He sighed, for he was beginning to realize not one part of his plan would prove as simple as he had hoped and imagined it would be. “Yes.”
Carlisle frowned. “Is not Lady Violet betrothed to the fellow who loves plants? I could have sworn Arden was bragging about the match when last I saw him. Who was it now, the Earl of…Alderly? Elmsworth? Natterly?”
“Flowerpot,” he said, before Violet could correct the duke, and because the man’s true title did not matter any more than he did at this point. He was long gone. Part of Violet’s past. That she had kissed the blighter, and recently, still made his body coil with the need to strike in serpentine fashion.
“Almsley,” Violet offered quietly, and somehow her providing Flowerpot’s name irked him and sent a fresh shaft of jealousy straight to the heart of him. Or at least to where his heart ought to be. “I was formerly betrothed to the Earl of Almsley. But I have decided I wish to marry Strathmore instead.”
“It would seem felicitations are in order,” Ludlow said. “When is the wedding?”
“As soon as possible,” he said before Violet could answer for them. “That is rather the reason for our appearance here, I am afraid. We shall need it to occur with as much haste as can be.”
“Strathmore,” cautioned Carlisle then, his expression going grim. “Tell me you did not…”
“Of course not,” he hastened to deny, though it was only partially true. He had not taken her maidenhead, but the liberties he had taken last night had been egregious with an unmarried lady, and he knew it. “But we need to wed as quickly as we can. Arden will be looking for me. He was keeping me at Lark House whilst he convinced Home Office to charge me with treason.”
“Treason?” Ludlow frowned, stepping forward, his expression going black. “Why the bloody hell would Arden suspect you of treason? You have been a loyal League member for fifteen years or more.”
If only the arsehole left in charge of the League had possessed similar vision, Griffin would not now currently be standing where he stood, wearing the same clothing he had worn since the day before when he had fled Lark House by holding a dinner plate-turned-dagger to Lady Violet’s throat.
He could say as much, but it sounded ludicrous, even to his own ears, and he had just lived it.
“Evidence incriminating me was planted in my home,” he replied instead. “Conveniently before Arden conducted a search based on the connection between Mahoney’s source known as The Gryphon and me.”
“Damn it all to hell,” Carlisle muttered. “Had I known Arden would go to such lengths, I would never have recommended him as my replacement.”
“Perhaps you can soon tell him what you think of his investigative technique,” he said grimly. “I absconded with his sister, and he will not take such an affront lightly. He will be out for blood. I do expect him to find me here, one way or another.”
Violet’s grip on his arm tightened at his words.
He covered her hand with his, hoping to impart some reassurance. In truth, he felt anything but sure about what lay ahead of them. All he did know was that marrying her was his best—and perhaps only—chance of beating Arden at his own game.
“It sounds like we need to do some reconnoitering,” Clay said. “Fortunately for you, we have someone in residence who may provide some additional insight.”
“My wife’s brother Cullen is in residence, newly arrived from Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin,” Carlisle added, “after being held there for some months because of evidence John Mahoney manufactured against him. He was familiar with Mahoney, so there may well be something he knows that can be of service.”
“Yes,” Griffin agreed bleakly. “By all means, then, let us do some reconnoitering. I fear our time is waning.”
Chapter Thirteen
The morning ofViolet’s wedding had dawned dreary and gray, and not at all as she had imagined in all the days she had spent foolishly envisioning it. There was no sunshine, no calm assurance of having made the right decision, no comfort, no endless love, nothing joyful at all.
Indeed, the sky had opened before dawn to unleash a torrent of rain, as if in ominous portent of what was to come. And the rains had not relented. Not as she dressed with the aid of a lady’s maid and Carlisle’s and Ludlow’s wives, Bridget and Ara. Not as the nearby River Isis swelled, threatening to flood the roads leading to Harlton Hall. And not as she and Griffin exchanged vows in the ancient Harlton Hall chapel.
As Violet sat at her impromptu wedding breakfast, surrounded by kind people who had welcomed her into their lives without question and had hosted the celebration of her hasty nuptials with Griffin as if it were their duty, all she felt was…
Miserable.
Her emotions matched the day. Dreary. Grim. Sad.
A veritable feast had been prepared, and all on short notice. The domestics were bustling and cheerful, seeming to embrace the celebratory air of the occasion, and she was now the Duchess of Strathmore, her handsome husband seated at her side. All reasons to revel, surely.
This was what she had wanted, she told herself. She had not wished to marry Charles. Charles did not kiss her with passion. Did not make her feel wanton or weak with a mere look, a simple touch. Charles loved his plants far more than he could ever care for her.
No, there was no part of her, not even one whit, that wished she had wed Charles instead of Griffin. But there were regrets swirling within her, rising like flood waters compounded by rains that refused to relent.
She had worn a borrowed dress on her wedding day because she had but the one gown on her back, taken with her from Lark House in their flight. And though she remained in firm disagreement with her brother when it came to her new husband’s innocence, Lucien’s absence on her wedding day disturbed her. The same for Aunt Hortense.
Regardless of the circumstances or reasons, she had married before new acquaintances, with no family in attendance. Her sole wedding, and she had done something rash and foolish and reckless. Something her mother would have done.
