When Scandal Came to Town (Scandalous Sons 3)

“I couldn’t agree more, Miss Atwood,” Trent said.

A sudden frown marred Miss Atwood’s brow. “Oh, Lord!” A heavy sigh escaped her. “Perhaps I should have stopped when I saw her this morning, but Mr Daventry had me hopping about from Bloomsbury to Cornhill. She will find herself in a heap of trouble if caught. Lord Murray is likely to run her around in circles.”

“Who?” Cassandra asked though the word must have hung on everyone’s lips.

“Rosamund.” Miss Atwood tutted. “If her aunt

discovers she’s sneaking about town pestering a peer for a confession, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Benedict held his breath.

A sense of unease, dread and foreboding descended.

Cassandra gripped his hand. “You saw Rosamund with Lord Murray this morning?” Mistrust dripped from every syllable.

“Yes, about thirty minutes ago.” Miss Atwood shook her head again. “I passed by in a hackney as they entered Warwick Lane. It struck me as odd. What need have they to venture to that part of town? But now you’ve explained the urgency to gain a confession it makes more sense.”

It made little sense to Benedict. Judging by the grave look on everyone’s faces, it made little sense to them, too.

“I have not seen Rosamund since she ignored me at Lord Tregarth’s ball.” Pain and confusion coated Cassandra’s words now. “Indeed, I cannot think why she would entertain Lord Murray.”

“Can you not?” Wycliff spoke with brimming cynicism. “I can think of a reason why a lady might walk towards a coaching inn with a man once betrothed to her friend.”

Chapter Eighteen

“What if Rosamund blames Lord Murray for what happened to me and means to do him harm?” It sounded an unlikely explanation, but Cassandra was drowning beneath waves of disbelief and had to find something stable to cling on to. “You should have seen her look of mortification when she stumbled upon me in the retiring room.”

Their carriage turned into Warwick Lane—a bustling street filled with travellers and tourists and medical men—and came to an abrupt halt outside a butcher’s shop with pig carcasses hanging in the window.

Benedict’s gaze softened as he considered her from the seat opposite. “Cassandra, while I expect to find Murray and Miss Fox at the coaching inn, the lady hasn’t dragged him across town just to reprimand him for ungentlemanly conduct.”

The horrible sick feeling churned in her stomach. “Perhaps she believes the lord is guilty and seeks to use gentle persuasion to gain a confession.”

“You know better than to fall for such a naive notion. I would wager Murray is the one currently using gentle persuasion.” When she slapped her hand to her mouth, Benedict added, “Forgive me if you find my manner blunt. But I’ll not have these people take you for a fool.”

“No,” she agreed with a sad sigh. “You’re right. It’s ridiculous to think Rosamund is here to champion my cause.” Suspicion reared its ugly head again, forcing her to think the worst. “Do you suppose they have formed an attachment? That they intend to elope, head north of the border?” Why else would they come to a coaching inn?

Benedict crossed the carriage to sit beside her. “Ask yourself why Murray would journey by public coach when he has the benefit of a more luxurious means of transport.”

She inhaled a deep breath. The truth would prod and poke her until she straightened and took notice. But how did one summon the worst sort of thoughts about a dear friend?

“Compare Miss Fox’s monetary worth to that of Miss Pendleton,” he added. “The reason they’re here has nothing to do with gaining confessions or proposing marriage. Why do you suppose I asked Wycliff to call on Sir William and bring him to the Oxford Arms?”

When one approached matters from a logical standpoint, as Benedict did, and did not let fragile emotions do the thinking, the reason seemed blatantly obvious.

“Then you suspect Timothy and Rosamund are in love?”

Benedict bent his head and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. “I suspect Miss Fox thinks she’s in love. Murray might have other pressing matters on his mind.”

She stared into her husband’s captivating blue eyes, and the past crept out of its shallow grave to haunt her again. It took immense effort not to tell him she understood what betrayal felt like now. Like the carcasses in the shop window, she was empty inside.

“I trust you’re right.” She shuffled closer and claimed his mouth in a kiss that banished all maudlin thoughts. “You’re my best advisor, my greatest friend. The love of my life.”

Benedict seemed surprised by her sudden sentimental outpouring. He returned her kiss with equal passion. Matters might have progressed further had the carriage not jerked forward on the cobblestones, had they not been out to snare a liar and deceiver.

“I trust no one but you, Benedict.”

With gentle strokes, he pushed her hair from her face. “If you want to stop bitterness festering inside, you must trust everyone until they give you a reason to withdraw the privilege. Despite all I have said, we will reserve judgement until faced with the evidence.”