“I thought you said you needed to run off to the Home Office imminently,” Violet grumbled at him.
“I do. Thank you for the aide-mémoire.” He offered an elegant bow. “Aunt. Sister.”
And then he turned and fled the chamber, leaving her alone with a now-roused Aunt Hortense. An Aunt Hortense who was about to tell the story of her sister, Felicity, who had made a horrid match, following her heart rather than her head, and had forever paid the price of her folly with a miserable existence thereafter.
“I have a horrid headache,” Violet lied, shooting to her feet. In truth, she could not bear to hear the story one more time. “If you will excuse me, Aunt Hortense, I do believe it is time for me to retire as well.”
“I shall accompany you to your chamber,” Aunt Hortense volunteered. “On our way, I can tell you all about my poor sister Felicity.”
Violet suppressed a groan.
There was no escape for her.
No escape save one, that was, and he had sinful lips, beautiful eyes, and the devil’s own wickedness. She walked alongside Aunt Hortense to her chamber, all the while thinking of Strathmore, even though she knew she ought to be thinking of Charles instead.
Griffin stared atthe list of names he had penned. Two dozen or so in all. Some were friends. Others distant acquaintances. A few were men he did not even know. As the Special League had grown in recent months to combat the ever-growing menace of Fenians, who became bolder and more dangerous by the moment, they had taken in a bevy of fresh recruits.
The days of the League being peopled by England’s oldest and most elite families were at an end. Change had come, bringing with it a restructuring of the organization. Carlisle was gone, replaced by the officious Arden. Others had gone before, and new men stood in their positions, some of whom Griffin did not trust.
One painful fact was undeniable, brought to light from Carlisle’s investigations into the Fenian leader, John Mahoney: there was a traitor amongst their ranks. Someone was selling their secrets to the enemy.
But that someone bloody well wasn’t him.
Which meant, to escape his current predicament—and the four walls entrapping him—he needed to find out who the bastard was. At least five of the names seemed likely suspects, but if he had learned anything from his years on this earth, it was that the most innocent in appearance was often the most evil. The wolf garbed as a sheep, etcetera.
Sighing and scrubbing a hand over his face, he stood, stretching his back. The chair was too damned small for his large frame, as was the escritoire. Leave it to Arden to place him in a female’s chamber. Even the bloody curtains were pale pink and trimmed in lace. The bed was too small as well, and he suspected these oversights were intentional. Arden’s way of keeping him in his place and reminding him of the true reason for his stay.
He had to admit, it was a deuced sight better than being clapped into gaol. He supposed he could thank his fearless leader for that much. But he wouldn’t. The man was a cold-hearted prig, and attempting to converse with him was about as useful as holding a dialogue with a boulder. Both proved equally immovable.
A quiet knock sounded at his door.
Griffin sighed once more, certain his illustrious host-turned-jailer was at his door this time. Either way, he was fully dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers and bare feet. “You may enter.”
But when the door opened, he was once more shocked to see the lovely, dark-haired temptation of Arden’s sister trespassing upon his territory, quite as if it were where she belonged. It had been a mere day since he had seen her last, and within this very chamber.
Where she most decidedlydid notbelong.
Arden would have his head on a pike.
Griffin grinned.
So much the better.
His plan was unfolding miraculously well, for he had not even formed it yet, and already, she was once more in dangerous proximity to both himself and a bed.
He waved for her to make haste. “Come in then, if you insist upon invading my chamber once more, and be quick about it. Do not linger in the hall, lest you are seen, Lady Violet.”
Her vibrant gaze tangled with his as she stepped over the threshold and snapped the door closed at her back. “I do apologize for the intrusion.”
His lips twitched, but he suppressed his mirth. “An odd apology indeed, my lady, for someone who has just chosen to do that for which she offers her regret.”
She clutched her skirts, eyeing him defiantly. “Very well then. I retract my apology. I intended to intrude, and so I did. But you also allowed it, so you need not be such a vexatious curmudgeon about it.”
He stood belatedly, offering her an elegant, mocking bow. “The Duke of Duplicity, Earl of Vexatious, Viscount Curmudgeon at your service, Lady Violet.”
A laugh she appeared determined to stifle slipped from her lips before she could deaden it, and her cheeks flushed an endearing shade of pink. “You need not poke fun, Your Grace. I have come to offer you my aid after all, just as we discussed.”
He raised a brow, a grim sense of finality invading his chest. This woman was intriguing and unique, somehow innocent and bold, seemingly proper and yet daring, all at once. Nothing about her resembled her stiff-arsed brother in the slightest.
