“I am a duke, Waverly.” The implacable lines of his face gave little indication as to his thoughts. “I am aware of everything as it might pertain to me.”
In short, he knew Gabriel had Jane’s skirts rucked about her legs with said actions discovered by Lady Jersey and Lady Castlereigh. “Er, yes.” He placed his palms on his legs and drummed his fingers. “That is what brings me ’round then.”
Jane. And her future and her happiness and her school, and then restoring his world to rights. That latter one proving to be more important.
The duke winged an eyebrow upward. “You do not believe I’d expect you to wed the lady.”
Gabriel cocked his head and tried to sort through those callously spoken words. “Your Grace?” he said tersely, certain he’d misheard the man. Yes, Jane was illegitimate but certainly, as his daughter, still deserving of the man’s protection.
Her father flicked a hand about. “Oh, come, I knew your father quite well, Waverly. We frequented the same…” A hard grin turned the man’s lips up at the corners. “Clubs, and got on quite well.”
He froze, as the blood coursing through his veins turned to ice. This was the man who’d sired Jane. A friend of his thankfully dead father. Odd, how he and Jane had both failed to realize their shared connection to vile, depraved monsters.
“Her mother was a whore, Waverly. Surely, you don’t think I’d expect you to wed the gel?” With a wholly undukelike manner, he snorted. “It is enough I’ve had to shuffle the girl about from household to household after she’d lifted her skirts to any and every employer she’s had.”
A black haze of rage descended over Gabriel’s vision. In all the years of his father’s abuse, never before had he been consumed with this urge to reach out and choke a man by his throat the way he did in this moment. He concentrated on his steady, even breaths and when he trusted himself to speak, said, “She is your daughter.”
“She is possibly my bastard,” the other man said simply.
Through the late marquess’ depravity and vileness, Gabriel had believed himself long ago immune to any shock where a person’s parentage was concerned. He’d been wrong. His fingers twitched with the urge to bloody the man’s pompous face. “I offered her marriage.” He wanted him to know the truth. That Jane was a woman of strength and courage and convictions. “She did not accept my offer.” And she was far nobler than Gabriel and the duke could or would ever hope to be.
A momentary flash of surprise lit the duke’s eyes.
“She wants her freedom.” And seeing the life of ill treatment she’d known with men of Gabriel’s station, he now knew why. He didn’t much like himself in this moment for no other reason than for having been born to the same gender and station as Ravenscourt and the Montclairs of the world.
“Oh?” the duke asked, his tone mildly curious.
“She wants the three thousand pounds you settled upon her,” he said bluntly. Three thousand pounds when she was deserving of so much more.
The Duke of Ravenscourt furrowed his brow.
A pit settled in Gabriel’s stomach; an intuition that was born of years of learning to rely on his instincts alone, and so he knew before any words were spoken, knew by the confusion, and the reprobate’s previous, heartless thoughts about Jane Munroe.
“Three thousand pounds? I did not settle anything upon her.”
Christ.
The air left him on a loud hiss. “The lady said you had—”
“I understand what the young woman might have said, Waverly,” the duke interrupted. “But there has never been, nor will there ever be funds for Miss Munroe.” He slashed a hand through the air. “If I began settling thousands of pounds upon any young woman professing to be my offspring, how many more do you think would come crawling from whatever whorehouse or hell they dwell in?”
Disgust tasted like a bitter acid in his mouth. “You knew her mother,” he said slowly. The man had admitted as much just moments ago.
“But neither can I be sure I was the only one who knew her. You probably understand that, Waverly. Especially being your father’s son.”