When Scandal Came to Town: Scandalous Sons - Book 3, page 6
Wycliff steepled his fingers and offered a mischievous grin. “Then we should strike him off the list of suspects.”
“List of suspects? How do you know I am out for revenge?” Oh, he was out to punish someone for treating his wife so despicably.
“Well, if you weren’t out all night bedding women to banish thoughts of your wife, you must have been doing something to occupy your mind. Indeed, I took the liberty of visiting my father last night and made some enquiries of my own.”
Benedict drained the tumbler of brandy and put the empty glass on the side table. “Did you discover anything of interest?”
“The most notable members of the ton attended Lord Craven’s ball, including my father. By all accounts, Lord Purcell has a vendetta against Worthen and has slandered the earl’s name all over town.”
“A vendetta?” It came as no surprise. Most people despised the earl. “Then it’s no coincidence he was one of the men who received a note to come to Hyde Park.” Of course, Purcell might have written the notes himself, arranged the whole damn thing knowing Benedict was the last person Worthen wanted his daughter to marry. “Does your father know what started the feud?”
“There was a bankruptcy auction for Reavey Hall, a substantial property in Shropshire which borders Purcell’s estate. Tenders were submitted as sealed bids, but Purcell believes Worthen filed more than one bid and bribed a clerk to present the appropriate one. There’s no proof, but Worthen ridiculed Purcell for lacking the funds to make a serious offer.”
Benedict absorbed the information. Lord Worthen loved nothing more than belittling men he deemed inferior. Purcell was guilty of the same, so it was no surprise the men were embroiled in a bitter dispute.
“So Purcell has a motive. What about opportunity?”
Wycliff arched a brow. “That’s where it gets interesting. Trent went to Lord Craven’s mews and bribed a groom. On the night in question, a man fitting Purcell’s description bungled a woman with blonde hair into his carriage. The vehicle bolted from the mews as if the wheels were ablaze.”
Benedict jumped to his feet. “By God, then Purcell is the villain responsible.” And he would fire a lead ball between the lord’s brows for his treachery. “Only a man could have carried Cassandra’s body from the road to the Serpentine.”
“It pays not to jump to conclusions. The groom said numerous drunken couples climbed into their carriages that night. Does Cassandra recall speaking to Purcell at the ball? You said someone drugged her, so she must have encountered her kidnapper.”
Benedict dropped into the seat. He’d been so desperate to place some distance between them he’d not taken the time to question Cassandra. “We agreed to make a detailed account of events during dinner tonight. Her memory is so hazy I saw no reason to distress her by pressing for information.”
Wycliff nodded, which went some way to easing Benedict’s embarrassment. “There’s something else you should know. I met with Woods last night, too.”
“Mrs Crandall’s majordomo? What, has he finally escaped her evil clutches?” Besides greeting guests and serving drinks, Mrs Crandall’s servant often performed private services for his mistress.
“Woods is trying to gather enough funds to make a new life for himself in Boston. I paid him handsomely for the information last night, though he asked me to remind you that if you intend to travel abroad, he would happily act as your valet.”
“The man is so desperate to leave Mrs Crandall’s employ I might pay for his fare myself.” Benedict knew firsthand what it was like to be the recipient of the woman’s rampant affections.
“Trent said the same.” Wycliff gestured to the row of decanters on the drinks table. “Another brandy?”
“Not for me. When I return home, I’d rather not smell as if I’ve partaken in a night of drunken debauchery.” Cassandra had taken her breakfast in her room this morning, and so had no idea what time he had come home. “What did Woods say?”
“That Mrs Crandall is as obsessed with you as ever. Drummond, McCreath and Forrester have never been to her den of vice on Theobolds Road. Purcell visited last week, took tea in the drawing room, and Woods swears Purcell mentioned Lord Worthen’s name.”
Benedict fell silent. How would ruining Cassandra help Mrs Crandall’s bid to win his affections? “Mrs Crandall has nothing to gain by hurting Lord Worthen. Perhaps she discovered how much I despise Cassandra and gave me her ruination as a gift.” That was one of many scenarios he’d considered after arriving in Hyde Park.
“Then she will be livid when she learns you married the lady.”
Jealousy and vindictiveness pulsed in the madam’s veins. If Mrs Crandall had played a part in the scandal, then she was likely to find other ways to hurt Cassandra. Panic burst to life in Benedict’s chest. Until the matter was resolved, he should not let his wife out of his sight.
“I should return to Jermyn Street.” Perhaps he was exaggerating the threat. But someone had gone to great lengths to cause a scandal. Without knowing the villain’s motive, it was impossible to predict his next move. “While I’m confident the aim was to ridicule the Earl of Worthen, what if the culprit is intent on punishing Cassandra?”
“Your objective should be to protect your wife.” Wycliff’s serious stare sent a chill down Benedict’s spine. “The attacks will come from every quarter. People will take pleasure in giving her the cut direct. She will quickly come to learn what it was like to walk in your shoes before you found an inner strength.”
Benedict stood and tugged the cuffs of his coat. “She may look like she has a backbone of steel, but inside she is as fragile as the woman who rejected me five years ago—ill-prepared for what is to come. She has lived with a misguided notion of what is important and suffered in the process.”
Wycliff came to his feet and crossed the room. He gripped Benedict’s shoulder. “Perhaps there is hope for you both yet. You defend her with the same burning passion you do when you pretend to despise her.”
Oh, when it came to despising Cassandra Mills, he was an expert at pretending. “I want to despise her to the depths of my core. I want to punish her, make her pay. And I want to make love to her, care for her always.” God, he was a bloody mess of contradictions.
Wycliff smiled. “The road to fulfilment often involves a perilous journey. Somehow you will reach your destination.”
* * *
On his return to Jermyn Street, Benedict discovered his wife had commanded use of the drawing room to meet with their housekeeper, Mrs Rampling. He bathed, changed his clothes and retired to his study to examine the letter. A futile exercise in finding a clue to the sender’s identity.
Numerous times during the day he crossed paths with Cassandra. They passed pleasantries, spoke about the fact she had brought dinner forward by two hours, a compromise as he was used to eating late. She looked happy, carefree, as if the tragic events of the last few days had never occurred. It was an act, another mask to hide behind because neither knew how to behave, how to be themselves.
They dined at seven, and he was surprised to find a bill of fare enough for a party of six. The menu, more lavish than he preferred with dishes of quail and Parisienne tarts, reminded him of the earl’s elitism. His thoughts spiralled into maudlin memories, and before he knew it, the footmen were clearing away the covers and serving them drinks in the drawing room.
They settled into chairs in front of the fire. She took sherry as her digestif. He took port. It was all very structured. Civil. Had they married five years ago, he imagined they would have locked the door, tore off their clothes and made love while the heat from the fire’s flames danced over their bare skin. Now, the emptiness inside seemed worse when in her company than when apart.
As they sat in silence, staring into the hearth, he tried to think of something to say. The only thing they had in common was their need to find the brute who’d ruined her life.
“Perhaps we should discuss your attendance at Lord Craven’s ball if you feel able.”
She jumped upon hearing his voice. “Yes, I’ve spent the entire day trying to piece together the fragments of that night.”
“I presume your father was your chaperone.”
“He insisted on accompanying me to every ball and rout.” She looked to her lap as she spoke. “The earl controls everyone and everything, you know that.”
“Was Lord Murray there?” Did she slink away to a quiet alcove to share an illicit kiss with her betrothed? Had she crept out into the garden, embraced the lord beneath the moonlight as she had done many times with him?
“Yes.”
“Did you dance with Murray?”
“Three times.”
“Anything more than dance?” He tried to make it sound like a perfectly reasonable question, yet jealousy imbued his tone. When her shocked eyes met his, he said, “It is important we’re honest with each other.”
“Does that mean you will afford me the same courtesy?”
“I’m not a hypocrite, Cassandra.” Why did he get the impression she relished the prospect of asking personal questions? “You can ask me anything, and I will give you an honest answer.”
She swallowed a sip of sherry. “We did nothing of an amorous nature. Timothy believes in the sanctity of marriage and wanted to wait.”
Benedict gave a mocking snort. “So he never tried to ravish you? Not a kiss, not an attempt to slip his hand under your skirts and stroke your bare thigh?”
Embarrassment stained her cheeks. “He kissed me when he proposed, but he never touched me the way you used to.”
The sound of her sweet sigh when he’d stolen under her skirts and brushed his fingers over her sex would be forever etched in his memory. Desire ignited, desire for the woman he remembered, the woman who hadn’t crushed his hopes and dreams.
“While we’re on the subject of intimate relations,” she said, and he knew what was coming, “have you ever felt affection for the women you’ve bedded?”
The comment hit him like the splash of ice-cold water, cooling his heated blood. And he cursed himself for saying he would speak the truth. “Years ago, I vowed only to make love to you, and I have kept my promise. You will think this crude, but you asked for honesty, and so don’t be shocked when I tell you that I’ve cared nothing for the women I’ve fucked.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she snapped it shut. It took her a moment to regain her composure. “Having been certified a virgin by Dr Hadley, I wouldn’t know the difference.”
Did she have to remind him of the medical man’s unnecessary probing? “Trust me, you would know. One carries no emotional connection. The other—” His gaze drifted down the elegant column of her throat, over the swell of milky-white flesh evident above the neckline of her gown. The urge to claim her came upon him. “I imagine the emotional explosion makes the physical pleasure more satisfying.”
She stared at him, the fire’s amber flames dancing wildly in her eyes. Her lips parted, and for a few seconds he thought of pressing his mouth to hers. Would she taste as sweet as he remembered?
Undoubtedly.
“We should return to the subject of Lord Craven’s ball.” Benedict shook himself out of his fantasy. “Had you received any threats prior to the event? Is there anyone who could claim to have a grievance against you?”
“No one.” She sat there, a perfect picture of innocence. “You might think me a spoilt shrew, but you’re the only person with whom I have ever shared cross words.”
Benedict snorted. “Perhaps I should be flattered that I raise your passions to such an alarming degree.”
“You always stir a reaction in me.” She kept her gaze trained on him as she sipped her sherry.
Now his mind turned sinful, and he had to think of another question to distract from the knowledge he could bed his wife whenever he pleased. “So, I’m the only person with a reason to bear a grievance,” he mused. “What about Lady Murray? Did she want you to marry her son?”
Cassandra shrugged. “I’m the daughter of an earl, why wouldn’t she want to forge an alliance?”
“Because your father has more enemies than I have cravats. Do you know of any disagreement between them?”
“No. They have always been perfectly civil in each other’s company.”
“And you never doubted Lord Murray’s love for you?”
“Not until he scurried from my father’s study faster than a rat does a sinking ship.”
Benedict laughed. “Forgive me. I do not mean to make light of a distressing situation. It’s just I find the image of Murray scampering away somewhat amusing.”
It surprised him when Cassandra laughed, too. “You should have seen the look of relief on his face when I freed him from his obligation.”
The comment gave him pause.
“You freed Murray?” Benedict sat forward. “But I thought he refused to marry you after hearing of the scandal.”
Cassandra relayed the conversation she’d had with the weak-willed lord. “And so, even if he had insisted on keeping his oath, I could not marry a man who would rather drink port and talk politics than comfort his betrothed.”
Hmm. Perhaps Cassandra was stronger than he thought.
“Being the focus of a scandal proved quite liberating,” she continued. “When one has lost everything, one finds an inner resolve.” Her smile faded. “I suppose I will need that when I have to face the gossiping hordes.”
The need to protect her burned in his chest. “I’ve come to learn that it’s the meaning we attach to words that causes upset.” She would need an education in how to respond to negative comments if she was to survive the vile taunts. “What is a word but a series of muscle movements made in the throat and mouth?”
She seemed to ponder his words. When she met his gaze, water welled in her eyes. “It must have been difficult for you, hearing all the terrible things people said. I said some awful things to you, too, things that make me ashamed.”
“I retaliated with equal vehemence.”
“When one is consumed with unhappiness, it’s easier to cast the blame elsewhere. For years, I have been so angry with you, angry because of your illegitimacy.” She dashed a tear from her eye. “These last few days I have never been more grateful for it.”
He didn’t want to examine the sentiment beneath her observations. Not yet. They had a villain to catch, a devil to snare, and he needed a clear mind if he was to help her carve a new place in society.
“When one faces a battle, it is better to have an ally skilled in combat.” He raised his glass in salute before downing the rest of his port. “Tomorrow we should venture into town, meet our adversaries head-on, make a frontal attack.”
“You mean we should go out together?”
“Do you think I would let you face them alone?”
Her lips curled into a smile, the first genuine smile he had seen in days. “I should like that. Very much.”
He let her wallow in a moment of happiness. Tomorrow they would engage in several skirmishes. They could continue their conversation about the ball while parading through enemy territory. It would occupy her mind, help to detract from the wicked whispers and sly stares.
“Then we should retire early. As well as a shopping trip, we have a rather important gathering to attend tomorrow night.”
“A gathering?” She blinked back her surprise. “At Mr Wycliff’s house?”
“At the den of the debauched on Theobolds Road. Tomorrow, we will attend a demimonde soirée.”
And he would confront Mrs Crandall with his suspicions.
Chapter Seven
“Perhaps you should go to Theobolds Road alone tonight.” Cassandra tightened the silk ribbons of her poke bonnet as she stood in the hall, ready for her outing with Benedict. “You don’t need me there when you speak to Mrs Crandall.”
During breakfast, Benedict had told her about Mrs Crandall’s obsession, about the woman’s desperate need to bed him, and she’d sat there, nibbling her toast, surprised to find she had something in common with the queen of the demimonde.
“I want you there.” Benedict brushed the lapels of his coat and straightened his black top hat. “Besides, being amongst the demimonde gives one the confidence to deal with the upper echelons.” The corners of his mouth curled into a sinful grin. “Trust me. It will be an enlightening experience.”
When he smiled like that, how could she refuse?
“I have nothing suitable to wear. It will take days for Madame de La Tour to design a gown daring enough to blend in with those ladies who seek pleasure on the fringes.”
Benedict’s smile faded at the mention of the famed modiste. “You may have to find another dressmaker.” It seemed to pain him to say so.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Madame de La Tour has made my gowns since my come-out ball.” They were on such friendly terms theirs was more than a business relationship. “She knows what styles suit me.”
“Very well. But remember reputation matters just as much to those in trade.” He offered his arm. “We’ll walk to Piccadilly and up to New Bond Street.”
Cassandra slipped her arm through his and clung to the bulging bicep. “And on the way, you must give me an idea of how disgraced women dress.”
Benedict led her out onto Jermyn Street. He stopped and drew her round to face him, tucked a strand of hair back into her bonnet and said, “Hold your head high. Never show them their vile words or smug grins hurt you. Do you understand?”
Cassandra swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I understand.”
It was a pleasant morning. The crisp air proved refreshing as opposed to leaving one shivering to the soles of their boots. The sun shone brightly, which meant many people would venture out for a leisurely stroll. Ice-cold fear surrounded her heart as she anticipated every frightful encounter. But she didn’t have time to dwell on her anxiety as Benedict asked more probing questions about Lord Craven’s ball.
