When Scandal Came to Town (Scandalous Sons 3)

Blood trickled from the fiend’s nostrils, coated his swollen lips. “You’ll ’ave to kill me before I squeal.”

“So be it.” Benedict cracked his neck and drew back his fist.

Panic settled like bony fingers around Cassandra’s throat, squeezing, choking. One mistake, one missed punch, and Benedict might be the one sprawled on the ground, begging for his life. “Wait! He’s not

worth it. We shall find out who arranged this. I promise you.”

She had made so many empty promises, broken so many vows. Indeed, she would spend her life making amends once they had solved the mystery of what happened at Lord Craven’s ball. Once they’d learned the truth about Timothy’s excessive spending for it most certainly gave him a motive. That said, Lord Purcell’s nefarious deeds marked him as the most likely culprit.

“I want a name,” Benedict growled, ignoring her plea.

Finnigan gave a mocking snort that sent blood spurting from his nose. He spat blood and phlegm onto the muddy thoroughfare as a mark of his disdain.

“A name!” Benedict tightened his grip, forcing the rogue to gasp for breath. “Give me a damn name!” He heaved a breath, too, as he drew his fist back.

“Murray!” Finnigan covered his head with his arms. “Lord Murray hired us.”

Chapter Ten

Benedict stood dumbfounded on the pavement. He watched Finnigan clamber to his feet, clutch his broken nose and flee the scene. Anger boiled in his blood. It had nothing to do with his injuries. Nothing to do with the attack on his person. Murray had endangered Cassandra’s life, and for that, the foppish lord would pay.

Two weeks ago, Benedict might have rejoiced upon hearing of Murray’s betrayal. The woman who had cast Benedict aside so easily did not deserve his sympathy. But seeing Cassandra’s deflated countenance, seeing hurt swimming in her eyes, only roused feelings of pity.

Benedict caught himself. The devil on his shoulder reminded him he’d been just as callous with her during their verbal battles. Since she’d refused his suit, it was always the same with them. They hurt each other to give their own wounded hearts time to heal.

His thoughts turned back to Murray.

Did the lord love Cassandra?

Had he arranged the attack on Benedict to appease his jealousy?

There was only one way to find out.

“Are you all right?” Cassandra rushed to his side. She gripped his arm and drew him round to face her. “Good Lord.” Her bottom lip trembled as she scanned his face. “You have a cut on your right cheek, a nasty bruise, too.”

A thunderous roar rang in his head when he noticed the red mark on her cheek. “He hit you?” He would take Wycliff and Trent and hunt for the rogue in the rookeries.

She touched the flaming handprint with the pads of her fingers and winced. “It’s nothing. Physical pain eases with time.”

He cupped her cheek, was about to whisper words of comfort when she gasped upon noticing the cuts on his knuckles.

“We need to treat these wounds.” She took hold of his hand and examined the split skin. “Come. We’ll seek help from Mrs Crandall though you must tell me how to do that silly knock.”

“It’s a minor injury, nothing that requires urgent attention.” Nothing that required attention at all. Still, he liked having her fuss over him. “Before we do anything else, we’re calling at Murray’s residence.”

“Now? But you cannot pay a house call at this time of night.” She drew back, unease marring her features. “Besides, is it wise to accuse a man without proof?”

After witnessing Murray’s arrogant grin as he sat in his new racing curricle, Benedict sought any opportunity to berate the lord.

“Some men need to learn there are consequences to their actions. I don’t believe in coincidences. A thug from the rookeries didn’t just pluck Murray’s name from thin air.”

Cassandra pursed her lips and shook her head. “What if he issues a challenge for the insult?”

Benedict shrugged. “Then I shall name my father as my second and meet Murray at the appointed time. Though he will wish he’d picked a less lethal opponent. Let’s see him race his curricle with his arm in a sling.”

“Should we not concentrate our efforts on finding Foston? He chased after those vile brutes. For all we know, he might be lying injured in an alley.”

“If he is, then the other men are dead. I didn’t hire the coachman for his expert driving skills.”