Cas
sandra described the two conspirators she had once thought of as friends. “They arrived here an hour ago,” she snapped. “But that is not the first time they have used your establishment to conduct their secret meetings.”
The gentle touch of Benedict’s hand on her back worked to calm her temper. “If you could tell us which room they’ve occupied,” he said, “we shall address the matter with the minimum of fuss and disruption.”
The woman shook her head and muttered to herself. She snatched a ledger and ran a grubby finger down the scrawled list on the page. “Second floor, first room to the right of the stairs.” With her beady eyes trained on them, she seized the coins and shouted, “Any more for Oxford?”
Benedict guided Cassandra to the stairs, and they mounted the steps with haste. She took a moment to catch her breath while hovering outside the door—the only barrier between her and the ugly truth.
Again, Benedict was about to knock, but she said, “Allow me.”
He inclined his head. “Remember, it is better to face facts than live with falsehoods. Together, we will deal with whatever we discover beyond this door.”
Feeling an overpowering love for her husband, she clutched his lapels and pressed a kiss to his lips. “When this is over, I shall spend a lifetime showing you how much I love you.”
Benedict arched a brow. “Then knock the damn door as I am desperate to feel the depth of your devotion.”
She smiled, lifted her chin, knocked the door and in an accent common in the streets of Whitechapel said, “Coach is leavin’ for Oxford. Best hurry. They’re waitin’ for yer to take yer place.”
Silence ensued.
She knocked louder. “Driver said he’ll come up ’ere and drag yer out if yer make him late.”
A bang on the boards beyond told them the room was occupied.
“You’ve got the wrong room. Check your damn records.”
Benedict met Cassandra’s gaze. “Without a doubt that’s Murray.” His mouth thinned into a savage line.
“Indeed.” Anger infused her tone when she hammered again and said, “The next one’s not for three days. Brutus ain’t the sort who likes to be kept waitin’.” She thumped the door twice.
Benedict pressed his ear to the door. “I can hear movement and a lot of cursing. Stand aside as we might need to barge our way in.”
Cassandra shuffled right. Benedict squared his shoulders and waited for Lord Murray to open the door.
The pad of footsteps preceded the rattle of the doorknob. In a fit of temper, Murray yanked open the door. Shock rendered him mute. His jaw sagged, and he staggered back.
Benedict barged into the room. Cassandra quickly followed and slammed the door shut. The feminine cry drew her gaze to the bed, to Rosamund who clutched the faded coverlet to her naked breasts and stared at them with incredulous eyes.
“Rosamund. How lovely to see you.” This time Cassandra had no intention of drawing her friend into an embrace.
“C-Cassandra.” Rosamund shuffled in the bed. “I—I can explain.”
Lord Murray—dressed in nothing but a loose linen shirt and breeches—finally found his voice and said, “What the devil” before Benedict punched the lord so hard in the face he dropped to the floor like a lead weight.
Satisfaction thrummed in Cassandra’s veins. “Your knuckles! You need to let them heal.”
Benedict flexed his fingers and winced. “Remind me to visit Jackson’s Salon and practise my left hook.” He looked at Lord Murray writhing on the floor, clutching his nose. “Stay down else I shall hit you again.”
Cassandra turned her attention to the minx in the bed. “Well? Let me hear your explanation, Rosamund. Tell me how long you have been the bed partner of the man I was supposed to marry. And don’t lie to me. Not now.”
Rosamund whimpered.
“Don’t say anything,” Lord Murray interjected before Benedict kicked him in the knee and roused a howl.
Cassandra arched a brow. “I’m waiting.”
“Three months,” her disloyal friend mumbled into the shabby coverlet.