“There will be no pistols or shooting for you, my lady.” His jaw was hard. “What the devil happened to your hand?”
The cut from Charles’s ruined orchid pot. She had quite forgotten in the mayhem that had unfolded in the carriage. “One of Lord Almsley’s flower pots fell in his conservatory during my visit. It is nothing.”
She refrained from adding the reason for the pot’s decent, which had been her betrothed’s kiss, both unpleasant and unskilled. Lucien was already upset enough. She had no wish to send him into more of a furor than he already was in.
His kiss is nothing like the Duke of Strathmore’s, reminded Wicked Violet then, at a most inopportune moment.
Her cheeks went hot. Her brother’s gaze narrowed upon her, almost as if he had heard Wicked Violet’s voice aloud. Above all, Lucien must never know she was aiding the duke in his quest to prove his innocence. He would make good on his threat to send her away to Albemarle, and then she would never again have the chance to kiss—er,assist—Strathmore.
“Why were you in the conservatory with the earl?” Lucien demanded, his voice colored with suspicion now.
“We took a turn about whilst Aunt Hortense and Lady Almsley enjoyed their tea. He wished to show me a rare orchid.”
“They were well within my range of sight, Arden,” Aunt Hortense added, which could not have possibly been true.
Thank heavens for the older woman’s weakness for Charles.
“At all times,” Violet lied blithely. She may lead a boring, sheltered life with her overly protective brother dogging her with the persistence of a shadow, but even she knew when deceit was a necessity.
Poor Charles would not emerge the victor in a bout of fisticuffs with Lucien.
“Nonetheless, I do not like it,” her brother announced, as if delivering a royal edict.
On this matter, however, she would not bother to argue the point. Kissing Charles again was not an action she wished to take any time soon. Kissing the Duke of Strathmore, on the other hand…that held infinitely more appeal.
Only think of his wonderful lips,urged Wicked Violet.
And she did, much to her shame.
Her cheeks went hotter still.
“Are you warm, my lady?” her brother asked sharply, peering at her more closely.
She blinked. “I do believe all the excitement has set me at sixes and sevens. I should like to return to my chamber for a nap before dinner.”
Requesting a nap was her signature means of escaping Lucien, and he invariably fell for the ruse time after time.
He nodded. “Very well, but before you go, I would like you and Aunt Hortense to join me for an interview with Swift. We need to ask you some questions concerning the events that unfolded in the carriage.”
Drat.
Of course this would be the one occasion upon which her brother could not be so easily routed. She did not particularly like the young gentleman Lucien had taken under his wing. There was something about him she had yet to define, an instinct, perhaps, that told her Mr. Swift was not entirely as he seemed. For the last year, he had followed her brother’s every step, eventually becoming his trusted right hand.
Sometimes she suspected Lucien thought of Mr. Swift as the brother he had never had, and she rather resented him for that. She was forever cognizant of her status as a lady. Her brother believed, she was certain, that since she was a female and their mother had been mad enough to drown herself in the sea, she was more at risk of succumbing to the same fate than he. For her entire life, he had cossetted her, but he had never treated her as an equal.
“Why must Mr. Swift be present?” she asked, aware her own judgments had flared to life. Another thought occurred to her. “If Mr. Swift asked you for a pistol, you would give him one and gladly. Why will you not consent to one for me?”
“Swift already possesses a pistol and he knows how to shoot it.” Lucien frowned at her. “Do cease prattling on about this nonsense, Violet. You will be well-protected from this moment forward. That much, I swear. I have ordered additional armed guards for Lark House, but you must be prepared to go to the country should the danger here become too great.”
“You think they will come after us again.” It was a statement rather than a question, for she was no fool. “It is the Fenians, is it not?”
Lucien’s jaw clenched. “Until I have more information, I cannot say who was behind this or whether it was a planned attack or an unfortunate, random incident. I have my suspicions, but we will only know after we do some further digging into the matter.”
His words gave her no comfort.
“We shall stay indoors and at home until we have a better answer,” suggested Aunt Hortense, her expression pained, drawn tight with worry.
Lovely. More time to crochet.
