When Scandal Came to Town (Scandalous Sons 3)

Scarlett gave a coy smile. “Then perhaps I might whisper a warning in Miss Pendleton’s ear when she retires to the ladies’ room. Though one would hope the woman isn’t naive enough to suppose he holds some affection for her.”

“If I’m not mistaken, is that not them dancing the waltz?” Verity gestured to the foppish lord and the lady who, in Benedict’s opinion, paled in comparison to Cassandra.

“Some men have no shame.” Scarlett tutted. “Cassandra, I know you won’t think so now, but you should thank the person who left you in Hyde Park and sent Benedict the letter.”

Cassandra looked at Benedict in the same heated way she had when they’d satisfied their lustful cravings. Although satisfied was hardly the right word. Desire for his wife continually simmered beneath the surface.

“On the contrary, I’m more thankful than you could ever know,” Cassandra said, radiant in her happiness. “Indeed, the more time we spend searching for the villain, the less it matters.”

“Discovering the truth is important, else mistrust eats away at you like a deadly poison,” Verity said somewhat dramatically. “The truth will bring closure.”

“How will we ever find the truth when I cannot remember a thing about that night?”

“You must remember something,” Scarlett countered. “Something before you became unwell. There must have been a moment when the room suddenly felt different.”

“Try to think about what you do remember,” Verity suggested, rather excited about the prospect, “not what you don’t. Come, let us move closer to the terrace doors. The music is so loud it is difficult to concentrate.”

They did as Verity suggested and found a quiet spot near a fake blossom tree with flowers of white silk, away from the wandering magician and those cooing over the ice sculptures.

“Now, what do you remember?” Verity said as if she worked for an inspector at Bow Street. “Even the most insignificant things might be important.” One almost expected her to pluck a pencil from behind her ear and ask if anyone had a pocketbook.

A frown marred Cassandra’s brow. Her vision grew distant as she scanned the crowded ballroom and watched the elegant couples circling the floor. When she looked up at the chandelier, at the candles flaming so brightly it was blinding, she blinked rapidly.

“Murray had gone to fetch me a glass of orgeat lemonade.” Cassandra paused and pursed her lips. “He was gone for a while. I remember joking that a lady might die if she waited for him to quench her thirst.”

“Did he say what kept him?” Wycliff asked suspiciously.

“No. But when I woke the next morning in the park, I could taste the sweet remnants of the lemonade. That was the last drink to pass my lips.”

Benedict muttered a curse. He slipped a comforting arm around Cassandra’s waist, an action that drew a look of surprise from Trent. “What were you doing while Murray went to fetch refreshments?” She had already given him an account of the evening, but it might prompt one of his friends to ask a different question.

“Hmm. Sybil had gone to the card room. Apparently, one learns a wealth of information while watching those at play. I told her to inform me when my father took his leave.”

“Why?” Trent asked bluntly.

“Because he giv

es me tasks that involve prying into other people’s affairs. I often hide in the retiring room when I know he is on the prowl.”

Wycliff rubbed his chin in thoughtful contemplation. “And did you ever discover a secret that might give someone cause to hurt you?”

“No. Never. Mostly I lied to my father, told him men prefer to make idle conversation while dancing.”

Silence ensued, though the room thrummed with the hum of music, lively conversation and light laughter.

“I couldn’t find Rosamund.”

“Miss Rosamund Fox,” Benedict explained. “Sir William’s daughter.”

Trent snorted. “Perhaps she was searching the dark closets looking for her father.”

“Sir William is renowned for conducting liaisons in confined spaces,” Benedict informed his wife. “There’s something about one’s inability to breathe he finds fascinating.”

“Oh!” Cassandra looked shocked and bemused. “I spoke to Lady Murray, who lamented her son’s lax attitude to agreeing on a wedding date. She assured me he would decide soon.”

Something about the whole situation proved confounding. If Murray needed money, why not marry quickly to secure Cassandra’s dowry? Unless he had other reasons for wanting to delay. Perhaps he had fallen in love with Miss Pendleton, had been looking for a way to break his betrothal to Cassandra without her father suing for breach of promise.

The more Benedict considered the only two suspects in the investigation—Purcell and Murray—the more convinced he was both men were guilty.