“I know that,” Eammon replied. “But I cannot risk revealing my truth or placing her in a position where she might unearth matters she ought not to. I shall follow your counsel—secure the book and incinerate any evidence. Then, perhaps, I may finally be free, and Charity and I might become something more. Until then, I cannot permit her to draw too near to me because—” He faltered, uncertain of the future he envisioned. He was unaccustomed to such ambiguity. Assertiveness and decisive action came naturally to him, qualities that commanded attention and respect. Yet feeling adrift was a discomfort he detested, and still, Charity had evoked it in him.
He had been so certain of how his life would unfold post-wedding. He would pursue his endeavors, while she would pursue hers—but that was no longer the case.
He had seen in her a brave, compassionate spirit—qualities he desired in a wife. Yet a secret loomed between them, a threat that refused to fade.
“When do you expect it?” Thomas inquired, both men knowing precisely what “it” referred to.
“It is en route from Pembroke even now,” Eammon responded. “It should arrive posthaste, and perhaps then I can cast off this cross I bear.”
He leaned back, yearning for the relief that freedom from this burden might bring. Thomas withdrew his watch fob, flicked it open, and glanced at the time. With a measured nod, he snapped it shut. “I must see my father. The shop on Bond Street has suffered no small measure of irregularities in its ledger, and we must set it aright. I shall call on you the day after tomorrow.”
Thomas rose and inclined his head before emptying his glass and slipping out.
Rising as well, Eammon strode toward the club’s interior, past the card room, the smoking room, and the billiards room, where he hesitated. He had not played since his father’s passing, but it had been a favored pastime of years past. He picked up a cue and ran his hand along its length, feeling himself transported back to Hayward House, to their billiards room, to happier times spent in his father’s company. He lifted the chalk and turned it in his fingers before setting up the shot. He was alone, but it mattered not. Nostalgia settled over him as he struck the ball, sending it cleanly across the table to knock against the red.
From childhood, his father had taught him the game—or rather, Alexander had. He carried vague recollections of his earliest years, of a third figure. His true sire, or as he had come to think of him, his earthly father. Alexander had been his guide, his dearest friend, and on occasion, they had played billiards with Eammon. He had been but three or four, his fondest memory of those days when he had sought to abscond with the red and white balls, devising a different game entirely—much to his father’s protests.
“A lonely figure you cut,” a voice observed, and he looked up. Markham stood in the doorway, smirking as he entered. “I see your shadow has left you.”
“I require no shadow,” Eammon said, rising to his full height, towering half a head over Markham, who was both short and stout. “But you shall, if you do not cease your harassment of myself and my?—”
“Your wife,” Markham interjected with a sneer. “As though she were truly yours. You know as well as I that?—”
“I know that she and I are wed. We are society’s most talked about couple, while you remain alone and unwed.”
“We both know that all this talk about your whirlwind romance nothing but gammon. We both know what this was truly about.”
“Do we? Well, then we also both know that I have what it was we both wanted,” he said, though he felt badly for speaking of material goods when Charity had caused him upheaval for entirely different reasons, unrelated to her inheritance.
Markham’s lips parted, then pressed shut as he scoffed before speaking. “Ah. So it is as I thought. You care naught for her. You never have. You care for what she brings. As did I, and every man who sought to curry favor with Pembroke. Tell me, does the duchess know that you married her not for affection, nor for beauty or wit, but because she is the key to the secrets of every noble family in the realm?”
Eammon did not believe the Book of Confidences wielded such power. He was more concerned with his own secret, not that of others. Alas, Markham clearly did. And that made him a dangerous foe.
“My wife knows what she needs know. As, indeed, do I.” He tipped his head, crossed his arms, and smirked. “I will have you know, she came into her inheritance and I have taken charge of it—and all it contains.”
It struck him then—if Markham were so desperate for the book that he had sought to force Charity’s hand, to spread rumors that would leave her no recourse but marriage to him, then he must fear what was contained within the book’s pages. Had he not just claimed it held the key to the reputations of every noble house? His own must be among them. At least, he hoped so, for the gamble he was embarking on now would only work if Markham feared his own family’s shame was inscribed in the pages of Lord Pembroke’s book.
“Well, there is no need to pretend anymore. We both wanted the book, the long talked about mysterious book. Many thought it an illusion, but I knew it to be real,” Markham said, voice laden with provocation. “The question is, does Lady Charity know of its existence? I daresay she does not know you wed her for the book. Shall we test the matter? Shall we ask her?”
Rage ignited in Eammon’s gut, spreading like wildfire through every limb.
“I said,” he ground out, “you will leave her be.”
“Oh, so you do have something to hide? So she does not know, does she? Well, perhaps?—”
Before Markham could spew whatever drivel he had planned, Eammon seized him by the collar and drove him against the wall. They were alone—no one to intervene. Not that anyone would. Markham was a man with few friends, and none who would aid him aside from his cousin.
“I warn you once,” Eammon said, voice a blade honed to lethal sharpness. “Should you so much as come near her again, should you utter one more falsehood about her, should you send one of your lackeys after her, you will regret it. I hold the Book of Confidences and all it contains. I will not hesitate to lay bare your father’s sins before the world.”
He had not an inkling if the book held any record of Markham’s family, but it was a wager worth making. Markham had no brothers. If he feared the book, it must be for himself or his father. A risk, but one he had to take.
Eammon held his gaze, fingers tightening on his collar. “Do we understand one another?”
All color fled Markham’s face, and he managed a stiff nod despite Eammon’s grip, confirming Eammon’s suspicion. The book contained something about the Markhams. It was why he’d been so desperate to wed Charity—just as Eammon had been.
“I understand,” he rasped.
Eammon released him so swiftly, the man staggered against the wall. Adjusting his coat, he stepped back.
