Page 63 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
“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.
