Page 61 of A Scandal at Stonecliffe

They continued to the plain church, but found no one inside. The parsonage beside it, however, opened to their knock, revealing a stern-looking man wearing a dark suit and a white collar with preaching bands.

Verity sent Nathan a sideways glance and nodded slightly. He took it to mean she had decided the man in front of them would react better to a gentleman’s questions, so Nathan said pleasantly, “Reverend Gordon?”

“Aye. And who are ye?” The man frowned, which did not seem promising.

But Nathan took heart in the fact that at least Gordon’s accent was not as thick as the earlier villagers. Nathan went on to politely explain that they were looking for the records of births in the village thirty to thirty-five years ago.

“Thirty-five years! To what purpose?”

Nathan launched into Verity’s story of his own supposed birth, which only made the man scowl more.

“There’s no English born in Gairmore,” the cleric said.

“That is my point,” Nathan said, struggling to keep the sharpness from his tone. “I believe it was a Scotswoman who was my mother.”

“Humph. No outsiders of any kind in Gairmore.”

Nathan drew himself up, assuming a haughty face, and there was an expectation of obedience in his voice as he said, “Still, I would like to examine them. I believe these are public records.”

The other man sent him a resentful look, but said only, “Aye, well, follow me.”

He led them back to the church. Verity squeezed Nathan’s arm. “Good work. You were terrifyingly lordlike.”

Mr. Gordon pulled out a leather-bound journal that looked as if it had been there for a century and began to thumb through the yellowed pages. “What is the name you’re searching for?”

“Douglas.” Nathan itched to grab the book from the man’s hands. One would have thought it contained vast secrets the way Gordon shielded it. “It would have been 1787 or 1788, probably.”

“Hmm.” The reverend gave him a suspicious look and returned to his slow perusal of the pages. “I don’t know of any Douglases. Ah.” His finger stopped its journey down the page. “Ah. Well. Here it is. ‘February twentieth in the year of our Lord 1787. Malcolm Andrew Ramsay Douglas.’ How peculiar.”

Nathan and Verity exchanged a glance. “That’s before—”

The rest of Verity’s sentence was cut short by the other man reading on, “‘Mother Flora Ramsay Douglas, father John James Douglas.’”

“What?” Nathan’s gaze snapped back, and he yanked the book from the cleric’s hands.

“Sir! That is church property.”

Nathan paid him no attention, just ran his eyes down the page to the name in question. Beside him, Verity leaned against him to peer at the book. “Well. That’s a bit of a twist.”

“What in the—I don’t understand.” Nathan recovered from his astonishment enough to hand back the book and gave the minister a coin for the church in thanks, then took Verity’s arm and swept her out the door.

“What is going on? Margaret’s mother had the baby? Margaret is Malcolm’s sister?”

“I have trouble believing that. Why would Malcolm pretend that he was your father’s son with Margaret? The truth would have been bound to come out at some point. He would have had to prove his birth in a court of law.”

“Perhaps he was just looking for a bit of blackmail and didn’t intend to go to court,” Nathan mused. “He knew my father had married Margaret, and he made up the rest of it just to get me to pay him off.”

“Or perhaps Malcolm didn’t lie about his parentage.” Verity stopped and turned to Nathan. “Maybe it is the record that’s false.”

“You think Reverend Gordon falsified the information?” Nathan’s brows soared. “Why would he do that?”

“Money,” Verity replied succinctly.

Nathan sighed. “I suppose you will think I’m terribly naive to be shocked at the idea of a clergyman lying.”

“I think most people would assume a clergyman would tell the truth. But there are churchmen who love money. And it might not necessarily have been for personal gain. New pews for the church or a bell tower repaired could have been the lure.”

“He was suspiciously reluctant to let us see the record of the birth.”