“I do not need it,” Aunt Hortense said grimly.
“Yes,” Violet countered, brows raised meaningfully, “you do.”
“My knees are—”
“Nonsense,” Violet interrupted sternly, holding out her hands for Aunt Hortense to grasp, bracing herself to better enable the aid which would be required. “On the count of three. One, two, three.”
On a weary-sounding groan, Aunt Hortense was righted once more.
If only every ill and injustice could be righted with the firm hold of two hands and a caring heart. Violet heaved a sigh, supposing it was too much to ask for.
Abruptly, the carriage door was torn open, sunlight and the sounds of the outdoors assaulting the interior of the cabin. “My ladies, are you injured?” their driver demanded, his expression stricken as he took in Violet assisting Aunt Hortense with rising and seating herself properly once more.
“We are both well,” she reassured the man, “but I shall need an audience with my brother, His Grace, forthwith.”
Gulping, the coachman bowed. “Of course, my lady. Anything you wish.”
What she truly wished was that the Fenians had not chosen herself and her family as targets in their vicious vendetta. But there was nothing she could do to change that now. The battle lines had been formed.
Griffin sat oppositethe Duke of Arden and alongside his aide-de-camp, Robert Swift, in Arden’s study. The scene was familiar to him, little different from the many occasions in his past upon which he had found himself seated opposite a friend. But those occasions were markedly different from this particular circumstance.
For one, they often shared port, brandy, whisky, or some other spirits. For another, the mood had been awash with camaraderie and respect, rather than animosity, suspicion, and mutual enmity. And he had never before stared down a man intent upon his utter ruination.
There was no other means of describing the viciousness in the Duke of Arden’s expression when he gazed upon Griffin now. It was hatred, vengeance, and murderous intent at once. He truly believed Griffin guilty.
“Swift said you wished to see me,” Arden said into the seething silence, his voice dripping with ice.
Arden had been avoiding him, and Griffin knew it. His days, aside from his brief interludes with Lady Violet, were a monotonous stampede of isolation and frustration. He had no answers and he remained cloistered within his chamber, beset by a barrage of anxieties and suspicions.
He had finally sought out Swift, deciding enough was enough. To hell with his jailer’s indirect manner and his subtleties. Griffin was a man of action, and he always had been. He dealt in truths, even the truths he despised.
“You’re damned right I did. You cannot hold me here indefinitely,” he bit out angrily, flouting every word of caution he had inwardly delivered to himself prior to this meeting.
Arden, smug bastard that he was, merely shrugged. He held all the power, and he knew it. “You and I both know I am fully within my rights to keep you here for as long as I please. You can consider yourself fortunate you have yet to be tossed into prison after the evidence I discovered against you.”
“That evidence was planted,” he bit out.
“By you?” Arden considered him, unmoved.
“By the traitor.” Griffin slammed his fist down on the polished surface of the duke’s desk, unable to help himself.
“I discovered the evidence myself, Strathmore,” Swift interjected mildly.
Yes, he had, hadn’t he?
Griffin studied the younger man. He had been trailing after the Duke of Arden like an obedient little puppy for the last year or so. Griffin knew little about the fellow’s background, aside from the fact that his father was a policeman and his mother the daughter of a vicar. Though he and Swift had been on pleasant enough terms, perhaps Swift would be an excellent addition to his list.
“There is no man I trust more than Swift,” Arden said. “I would trust him with my life. You, on the other hand, Strathmore, I would not trust beyond my sight. Hell, I do not even trust youwithinmy sight.”
Griffin wondered how the arsehole would react if he knew what had been happening beyond his sight. With his sister. Grim satisfaction unfurled within him. He did not know when the mutual enmity between himself and Arden had precisely begun, but time had not dulled its flame.
“I may be many things, but untrustworthy is not one of them,” he defended himself. “I have been a loyal member of the League for over a decade.”
“You have undeniably been a member,” Arden allowed coolly, “but as recent circumstances have proven, your loyalty is a question rather than a certainty.”
The urge to plant Arden a facer was strong. He gripped the arms of his chair to keep himself contained. “My record is impeccable.”
“I have reviewed your history with the League,” Swift said, “and I am afraid I must disagree with that assertion. When you were held in Paris during the war, for instance, there was a woman with whom you involved yourself, a Madame Martin, who was a suspected spy.”
