“Evidently not. Having seen Foston pummel his opponents, I shall never complain about his erratic driving again.” Her gaze softened, and she swallowed deeply. “I cannot bear to think of what might have happened had Foston not been here to help.”
“They would have beaten me to death, just as Murray intended.” Had Finnigan not mentioned the baron’s name, Benedict’s suspicions would have fallen on Lord Purcell. By all accounts, he would do anything to cause Worthen’s daughter distress.
The sudden clip of footsteps on the pavement saw them both stare down the dimly lit street. Foston appeared, panting as he tried to make an apology for the delay.
“I searched the area, sir,” Foston said as he came to a halt before them. The poor fellow rested his hands on his thighs as he bent forward and tried to control his ragged breathing. “But the blighters made a run for it.”
Benedict patted his man on the back. “Take a moment to compose yourself. Are you hurt? Are you injured?”
“No, sir. Nothing but a few cuts and bruises.”
“If you’re able to drive, we’re to visit Mortimer Street, near the corner of Cavendish Square.”
Cassandra blinked in surprise. “You know where Lord Murray lives?”
Of course he knew. In his drunken daydreams, he’d imagined visiting the house, beating the lord and stealing away his betrothed.
“After his blatant disregard for your feelings by parading another lady around town in his curricle, I thought I might visit the mews and snap a few spokes on his new equipage.”
He expected her to offer words of caution, but she shocked him by saying, “Good, then I might come with you and slash the leather seats.”
They both laughed, but his cheek throbbed whenever he flexed his facial muscles.
“Come. Let us climb into the carriage and prepare for our next violent encounter. Though I suspect we’ve nothing to fear from a fop in a nightshirt.”
* * *
Other than the dissolute bucks making a rowdy return to a house further along Mortimer Street, the place was deserted. Fog crept along the ground, rising and swirling like the reaper looking for its next victim. Soon the buildings would be hidden behind a hazy background, the people nought but dark shadows shifting through the gloom.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to wipe the smears of blood off your face?” Cassandra said as Benedict assisted her descent to the pavement. “The butler will turn you away when he sees you in such a terrible state.”
“I want Murray to see what we’ve endured. I want him to know I can beat men ten times stronger.” Benedict considered her mussed hair, the dirty marks on her dress, the faint bruise on her cheek. “But perhaps you should wait in the carriage.” No doubt she was ashamed of how low she’d sunk since the night of her ruination.
“You don’t want me to come with you?”
There was a time when he hated being apart from her. “Are you certain you want Murray to see you looking like this?” The scandalous cut of her gown was far removed from a typical demure lady’s dress.
She smoothed her hands down her skirt. “Looking like what?”
“Like a woman forced to marry beneath her station. Like a woman living a disreputable life with a rogue.”
Cassandra met his gaze and raised her chin. “Regardless of how I look, I have loved every second I’ve spent married to you, and for that, I bear no shame. If titles were bestowed based on strength of character, you would rule this kingdom. So pray tell me how I have married beneath my station?”
Despite the cut to his face, he couldn’t help but smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.”
“It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.” She exhaled deeply. “Now, let us tackle this blackguard together. Let’s raise Lady Murray from her comfortable bed and give her a sight to remember.”
Cassandra clutched his arm, and they mounted the three steps together. Benedict hammered the brass knocker against the plate. The boom echoed through the deserted hall beyond, and so he knocked again for good measure.
After a brief wait, the sound of scurrying footsteps preceded the scraping of the bolts and the rattle of keys. The butler, looking somewhat dishevelled in his royal blue livery, opened the door a hair’s breadth and peered at them through sleepy eyes.
“Mr Benedict Cavanagh to see Lord Murray.” Before the butler could make an apology and send them on their way, Benedict pushed the door and thrust his foot into the gap. “Don’t tell me he’s not at home. Grant us entrance else I shall stand on the street and shout my accusations for all to hear.”
“His l-lordship is still at his cl-club.” The butler’s chin wobbled, and he failed to sound convincing. Despite the obstruction, he attempted to close the door. “Call back tomorrow.”
Benedict gritted his teeth. “Open the door, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Please, Fenwick,” Cassandra pleaded. “We’ve met on many occasions, and I would not call here unless it was important.” She glanced at Benedict. “I can assure you my husband will rouse the devil if he does not speak to Lord Murray.”