Page 68 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
“Do you wish to gamble on that fact? Mine is only a reputation, yours could be… your neck,” he said, and Catherine’s father scowled.
“You would ruin my reputation?” he asked, and the duke laughed.
“Just as you would ruin mine. I assure you, Broderick, I could see your interests – and those of your son – entirely ruined within a day if you reveal what you know. I do not deny I am Ian’s father, and for that I will have to pay the price,” he said, glancing at his wife, who scowled at him.
“You will,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“But I am not without my own means, either. You have proved yourself an unworthy partner in business, one I had hoped to rid myself of, and now you yourself have given me the opportunity. Here is my ultimatum, keep this knowledge to yourself or face certain ruin at my hands,” he said, and Catherine’s father looked angrily around the room.
“You have not heard the last of this,” he exclaimed, but at that moment, the door burst open, and Rickard stormed into the drawing room, touting a pistol, which he pointed straight at Ian.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Catherine screamed. Her brother had a manic looking in his eyes. His clothes were disheveled, and it appeared as though he had barely slept. Nicholas stepped forward to protest, but Rickard pointed the pistol at him, and Rebecca too, let out a scream.
“Nicholas, no,” she exclaimed, and Nicholas stepped back, the look on Rickard’s face enough to know he was serious in his intentions.
“How dare you,” the Duke of Sinclair exclaimed, stepping in front of the Duchess who gave an exasperated cry.
“Is it not a little late for chivalrous actions?” she exclaimed.
“Be quiet, all of you,” Rickard shouted, herding them back toward the far wall of the drawing room.
Ian had his arm protectively around Catherine, and even her father looked somewhat surprised at this astonishing interruption. “Now, Rickard, there is no need for this,” he said.
“Do you know what they have done, father? Did you not receive my letter? I have followed them across the whole country. They are married,” he cried, still pointing the pistol at Ian, his hands trembling as he did so.
“I know that, and we have come to an agreement,” Catherine’s father replied.
“Over a bastard?” Rickard screamed, cocking the pistol as he did so.
“There are things you do not know,” Catherine’s father continued, “things which make it best for us to forget this matter.”
“You should listen to your father,” the duke said, but Rickard would listen to no one.
Catherine had never seen such anger in his eyes. He was a man consumed by hatred, and though terrified of what he would do, she could almost pity him. He had nothing of his own, and he had foolishly believed that her marriage to the Earl of Westwood would bring him fortune and a bright future. Now, left with nothing but his own faults to dwell on, it was hardly surprising he should resort to such irrational actions.
“I will listen to no one. This man is your illegitimate son, and the whole ton will soon know it. The marriage is not binding and will be annulled. Catherine will marry the Earl of Westwood, and there is nothing any of you can do to prevent it,” he cried.
“I think you will find there is,” Ian replied, and now Rickard grew even angrier.
“I will kill you. That is what I shall do. I will shoot you, and then you shall no recourse to my sister. We shall not need an annulment, for a widow may marry as she chooses,” he said, but to Catherine’s immense surprise, it was her father who now took action.
It all happened so quickly that no one quite knew what was happening. Rickard had made to fire the pistol at Ian, who had pushed Catherine out of the way, the two of them ending up in a heap on the floor. Catherine’s father, too, had lunged forward, knocking Rickard to one side, the pistol going off as he did so. The rest of the party had taken cover, Nicholas and Rebecca beneath a large pianoforte in one corner of the room, and the duke and duchess behind an ornate gold etched screen in another.
As the smoke from the pistol settled, Ian leaped to his feet, throwing himself onto Rickard as Nicholas did the same. The sound of the pistol shot had brought the servants running, and soon Rickard was in the arms of two burly footmen, the pistol kicked onto the rug by the hearth. Catherine got to her feet, rushing to help Rebecca who, in the excitement, had twisted her ankle as she dived beneath the pianoforte.
“I am all right, just a sprain,” she said, as Catherine helped her into a chair.
“Catherine…” Ian said, pointing to the floor. To her horror, Catherine saw her father lying motionless there, blood seeping from his shoulder, and she hurried to his side, urging him to wake up.
“Father, can you hear me? Oh…” she cried, looking desperately around her for something to stem the bleeding.
“Here, use these,” Nicholas said, handing her a pile of napkins from the refreshment table, and suddenly her father gave a groan, rolling onto his back and looking up at her with a dazed expression.
“Shot by my own son,” he exclaimed, letting out a cry of pain, as Catherine stemmed the blood from his wound.
It was only superficial, a graze to the shoulder from a pistol which must have been thirty years old, more smoke and noise than potential for harm. But the shock of what had transpired, and of the intention behind it was enough to bring everyone to their senses.
