found a gentleman worthy of you. One who will protect and shield you, just as you will protect and shield ? —

Charity gasped as a tear slid down her cheek. Her father had wished her to marry for love…and yet here she was, married to a man she now thought?—

She paused. Her mind flew back to the evening of the ball. That kiss. Not the one on the dance floor — the other one, the true one. When he had pressed his lips to hers, she had felt something. Affection. No — more than that. Had it been love ? Perhaps. Something close to it, at least.

But still, what she had now — it was not the sort of love her father had imagined for her.

She shook her head and turned back to the letter. It was nearly at its end.

My dearest Charity, I cannot reveal more. But I may guide you. To understand everything, you must find something. You must find the source of this trouble. And with it, you shall find your answers.

Go to the place where eight legs once danced,

Where honey spilled from the tree, but there were no bees.

Where rain poured down on the sunniest day

And drove one to the secret place of refuge.

Go there. From there, you will find your way. You must.

For all our sakes.

Charity lowered the letter, utterly bewildered.

Her father had spoken in riddles often during her childhood. He had once hidden sweetmeats or foreign fruits about the house and sent her to find them by means of puzzles. She had adored it. Eleanor had found it tiresome. Thus the riddles had become a special bond between her and her father alone.

She had cherished them. But now? Now they were giving her a dreadful headache.

She looked at the letter once more.

The place where eight legs once danced? She murmured aloud, shaking her head. What in heaven’s name did he mean?

Perplexed, she folded the letter, slipped it back into the book, and returned it to the nightstand. She would find a proper hiding place in the morning.

Still confused, she blew out the candle and lay on her pillow.

It was deep in the night, as her body begged for sleep and her mind drifted toward dreaming, that suddenly it struck her.

She sat up with a gasp and stared at the nightstand.

She knew. She knew exactly where she had to go.

In the morning, she would rise, pack a satchel, and begin a journey — a journey that, she felt certain, would at last lead her to the truth.