She nodded. “Then we shall take our emotions out of the equation and deal with this logically.”
“Indeed.” He glanced out of the window as the carriage crawled along the lane leading to St Paul’s and the College of Physicians. “When we arrive at the inn, I shall visit the office. Honesty is the best policy. I would rather not hammer on every door looking for your fickle friends.”
“Agreed.”
Neither spoke for a minute, though the din of the street sellers hawking their wares and the cries of frustrated coachmen filled the silence.
Foston steered the carriage along the narrow passageway running west off Warwick Lane. They passed through the red-brick archway into the yard of the Oxford Arms and alighted near the entrance.
“Park here,” Benedict advised his coachman. He gestured to the cart and the carriages jostling for a position. “Once the carrier has loaded the cart with packages, you might move closer. Should you see a foppish gentleman attempting to flee, apprehend him.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And Mr Wycliff should arrive soon. Pay close attention. Watch which room I enter and direct him there.”
“Last call for Oxford!” a boy cried, gripping the reins of a team of four as the passengers clambered to take their seats. A door slammed on the second floor of the open gallery, and a fellow appeared, holding his top hat to his head as he raced down the open staircase.
“It’s been over an hour since Sybil saw Rosamund heading this way.” Cassandra gripped Benedict’s arm as they navigated the crowds, dodged the mounds of manure the poor boys struggled to sweep amid the hordes of people. “Even if they came here, they might have left long before now.”
Benedict cast her a sidelong glance before steering her around a stable hand taking receipt of a hired horse. “Murray was seen entering the inn on the night you were abducted. He’s clearly familiar with the place. There’s every reason to suspect Rosamund played a part in your ruination, too.”
Nausea plagued her again. She breathed deeply to bolster her courage, inhaled the rank smell of manure and a host of other vile odours which acted as a potent sal volatile.
“Perhaps they left something incriminating behind,” he continued, sounding highly doubtful as he led her towards the office, “and having checked the room are long gone. Or perhaps it’s a little more complicated than that.” From the tone of his voice, he believed it was the latter.
“Sir William will be enraged if we drag him here on a false errand.”
Benedict gave a mocking snort. “Sir William will be respectful and polite unless he wishes others to learn of his predilection for tight spaces.”
Cassandra shook the image from her head and glanced up at the of row of doors behind the wooden balusters. Washing hung from a makeshift line strung from the timber posts of the galleried inn. A few drunken men lingered near the entrance to the stables, eyeing new arrivals as they stepped from a coach. The place was filthy and rowdy and not at all somewhere one would want to conduct a romantic liaison.
They joined the queue at the office hatch, and it took a few minutes for the attendant to beckon them forward.
“If you’re wanting passage on the Oxford stage, you’d best be quick.” The woman with grey wiry hair and skin as rough as old leather stared at them across the crude counter. “Well? People are waiting.”
Benedict was about to speak, but Cassandra touched his arm. Her husband inclined his head and gestured for her to continue.
“I’m afraid we are here on more serious business.” Cassandra held out her hand, and Benedict dropped a few coins into her palm. “A gentleman has taken a young lady with a delicate constitution to one of your rooms.” One would hardly consider a woman of Rosamund’s deceptive nature delicate. “We wish to speak to them privately before her father arrives and raises a hue and cry.”
The woman stared at Cassandra’s clenched hand. “Save your coins, dearie. Rules are rules. We don’t tattle on our guests. Now move along.” She looked behind them and called, “Any more for Oxford?”
Cassandra refused to budge. “I implore you to reconsider.”
The woman chuckled, revealing her less than perfect teeth. “Oh, do you hear that? The lady implores me to reconsider.”
Benedict stiffened. Cassandra could feel the thrum of his barely contained rage. But it was time to fight her own battles. Time to find the backbone needed when dealing with treachery.
Rousing a lifetime of anger and frustration, she slammed the coin on the counter. “Tell me what blasted room they are in else I shall storm upstairs and kick down every door until I find them.” Blood boiled in her veins. “Then I shall consult my dear friend in the licensing office and do my utmost to get yours revoked.”
The woman’s arrogant grin faded.
“Trust me,” Cassandra continued. “You will have one hell of a fight on your hands. Indeed, perhaps you would prefer to pay a fine for late mail, as I shall gather a band of rioters to ensure none of your coaches leave on time.”
There was something rather empowering about ranting in a public place. She might have threatened to rouse the devil, too, but the woman behind the counter heaved a sigh of surrender.
Cassandra leaned forward. “I shall start by telling everyone in this yard that you condone the abuse of young women.”
The woman threw them a deadly stare. “What does she look like, this young woman?”