When Scandal Came to Town (Scandalous Sons 3)

Benedict took a pugilist’s stance as the fake coachman approached wielding a riding crop in one hand and a blade in the other.

“Come on, yer cowardly bastard.” The man snarled and swiped the air with the blade. “Let’s see what they taught yer in dancin’ school.”

Benedict snorted as he bounced lightly on his feet and shifted his weight gracefully. “I may be a bastard, but I’m no coward.”

Cassandra stood helpless.

Benedict had told her to run to Mrs Crandall, but she didn’t know the strange knock that brought the majordomo to the door. Still, she had to do something.

The brute on the pavement reached out to grab Benedict’s ankle, and so Cassandra rushed forward and stamped on his hand. When he clutched the hem of her gown, she stamped on his arm repeatedly until he let go and cried, “The bitch has damned near broken my arm.”

The rumpus in the carriage tumbled out onto the street. All three men fell out of the carriage door, fists flying as they grappled and wrestled each other to the ground. Foston got to his feet and then delivered a blow that sent one man hurtling into the air. Foston’s savage roar saw both his opponents scramble up and break into a run as the coachman chased them into the night.

Cassandra’s attention shot to Benedict as his attacker shuffled closer, jabbing the air with his knife. Her husband continued to watch his prey with the keenness of a hawk. With skill and impressive agility, he avoided the vicious thrusts. And then, quicker than a lightning strike, he grabbed the miscreant’s wrist and twisted until the man released his grip on the weapon. The blade went skimming across the pavement and under the carriage’s chassis.

That didn’t stop the devil’s violent pursuit. He continued his assault by whipping Benedict across the back with the crop.

“Benedict!” she cried when her husband took a punch to the face that almost knocked him clean off his feet.

Somehow he remained standing. Somehow he continued to fight back. Despite society’s efforts to subdue him, Benedict never surrendered. No other man of her acquaintance bore the same strength of heart and mind.

Pride and admiration and the love she’d felt for him long ago brought a feverish excitement to her chest. The desperate longing she’d battled to suppress surfaced. Benedict Cavanagh was a magnificent specimen of a man. Indeed, when he wrenched the crop from the devil’s hands and cast the weapon aside, when he hit his opponent so hard the blackguard’s nose cracked, she knew he would be victorious.

She was so enthralled by her husband that she almost forgot the rogue’s accomplice. The snake clutched his injured arm to his chest and slithered along the ground to grab the discarded crop. But Cassandra picked it up and hit out at the man just as he found the strength to lunge at her.

She fell back, landed so hard she jarred her neck as she tried to stop her head hitting the pavement.

“If it’s money you want, I have none,” she cried as the snake tried to wrestle the crop from her grasp. She kicked out, but her skirts wrapped around her legs. “Get off me!”

The monster snarled and licked his lips. The jagged scar above his top lip was more prominent now, and his eyes reminded her of a feral beast, black with slivers of gold. Indeed, his incisors looked as sharp as that of any predatory animal.

She tried to beat him with the crop, but he hit her hard across the face. She reeled from the shock, from the sharp, stinging pain. The stench of sweat and dirt and stale tobacco attacked her nostrils as he pinned her down, covering her with his filthy body.

“Let’s see if you’re ’iding a golden cunny beneath this pretty skirt.”

“Get off me!” She slapped at the blackguard’s fumbling fingers.

A mighty roar held her stiff with fright until she realised the cry of anger came from Benedict.

“Get your filthy hands off my wife!”

One minute the beast was writhing on top of her, the next he was hurtling through the air. Benedict dragged the man to his feet and gestured to the fiend lying unconscious on the muddy thoroughfare.

“You’ll join your friend unless you tell me who sent you.” Benedict’s thunderous expression would terrify the devil. “Who hired you to follow us? Who hired you to attack us in the street? Tell me, damn you!”

The rogue shook his head as he gasped for breath.

“Who!” Benedict roared.

The brute pointed to his unconscious accomplice. “F-Finnigan’s the only one who knows.”

Hearing his name mentioned, Finnigan stirred from his forced slumber.

Benedict released the brute with the scarred lip, punched him once in the stomach and cried, “Run! Run before I change my mind and rip your head from your shoulders.”

The fool didn’t need to hear the command again. With no regard for the man regaining consciousness in the road, he staggered away, picking up the pace when Benedict glared and took a threatening step forward.

With only Finnigan remaining, Benedict rounded on the thug and hauled him to his feet. “I want the name of the man who hired you. The name, else I shall strike you so hard your mother won’t recognise you.”