Page 26 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Rowan looked up sharply. “Explain.”

“Your father was being blackmailed, Your Grace.” The solicitor replaced his spectacles, his expression grave. “For at least two years before his death.”

“Blackmailed? For what?”

“He never revealed the specifics. But the payments were substantial—several thousand pounds over time. It created a spiral from which he could not escape. He borrowed to pay the blackmailer, then gambled to try to recover his losses, which led to more debts.”

“And the beating that killed him?”

Notley nodded solemnly. “One of his creditors lost patience. But I always wondered if the blackmailer might have been involved somehow.”

Rowan’s mind raced. “Do you have a name for this blackmailer?”

“Only a designation in your father’s private notes.” Notley flipped through the folio, pointing to a recurring entry marked simply ‘L.B.’ “The payments were made in cash, delivered by your father personally. He was… unusually secretive about this obligation.”

“L.B.” Rowan committed the initials to memory. “And you don’t know what this person held over him?”

The solicitor hesitated. “Nothing I could prove. There were rumors, of course. Your father had indiscretions.”

“Affairs, you mean.”

“Among other things.” Notley closed the folio, his discomfort evident. “Your Grace, if I may offer some counsel, the past is best left buried. Your father’s mistakes need not taint your future. You have a new wife, estates that require your attention?—”

“The past is already tainting my future,” Rowan interrupted, his voice hard. “Whoever did this, they must have orchestrated my abduction too. They will pay for that, regardless of what I must uncover.”

“Y-you were abducted, Your Grace?”

Rowan exhaled in exasperation, “Don’t expect an explanation, Mr. Notley.”

“V-very well, Your Grace. Still, you believe these matters are connected?”

“I do.” Rowan stood, gathering the folio. “I’ll need to borrow these records.”

Notley sighed but nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace. But I urge caution. Digging into this could uncover truths one might prefer not to know.”

“I don’t care what I discover,” Rowan said coldly. “I want justice.”

He left the solicitor’s office with the folio tucked securely inside his coat, his mind churning with possibilities.

L.B.

A blackmailer with enough influence to potentially arrange his press-ganging. Or perhaps one of the creditors, seeking revenge beyond the grave.

Either way, the answers lay in London, not the peaceful countryside of Aldermere.

When Rowan returned to Aldermere Hall that evening, he found Simmons waiting at the door.

“Your Grace. Welcome home. Was your journey productive?”

“Informative, at least.” Rowan handed his hat and gloves to the waiting footman. “Is Her Grace at home?”

“In the drawing room, Your Grace. Shall I announce you?”

“No need.”

Rowan made his way through the familiar corridors of his ancestral home, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors.

He found Selina seated by the window, a book open in her lap. Sunlight caught in her hair, casting a halo-like glow that momentarily arrested him. She looked up at his entrance, her surprise quickly masked.

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