Griffin did not even know what to do with such a thing, for it resembled a reticule more than anything else, and he had no knowledge of any gentleman who bothered himself with seeds.
Christ knew he was too damned busy to concern himself with such trifling matters as plants, particularly now he found himself mired in his current predicament. Namely, being a prisoner.
A glorified prisoner.
Or, as the Duke of Arden had so glibly phrased it,an honored guest.
“Honoredmy arse,” he muttered. “Guestmy arse as well.”
He reached his chamber and slipped inside. It was well-appointed and large, but it was not home. He missed his billiards room and his servants who knew how to anticipate his eccentricities and whims. He missed his coffee, brewed specifically to his preferences. Even his bloody butler, who always seemed to be frowning at him with repressed condemnation.
He missed freedom, and that was that.
He had been invited by force, and should he choose to leave, he would instead be ushered to the nearest prison cell. No one had said it yet, for he was a peer of the realm, and though his service to the Crown was currently mired in shadow, accusation, and erroneous assumptions of guilt, he had indeed served faithfully for the last fifteen years.
In essence, his history as a savage murderer, and the accidental circumstance of his birth, were the only two things keeping him from gaol.
Rich, that.
Today, of all days, his self-loathing had reached an extraordinary crescendo.
He had been a devoted servant to the Special League, a secret formation of the Home Office, since he had been sworn into its ranks as a green lad. A fortnight had passed since the League’s leader, the Duke of Carlisle, had stepped down from his post. And in that fortnight, all hell had been unleashed in a torrent of fury and mayhem.
Arden had supplanted Carlisle, but he had also launched a new campaign based on Carlisle’s last. A campaign intended to weed traitors from amongst the ranks of the League. Carlisle’s investigations had proven the League contained members who had fed information to their bitterest enemies. Namely, to the Fenians, the rabid villains so obsessed with gaining Irish Home Rule, they were willing to commit any crime to obtain it.
One of those informants was known by the Fenians as The Gryphon.
Griffin and The Gryphon.
True, he could not fault Arden for making the obvious connection. But he could fault him for refusing to dismiss it. And then for pursuing it instead. As for the bastard who had planted incriminating documents in his home without him being the wiser? Griffin had a slow and steady torture in mind for him, beginning with fingernail removal.
A knock at his door startled him from his roiling thoughts. Likely the timid manservant, Edwards, who had been assigned him, for even Griffin’s own domestics were suspect. Arden was nothing if not a thorough arsehole. And a relentless one.
“Enter,” he called.
The door opened a scant few inches. Likely, the hesitant sod was cowering on the other side of the portal. Ever since making the fellow’s acquaintance, Griffin had been garnering immense joy from toying with him.
A man had to have something to keep himself occupied with whilst he was imprisoned. Something other than kissing the Duke of Arden’s luscious sister.
Griffin frowned. “Excellent timing, Edwards. I need to hone my knife throwing skills. Come and stand against this wall, won’t you? I promise I have good aim.”
A dark head popped around the door, the hauntingly lovely face of Lady Violet appearing. “Knife throwing?”
“A joke.” He passed a hand over his face. “A bloody poor one, much like you appearing at my bedchamber door. Flee while you still can, my lady.”
Instead of heeding his advice, she stepped inside with so much haste, her skirts swayed about her and nearly got caught in the door as she snapped it quietly shut. She spun back to him, eyes wide.
“Do you truly throw knives?”
Christ.
Did all the world think him a disreputable savage?
“No. Now be gone from here. Return to Aunt Horrible, won’t you? Leave a man to his misery.”
Her lips pursed, making him want to kiss them again. How soft and full and warm they had been beneath his, how responsive. He could not remove the memory from his mouth now, and it settled there, sparking, tingling. His lips wanted more of hers beneath them.
He was perverse, and he knew it. The last woman in the world he ought to lust after was Arden’s sister. He could not afford to ruin any woman, let alone the sister of his nemesis. Not to mention, she had a betrothed who played about in the dirt. A betrothed for whom she fashionedseed pouches.
