Page 62 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
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.
