Angelique.
Remembrance hit him, along with an old, familiar wave of bitterness. It was not as sharp as it had once been, more the sting of a bee than the cut of a blade. But it remained, nevertheless, a part of himself and his past he could not deny.
He had been young and green, on his first assignment for the League as an agent within France, when he had fallen under the spell of the beautiful older widow. If indeed she had even been a widow. And if her name had indeed been Angelique at all.
He would never know the truth, and a veritable lifetime had passed since he had seen her last, but hearing her name aloud now, all these years later, jarred him.
“Madame Martin betrayed me,” he said calmly, striving to scrub all inflection from his voice. “She was never privy to any information concerning the League. Need I remind you I was held captive during the Siege of Paris?”
His captivity was a dark time in his life, and though it, like Madame Martin, was a relic of the past, it nevertheless had the power to haunt him. The mere mentioning of his imprisonment, benign enough in casual dialogue, was enough to make his gut clench and his muscles tighten. The scars on his body were a visual reminder, but he had grown accustomed to their presence with time, and the sight of them did not make him sick as they once had. Even so, he had never allowed another to see them. Not even his valet. Nor any of his lovers.
“Did not your captivity also result in great danger to fellow League members who were then tasked with your rescue?” Arden asked.
“Yes it did,” he ground out, his frustration returning, taking on a new power. “But what the bloody hell does what happened in France eleven years ago have to do with planted evidence against me now?”
Arden considered him. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything.”
What the hell was the bastard after?
Before he could offer another word, a knock sounded on the study door, followed by the appearance of Arden’s butler, whose expression was unusually aggrieved.
“There is a matter that requires your immediate attention, Your Grace. It pertains to Lady Violet.”
The mention of Lady Violet had Griffin on alert. The hackles raised on the back of his neck, but with great effort, he reminded himself he must not allow his interest to show. Not yet. And so he kept himself as composed as he was able, even as concern flooded him.
Arden stood, his face going instantly pale. “What the devil is it, Bunton? Is something wrong with her? Has she taken ill?”
“She is well,” the butler reassured him. “However, there was an incident involving her carriage.” His eyes flitted to Swift and Griffin. “Perhaps you ought to accompany me.”
Arden nodded. “Swift, please be kind enough to escort Strathmore back to his chamber. I fear I am needed elsewhere.”
“Of course, sir,” answered his puppy immediately.
Griffin watched Arden scurry from the chamber.
One thing was certain—heartless, soulless wretch though he may be—the Duke of Arden cared very much for his sister. And Griffin was not above using those feelings and that knowledge against him. It was becoming more apparent by the moment that he would have no other choice.
“I want apistol, and I want to learn to shoot,” Violet announced to Lucien.
“That is out of the question,” he denied, his tone grim.
He had just returned from inspecting the damage the bullets had inflicted upon the carriage, and his countenance was pale and harsh. Worry emanated from him, unusual since he considered emotion a sign of weakness and used every opportunity to expunge it from his life.
“I need to be prepared to defend myself,” she argued, not about to accept his refusal.
“I will protect you, damn it,” he growled.
Aunt Hortense still looked as if she may swoon at any moment. The incident had ruffled her feathers. “I must agree with Arden that your request is most unladylike. You simply cannot go about London brandishing a weapon, Lady Violet.”
“Perhaps if I had, no one would have shot at our carriage,” she countered.
“Or they would have shot you instead of the goddamn carriage!” her brother roared.
Violet jumped. Aunt Hortense made a startled sound of surprise, her hand fluttering to her heart.
“No one can shoot me if I shoot them first,” she said, determined to have her way.
How could he possibly believe she would be safer unarmed? Was it because she was a female and he believed her incapable of defending herself, or was it because his sense of duty would not allow anyone other than himself to be her protector?
