“Mrs Rampling said I’m to tell you that Mr Wycliff has taken command of the broadsheets. He said that he’s happy to wait as not all appetites are satisfied around the dining table.”
Heat rose to Cassandra’s cheeks. The urge to tease the scandalous gentleman took hold. “Tell Mr Wycliff that we will be with him shortly unless something unexpected arises in which case we shall be thirty minutes.”
Lucy dipped a curtsy and went to relay the message.
Something important had arisen. After receiving tuition in the art of pleasuring her husband, she brought him to a thrilling climax in a matter of minutes.
“Wycliff must have news of our attackers else he would never call at this hour.” Benedict dressed quickly in the crumpled garments strewn across the bedchamber floor. The clothes she had practically ripped from his muscular body last night.
She chose a pale pink morning dress from the armoire and Benedict helped to fasten her stays—taking advantage of the opportunity to stroke and caress her breasts. His attentions distracted from the sudden flurry of nerves fluttering in her throat.
They entered the dining room to find Mr Wycliff relaxing in a chair, reading the broadsheets and sipping coffee. It was evident he hadn’t been home since leaving Lord Tregarth’s ball. He wore the same coat and cravat. His sculpted jaw bore the dark shadow of stubble, and the pinky whites of his eyes suggested a distinct lack of sleep. Hence his need to drink copious amounts of coffee.
“Ah.” Mr Wycliff came to his feet and bowed to her. With a mischievous grin, he scanned Benedict’s rumpled attire. “I see I’m not the only one surviving on limited sleep.” Having taken position at the head of the table, he glanced at the other seats. “Would you prefer I move?”
“Sit where you feel most comfortable,” Benedict said. He waited for the footman to draw out her chair before sitting opposite, to the right of Mr Wycliff. “I trust you’re here because you have news from Dermot Flannery.”
Mr Wycliff flicked his coattails and sat down, his amused expression fading. “Eat, and then I shall begin by telling you what happened when I left Tregarth’s ball last night.” He gestured to the covered silver platters on the sideboard. “You both look as though you need a hearty breakfast.”
After their rampant activities, she was famished. But how could she eat when her stomach roiled with anxiety? “I shall have coffee and toast,” she said and set about helping herself from the rack. The footman stepped forward and poured her beverage.
Benedict filled his plate with ham and poached eggs. “I’m so ravenous I could pick the meat off a carcass.”
Mr Wycliff glanced at them through teasing eyes. “There are a few activities that bring about a sudden need for sustenance.” He seemed in no rush to inform them of the night’s events. “Walking by the sea is one.”
“Please. Do not keep us in suspense any longer,” Cassandra said, swallowing a sip of coffee. “My heart is likely to give out if you do not begin your story soon.”
“Forgive me. As the bearer of bad news, there is no way to make this easier for you.” Mr Wycliff sighed. “I visited The Silver Serpent after taking Scarlett home. Flannery had information regarding the brute who attacked you in Theobolds Road. Finnigan is the name of the man who brandished the blade.”
Cassandra straightened. “Then it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who hired him.”
Mr Wycliff frowned. “It wasn’t. Hence the reason I am here.”
“Oh, yes!” She was so tired she could barely think straight. “Of course. Please continue.”
“Flannery gathered a few men, and we went in search of Finnigan. We discovered he lives on Skinner Street, off Bishopsgate, found him in a local brothel with his trousers around his ankles and his … well … I’m sure you’d rather I spare you the vision.” Mr Wycliff snorted. “How the man attended to the task when he could barely see out of his swollen eyes is anyone’s guess.”
Benedict paused while cutting into a slice of ham. Despite Mr Wycliff’s amusing comment, he did not raise a smile. “Did Finnigan confirm it was Murray who hired him?”
Mr Wycliff’s gaze softened when he switched his attention to her. That’s when her heart sank to her stomach. A sudden pang warned her to expect the worst.
“A man named Mr Brydden hired them to give you a severe beating.”
“Brydden?” Benedict frowned as he met Cassandra’s gaze across the table. “Do you know anyone by that name?”
Mr Wycliff watched her intently, as did her husband. An icy chill ran the length of her spine. It penetrated her clothes, seeped into her bones. A cavernous hole opened in her chest. If only it would swallow her up so she wouldn’t have to deal with the violent wave of anger about to erupt.
She swallowed past the pain in her throat. Good Lord! The thought of saying the words made her want to retch. “Mr Brydden—” She paused. “Mr Brydden works for my father’s man of business.” The china cup rattled on the saucer as she gripped the handle. “I’m sure you know what that means.”
A deathly silence descended.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
And then, with a face as thunderous as any god of war, Benedict threw his cutlery onto the plate. He pushed out of the chair and rounded the table.