Page 34 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)

CHAPTER 34

Charity

C harity took a deep breath as her eyes opened once more. It seemed as though she had traversed through time itself, yet she was certain that this was the right place. The memory of their afternoon here was vivid once more, though she had not thought of it in a long time.

Go to the spot where eight legs once danced,

Where rain poured down on the sunniest of days

And led one to the secret haven.

Where honey dripped from the tree, yet no bees were near .

This was indeed the right spot.

She recalled the dance she had shared with her father right in this very place, with Ambrose doing his version of a dance. The rain had begun to fall amidst a sunny day. But honey? What had her father meant by that? Or had it simply slipped from her mind?

No matter; she knew her destination. She remounted her horse and rode toward the cabin, which soon came into her view. It looked abandoned, clearly no one had been here since her father’s death as the hedges were overgrown.

On her arrival, she found the door securely locked. She ambled around the cabin, past the horse she had tethered to the hitching post, yet found no way in. What was she overlooking? Her gaze fell on the letter, and her eyes lingered on the passage concerning the honey from the tree.

What did you mean by this, Father?

Then suddenly, it dawned on her. On their departure from the cabin that very afternoon, she and her father had stepped out, and she’d instantly spotted what she’d thought was honey on a tree. Eagerly, she had scampered over, only to halt in fear of the bees. However, her father had quickly reassured her, explaining that what she’d seen was not honey, but sap.

Almost at once, she located the tree in question. Approaching it, she realized it was dead, with a hollow in its center where lightning had struck. She narrowed her eyes and peered into the cavity. Could it be?

With resolve, she thrust her hand into the hole, bracing herself for the bite of whatever resided within, and then she felt it. Not an animal looking to bite her in defense of its home, but a small box. She opened it at once and found a brass key.

Oh Father…always a riddler.

Hastily, she returned to the cabin, inserted the key into the lock, and the door swung open with a creak as if it had not been oiled in many moons. Dust motes danced on the sunbeams streaming through the window.

She surveyed the room for a moment, closing her eyes; she could still detect the lingering scent of her father—or perhaps it was merely her imagination.

Charity knew there was but one place he would have left something for her discovery—the cabinet that served as a larder. Hastily, she threw it open, ignoring the multitude of mason jars and other items that spoke of her father’s plan.

She pushed them aside, scrutinizing the upper and lower shelves, but found naught of significance.

Unsure of her next course, she once again plunged her hand into the dark, feeling about. On the third shelf down, concealed behind a few jars of jam, she encountered something hard—another box. She extracted it and carried it to the small table by the window.

This had to be it.

Her heart raced. The lock had a numerical combination, and she knew precisely the digits to enter: 12—her birth date, 19—her sister’s, and 23—her mother’s. The little box opened with a soft click, revealing a binder.

“Perdition!”

At once, she lifted the contents out of the box. It was a leather ledger of some sort, one that tied at the top with a ribbon of sorts. It was thick, the strap almost snapping with the volume. As she opened the ledger, her gaze fell on a letter addressed to her at the very front.

Her hands trembled slightly whilst unfolding the letter, and once again she beheld her father’s tidy script:

My dearest daughter, should you hold this letter in your hand, it signifies that you have unraveled the riddle. I had no doubt you would accomplish it. You have always been clever. It also means you have now unearthed my greatest secret and the source of all my troubles. In your grasp, you possess what the ton has come to refer to as Pembroke’s Book of Confidences. It contains information about many of the most illustrious families of our time—and their secrets.

I have long collected such information, not to gain favor but to be able to protect myself against others who may seek to harm me and mine—as has happened in the past.

I wish for you to know that I have never resorted to blackmail. I utilized the contents of this book solely for noble purposes. For the good of my family and friends. For the good of the realm.

What you choose to do with the contents lies in your hands—or rather, in the hands of your husband. I fear this book may serve as an insurance policy for you and your spouse as much as it could become a curse, for many shall surely covet the knowledge within. With that in mind, it might be prudent to incinerate it. On the other hand, one can never predict when this knowledge may prove essential…

She paused, utterly intrigued by her father’s words. What dreadful secrets awaited her? She almost did not wish to know.

Setting the letter aside without finishing it, she opened the ledger’s first page. Inside it, she found letters, receipts, and accounts of various events, all neatly chronicled by date.

As she examined the entries, she observed that this was a record of a myriad of scandals that had rocked their society over the previous three decades.

The more she delved into the tales within the book, the more astonishing they became. From mundane thievery or affairs to egregious matters such as attempted murder, blackmail, and corruption.

These were not mere tales; evidence accompanied most. How had she never heard of this book? Or was this book the reason she had been kept away from London so much? There had been rumors about her father and his influence over the years, and now she thought about it, the Book of Confidences sounded familiar, but it wasn’t something she’d ever truly thought about. The idea that her father should have such a document was ridiculous at best, or at least so she’d thought.

A thought struck her then: Was the Markham family mentioned in this book? Swiftly, she flicked to the index—her father had organized the book with meticulous alphabetical precision.

And indeed—there it was. The reason for Lord Markham’s relentless pursuit of her. As she read the entry, she found that the Markham family had engaged in bribery, blackmail, and smuggling for many years. The late Lord Markham, whose passing had occurred not long ago, had blackmailed a fellow Lord to change his vote during an important vote in the House of Lords more than once.

Moreover, the deceased Lord Markham had rewarded an informant handsomely for information on yet another lord, who had subsequently sold a pristine piece of property to Markham for a lower-than-average value. A record from the Markhams’ ledger had found its way into her father’s possession, alongside a letter mentioning both “Markham” and an informant regarding certain exchanged funds for silence.

These actions were all criminal. The days when nobles had acted without fear of accountability were gone. She sat back in disbelief.

In a flash, it became clear why Markham had pressured her towards marriage. His aim was to seize this information—and to obliterate it.

She sifted through the pages further, shaking her head at the sheer volume of information her father had amassed. He’d sworn he’d never used this information for ill, but had he been true to his word? It seemed unlikely he hadn’t been tempted. And he was awfully rich for an earl…

She pondered; had her father ever contemplated that compiling this book might have been an error? Perhaps that was why he had suggested she could discard or incinerate it? Shaking off her musings, she continued to leaf through the pages. Until she spotted something that made her blood freeze.

Under the letter L, was the name Leith.

Her hands trembled immediately. Eammon’s family was entwined within this book. What secrets might be contained in these pages? And would it bring light to the many questions she’d had for so long?

The answers were at her fingertips—did she want them?

What if this did not pertain to Eammon but his father? What if she learned something about the late duke she did not wish to know?

Persevering, she drew the paper before her and began to read. She’d wanted answers. And here they were. She could not turn them away, she could not ignore them. Her father had left her this book for a reason. As she read, her heart thundered.

“No, no, no, this cannot be true…this cannot be true.”

Yet the evidence lay before her. If this was indeed accurate, then Eammon was not a duke at all.

He was not Eammon Hayward. Not legally. Legally, his name was Eammon Keane and his father was not Alexander Hayward but a man by the name of John Keane.

And his mother? She was not Catriona Smith, if such a woman even existed, but rather one Maebh Keane. John’s wife.

He isn’t a duke. He isn’t even English. He is the child of Irish paupers.

Her world spun. This could not be. He’d lied about everything. Everything…She gulped and looked at the pages before her once more.

And the more she read, the worse the story became. Eammon was a mere ward, taken in by Alexander Hayward. Her father had helped facilitate a fraud upon the entire nation by hiding Eammon’s background so he could be a duke.

Who knew? Did his mother? She had to. Or had she been told her own husband had been married once before also? She could not imagine it. The sheer amount of information here was staggering. Eammon’s original birth certificate was here, as was a copy of the false one.

There was no denying it—he was not the rightful son of Alexander. He was not the true duke. Should this information ever be found he would be ruined—not just Eammon, but for his entire family.

A cold shiver traversed her spine. His declarations of protecting her echoed in her mind. Now the meaning became clear. He had safeguarded not her person but her inheritance and thus his secrets through their union. The grim reality was that he had protected himself. He had hoped to acquire access to this Book of Confidences by marrying her.

And furthermore—he had not merely intended to guard his own truths. He would clutch the secrets of every other member of high society.

Had he harbored intentions to blackmail them? Merely days prior, she would have rejected such a notion, for despite their trials, she had deemed him an honorable man—someone who might make a wretched spouse but was not a villain. Yet that conviction now wavered.

With a shattered heart, she recognized that he had not cared for her in the least. He may have shielded her from Markham, yet this was a mere act of preservation for himself. He could have told her the truth, but he never had. In fact, he’d told more lies. He’d concealed the truth at every turn.

Eammon had done naught but deceived her. All of it had been for this wretched book.

She returned the pages into the book and tied the leather straps. Then, she threw it back in the box and stormed out of the house and back to the horse.

She had to get back to Hartford to tell Millie all she’d discovered. And then, then, she would confront Eammon and this time, she would demand he tell her everything—and then, she’d seek her freedom once and for all.