Chapter Seventeen
Benedict’s plan to spend the day in bed lavishing his wife with attention was scuppered by his friends, who descended on Jermyn Street eager to reveal the results of their ongoing investigation.
For the second time in the space of twenty-four hours, Wycliff enjoyed their hospitality while they raced around the bedchamber quickly dressing. Benedict’s hair was damp at the nape from their rather energetic lovemaking. Cassandra’s lips were swollen from the hours spent locked in a passionate clinch. With their energy spent, they stopped outside the drawing room door to catch their breaths.
“Ah, so no one died this morning,” Wycliff said as he rose from the chair flanking the fire while the maid poured tea. “A man might drive himself insane waiting for news that all is well.”
Benedict should have called at Bruton Street after the duel, to reassure his friend that Worthen and Tregarth had settled their differences.
“Worthen has a scar on his cheek to match mine, though I doubt the matter is resolved.” He waited until Cassandra took a seat on the sofa next to Verity and then squeezed in beside her. “Worthen stormed from the courtyard and climbed into his carriage without uttering a word. I presume Tregarth joined his friends at The Diamond Club and is probably foxed by now. But forgive me. I should have sent word.”
Wycliff settled back into the chair and declined the offer of tea. “No doubt you were both attempting to catch up on missed sleep.” Amusement flashed in his dark eyes.
Cassandra tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Mrs Rampling said you’ve brought news regarding the investigation.” From her hurried tone, she was either desperate to learn the truth or desperate to have this business done with so they might hurry back to the bedchamber.
“We have so much to tell you,” Scarlett said from her seat next to her husband. “So much we will be fighting over who should begin.”
Benedict dismissed the maid.
Cassandra sat forward. “Do you know who kidnapped me from Lord Craven’s ball?”
“Well, no.” A look of pity passed over Scarlett’s features. “Not precisely.” She turned and met Wycliff’s gaze. “Explain what happened when you went to visit Lord Craven.”
Wycliff straightened. “With Tregarth occupied in fighting a duel, I took it upon myself to visit Craven. The lord was half-cut when I arrived. Bored, he challenged me to a game of hazard which turned into three hours of raucous play. I won. I offered him a means to pay the debt with information. He summoned his household staff and gave me thirty minutes to question them.”
Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Did you find the maid who went to fetch the smelling salts?”
“She recalls the incident with remarkable clarity,” Wycliff continued. “More so because when she returned, your companion had opened the terrace doors, insisting a walk around the grounds was the best course of action. The maid thought it odd because you were dizzy and dragging your feet. But when she suggested finding you a suitable place to rest, the matron helping you snapped at her to leave.”
“The matron?” It was Benedict’s turn to sit forward and stare with wide eyes. “Lady Murray?” A feeling in his gut told him he was correct in his assumption.
“From the maid’s description, I’m certain it was Lady Murray who took care of you in the retiring room.”
C
assandra flopped back on the sofa and exhaled a weary sigh. “Then Lady Murray conspired with her son to ensure he had a reason to end our betrothal.”
Trent cleared his throat. “Craven’s groom remembers a matronly figure assisting a blonde-haired lady into a carriage. Though the matron in question returned to the ballroom.”
“My father made a slight detour on his way home.” What Wycliff really meant was that his father’s journey involved a clandestine meeting. “He saw Lord Murray in the early hours of the morning entering the yard of the Oxford Arms in Warwick Lane. Being preoccupied with his own affair, my father went about his business.”
“The Oxford Arms is a coaching inn.” A picture of events formed in Benedict’s mind. Coaches arrived and departed throughout the night. No one would suspect anything untoward if someone assisted a sleeping woman to a hired room.
Cassandra gestured for Benedict to pass her tea from the trestle table. The teacup rattled on the saucer as she gripped the china. “We discovered that my abductor carried me from Hyde Park Corner down to the Serpentine shortly before dawn,” she said, though did not reveal that a vagabond was the source of their information. “The villain must have kept me somewhere during the interim. A coaching inn is an ideal place.”
Indeed, it seemed their thoughts were aligned.
Verity turned to face Cassandra. “The evidence suggests that the Murrays snatched you from Lord Craven’s ball with the sole purpose of ruining your reputation.”
“Then we shall visit the Murrays this afternoon and threaten them until they confess.” Benedict’s tone was as grave as his intentions. And yet Lord Murray seemed so earnest when he professed his innocence. “What about the woman Purcell bundled into his carriage?”
“Ah, I can help with that,” Wycliff said. “Purcell is still a righteous prig, but it seems he may be innocent. Lord Craven informed me that Purcell’s mistress arrived at the ball. She drank too much champagne, caused a scene with his wife and so Craven told them to leave. Purcell has been absent from town these last few days as his wife insisted they retire to the country.”
Damn. Benedict had wanted an excuse to challenge the pompous lord. He would have loved to wipe the arrogant smirk off Purcell’s face.
Cassandra handed her cup and saucer to Benedict, and he placed the china on the table before capturing her hand and stroking her fingers with his thumb.
She squeezed his hand before saying, “Forgive me, but I have a question, Mr Trent.”