The Virgin in the Rake’s Bed by Ava MacAdams

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Iwould like to think I was not always a bad mother,” were the words which greeted Catherine when she appeared in the dining room the next morning.

Ian had let her sleep late, and she had ventured down as the clocks were striking the tenth hour to find Ian and his mother sitting at breakfast. “Ah, Catherine, I did not want to wake you,” he said, as she took a seat at the table.

“Good morning, dear,” Ian’s mother said, “I trust you slept well?” Catherine had not slept so well since they had left London, and it was as though Ashcourt Park had placed her under a particular spell, one in which she could find a peace she had not known in many the long months passed.

“I did, thank you. I could happily remain here forever,” she said, helping herself to a bread roll and coffee.

“Then you must stay as long as you wish. You both must,” Ian’s mother replied, but Ian shook his head.

“We will return, mother. But I must go and speak with the Duke of Sinclair. It is imperative I do so,” he said, and his mother tutted.

“We should have nothing to do with that man,” she exclaimed.

“But if I do not speak with him, then Catherine’s father and brother will reveal the truth and he will be unprepared to counter such an accusation. We need his support. The letters prove him to be my father, and with such proof, he will surely wish to silence any rumors concerning him,” Ian replied.

“But what if he claims they are merely a forgery?” Catherine asked.

She had kept the thought to herself since the afternoon before, but if the Duke of Sinclair was as he was claimed to be, then what was to stop him simply denying it all? Without definite proof, he could simply distance himself from the revelation and make out as though he knew nothing of the claims. Ian would be left merely a bastard, and with no recourse to his own defense. Catherine knew how fickle the ton could be, and she feared Ian would need more proof if his plan was to succeed.

“There is something else,” Ian’s mother said, and she rose from the table and disappeared out into the hallway.

“You are right, of course,” Ian said, and he sighed.

“I merely think that there is the possibility of rejection if the proof is not absolute,” Catherine replied.

“Part of me thinks we should simply flee abroad, but I have my responsibilities here. Illegitimate or not, my father left me his inheritance and estates. I am the Baron of Westwick, and no one can take that away from me. One might call it good fortune that I no longer have a brother to challenge that,” Ian replied, just as his mother returned to the room.

She was carrying a small box, which she placed on the table in front of them. It was a jewelry box, and she opened it to reveal a ring, set with a purple stone. It was very beautiful, the cut glass catching the sunlight streaming through the window.

“He gave me this when I thought he loved me. It is part of a set belonging to his family. There are five rings, all inlaid with different colors. This ring will match the others, and in one of the letters he speaks of giving me this ring as a sign of love. I was naïve enough to believe him, and foolish enough not to question him when it became apparent his love was no love at all,” she said, shaking her head.

Catherine reached out and took the ring, holding it up to admire the craftsmanship. “And we may take this?” Ian asked.

His mother nodded. “I want you to, yes. I want you to use it to prove what I have told you. If he still refuses, tell him his wife may still be wondering where it has gone,” she said, a look of determination coming over her face.

Catherine knew how formidable the Duchess of Sinclair could be. She had heard enough stories from Rebecca and Nicholas to know that the duchess would not take kindly to a scandal such as this. The duke was a womanizer, but it was one thing to dally with the fairer sex and quite another to see a Baroness’s child born out of wedlock as a result. Catherine smiled, slipping her hand into Ian’s and squeezing it reassuringly.

“Then we should waste no time, we should leave at once,” she said, and Ian nodded.

“We will return, Mother, I promise,” he said, and his mother smiled.

“I had but one wish, Ian, and that is to be reconciled with my son. Whatever happens now is as nothing, given such a happy return,” she replied.

They finished breakfast quickly, and though Catherine felt loathe to leave Ashcourt Park, she had no doubt they would return. Their carriage was waiting for them, and Ian instructed their drive to make all haste for London and the home of the Duke and Duchess of Sinclair – the Somerset residence which had already been the scene of so much excitement and adventure.

“You will return, promise me, Ian,” his mother called out, as she waved them goodbye.

“When all is at peace, mother,” Ian replied, and Catherine smiled at him, slipping her hand into his as they drove out of the gates and along the lane edged with larch trees.

“You seem happier now, Ian,” she said, and he nodded.

“I never wanted to hate her. It pained me to do so, but until I met you, I felt as though I would never trust another woman in all my days. You showed me a different path and reminded me that there is goodness, even in despair. I am glad to be reconciled with her,” he said, and Catherine squeezed his hand.

“And soon all our troubles will be over, for surely my father cannot continue his ridiculous charade when faced with the wrath of the Duke of Sinclair,” she said, but Ian’s face grew grave.

“If we can convince him,” he replied, sighing and shaking his head.

* * *

The journey to London seemed to take an age, for Ian could think of little else but the impending encounter he would face. The duke would either dismiss him out of hand or see the sense in siding with him against Rickard and Catherine’s father. His fate lay in the balance, and whilst he would still have Catherine’s hand either way, his reputation could so easily be destroyed.

“I must go at once and speak with the duke,” he said, when at last they arrived back at Westwick Manor.

It was late, the moon high in the sky, and only a single lamp burning in the library window, left, no doubt, by Redbrand to light his master’s way, for Ian had sent word ahead that he and Catherine were to be expected.

“But he will not receive you at this hour. Wait until the morning and rest for our journey. A few hours will make no difference to the matter,” Catherine pleaded with him, but Ian shook his head.

“I must speak with him, I must know the truth as he will speak it,” he said, and despite Catherine’s protests, he helped her inside and bid her goodnight.

The sound of the carriage returning had roused the butler and the rest of the staff so that Catherine was welcomed into the house as its new mistress. But Ian could not bear to waste another moment, and kissing her goodbye, he directed the weary carriage driver to make all haste at once for the Somerset residence. He had with him the letters his mother had given him, and the ring, should he need further proof. His heart was beating fast, and he knew his welcome would be cold, even before he revealed his true intentions.

Like the rest of the capital, the Somerset residence was in darkness when he arrived outside. He instructed the carriage driver to wait, and the man nodded, grateful to Ian for allowing him to doze awhile in the compartment. But Ian felt no fatigue, only a nervous excitement as to what was to come. It had been almost two weeks since he and Catherine had left London bound for Gretna Green and in that time, he wondered what had transpired, and what scandal had erupted at the revelation of his and Catherine’s elopement.

“I may not be back for some time,” he told the carriage driver, who was already half asleep and slumped across the seat in the compartment.

Mounting the steps, Ian wrapped hard at the knocker, the sound echoing across the forecourt in front of the house. The Somerset residence was a grand old house, and though situated in the center of town, it maintained an air of a country estate. Ian could hear distant footsteps approaching, and saw the light of a lamp through the crack beneath the door.

“Who goes there at this time of night?” a voice demanded from inside.

“Ian Bennet, Baron of Westwick. I must speak with the duke immediately,” Ian replied, caring nothing for his bizarre behavior in arriving at such an hour to demand an audience.

“His Grace is in his library, he has no wish to be disturbed,” came the reply.

“Tell him his son is here to see him,” Ian replied, and there was a long pause in response.

“The Marquess is at his rest,” came the reply.

“Tell him those words, and see if he will agree to see me,” Ian replied, willing to argue all night if it meant his entry was secured.

“I will tell His Grace he has a visitor,” the voice replied, and the footsteps shuffled off.

“And be sure to use those words,” Ian called out.

He smiled to himself at the thought of the duke’s reaction. He cared nothing for the man – the anger he had felt toward his mother now placed squarely at the duke’s feet – but he needed his father to understand the implications of what would be should Catherine’s father and brother reveal the truth. It was the Duke of Sinclair who had the power to remedy the situation, and Ian was willing to shake hands with the Devil if it meant peace for him and Catherine.

“His Grace will see you, even at this late hour,” the butler said, opening wide the door.

He was a tall man, who looked Ian up and down with some disdain, ushering him inside and closing the door loudly behind him. Ian had been in this hallway dozens of times in the past, but never had he imagined for such a reason as this. He had long known the tragedy of his illegitimacy, but he had imagined the man responsible to be long since disappeared, a mystery he would never resolve. Now, instead of the Duke of Sinclair, Ian was to be confronted by the man with whom his own life was inextricably bound, a man he could never bring himself to refer to as father, but who was just that.

“Mention none of this to the Marquess,” Ian said, as the butler led him up a short flight of stairs and along a corridor to the duke’s library – the very library in which he and Catherine had enjoyed their first fateful encounter.

“A butler’s role is always that of discretion, sir,” the butler replied, and as they arrive at the library door, he knocked and entered.

Candles burned around the room, and a fire was blazing in the hearth, illuminating the duke who sat drinking brandy, an open book in his hands. “Leave us, Samson,” he said, and the butler bowed.

“Very well, Your Grace,” he said, closing the door behind him.

The duke looked angry at this disturbance, and he eyed Ian suspiciously, pointing to a chair opposite him, though he offered him no refreshment. “What nonsense is this. Are you drunk? You tell my butler that his son is here to see him, what lie is this?” he demanded, setting down his drink and fixing Ian with an angry expression.

“It is no lie, Your Grace. I think you know why I am here,” Ian retorted.

He was not about to be intimidated by the duke, nor dismissed like some jilted lover from the past. “I do not know, but if you do not explain yourself quickly, I shall have the footmen throw you out,” he exclaimed.

“I am your son, the product of your affair with my mother, the Baroness Westwick, Roberta Bennet. You cannot deny it, you know it to be true,” he exclaimed, and the duke scoffed.

“What nonsense. How dare you come here and speak such lies?” he said, his fists clenched in anger.

“They are not lies. I speak the truth. Do you deny you told my mother you loved her, then left her with nothing?” he said, and the duke drew breath.

“What has she told you?” he asked, and Ian reached into his pocket.

“I have here the letters you wrote her. Proof, if any were needed, of what you did,” he said, and the duke merely scoffed.

“Forgeries. And besides, what difference does it make? What do you intend to do with this lie?” he asked, and Ian shook his head.

“It is not what I intend to do that matters,” he replied, and he explained to the ageing aristocrat all that had occurred, and how Rickard and Catherine’s father intended to use what they knew against them both.

When he had finished his explanation, the duke looked visibly perturbed, though he maintained his composure, still not admitting to the truth. “The devils,” he muttered.

“They are ambitious, not only in their desire for fortune and title, but in business, too. They believe that if I am discredited, I will renounce my love for Catherine and slip quietly away, that is why we have married so hastily, but in doing so they will also reveal your failings, too, and whilst it is one thing to enjoy the company of women, it is quite another to sire an illegitimate son – think of the scandal,” Ian said, and the duke grimaced.

“Give me those letters,” he exclaimed, but Ian shook his head.

“And see you burn them? No. But I will read them to you,” he said, unfolding the first of the considerable correspondence between the duke and his mother.

“I do not wish to hear them. Forgeries, they are forgeries,” he said, but Ian shook his head.

“They are not forgeries. Besides, there is further proof,” he said, rummaging in his pocket.

“What is this…?” the duke began, but Ian interrupted him.

“A token of your affection, from you to my mother,” he said, opening the box to reveal the ring.

The duke swallowed hard, the sight of the piece of jewelry evidently enough to change his mind. “I see…” he said, and Ian put the ring safely back in his pocket.

“I understand it comes from a set, one which this ring completes. Did you tell your wife you had lost it?” Ian asked, and now the duke sighed.

“Very well, Westwick, you have won,” he said.

Ian had no desire to humiliate the duke. He had no liking for him, and his behavior toward his mother had been abhorrent. But it was this acceptance he desired, the acceptance of responsibility and the possibility of his help. Ian did not have to like the duke in order to be grateful to him for his help.

“I did not wish to win anything, your Grace. I merely desired your admittance of responsibility. This matter affects us both, myself in personal terms, and you in matters of business. Besides, I doubt your wife would wish to discover her own son has a half-brother,” he said.

The duke nodded. He looked thoughtful now, and Ian wondered if there was a trace of regret or the thought of how many other illegitimacies might be waiting to reveal themselves. “You want nothing else from me?” the duke asked, and Ian shook his head.

“As far as I am concerned, you are not my father, nor the man I shall continue to call “father,” and in whose legacy I live. I really want nothing to do with you, but we are forced to associate by way of unfortunate circumstances,” he said, and the duke nodded.

“It seems so, yes. And if I help you, will you remain silent?” he asked, and Ian laughed.

“I will say nothing, nor do I wish ever to reveal this unfortunate truth. I will gladly take this knowledge to my grave. I will make no claim on you, and for what it is worth, I admire your son, Nicholas very much. My wife is a friend of your daughter-in-law, and neither of us wish any difficulty for either of them. But what can be done?” he asked, and the duke pondered for a moment.

“I think I have an idea,” he said, and now he offered Ian a brandy, as the two of them sat up long into the night and discussed their plans…