All Swift required was Griffin’s second of distraction to pounce. He landed a blow to Griffin’s already bleeding chin, sending more blood spurting forth. And then he had the pistol back in hand, its barrel trained upon Griffin’s head.
Swift cocked it. “Don’t make a goddamn move.”
The carriage door burst open before he could speak another word.
Up ahead, thecarriage carrying Griffin and Mr. Swift was stopped, the echo of the report of a pistol ringing in her ears. One shot. That was all. Ominous and loud and terrifying.
Griffin had not been armed. His wrists and ankles had been shackled. The likelihood he had been able to defend himself, the likelihood he had just been shot and wounded, or worse, hit her like a leaden weight.
A scream tore from her; part denial, part fear, part terrible despair.
Somehow, she was out of the carriage, her feet moving, racing. Moving toward him.
Griffin was not dead. He could not be. No, he was not dead. It was all she could think, again and again, her heart beating fast enough to take flight like the wings of a bird. Her mouth was dry. Horror churned through her.
“Violet!” her brother’s voice, desperate and sharp, reached her. He caught her around the waist, hauling her back. “You cannot go. It could be dangerous. If Strathmore is…you will not want to see.”
She trembled with such violence her teeth clacked together, and still, she clawed at Lucien’s hands, trying to escape his hold.
This was a nightmare.
A nightmare from which she would wake, warm and content in Griffin’s arms, and he would kiss her and tell her all was well. That was what she wished, at least. Oh, how she wished it.
“I am going to him and you cannot stop me,” she said.
Already, Carlisle, Ludlow, and O’Malley were racing toward the carriage. The driver had left his seat and stood off to the side, cowering in fear, concerned only for his own safety.
“Listen to me.” Lucien wrenched her to face him, his grip tight, his expression even more so, fraught with concern. “Promise me you will await me here. No good can come of you putting yourself in danger.”
“No,” she shook her head, more determined than ever. “I will not wait here. I need to be there for him.”
But Lucien was cut from the same cloth as she, and he would not relent. “Damn it, Lettie, I am losing precious time by tarrying with you. Promise me you will wait here.”
She knew she needed to get to Griffin. To be by his side. But she also knew her brother would not release her until she gave him her promise.
She swallowed. “Go. I will wait here.”
He gave her a jerky nod, then released her and spun away, sprinting to the stopped carriage. Violet waited for a beat to pass before gathering up her skirts and following. From her vantage point at the side of the carriage opposite its door, she could see nothing.
Lucien raced around the carriage, and she would have too, but instinct told her to slow down and to stop. She did when she was nearly abreast of the carriage, her heart thudding in her chest, in her ears, her breathing harsh from the combination of her fear and the distance she had run from the parked carriage.
Hesitantly, she worked her way around the back of the carriage.
And that was when she heard the Duke of Carlisle’s booming directive. “Put the gun down, Swift.”
“Step away!” ordered Mr. Swift from within the carriage, a clear note of desperation in his voice. “If you do not lower your weapons and stand down, I will shoot Strathmore in the head, here and now. The Duke of Arden has tasked me with sending this traitor to prison, and I will not stop until I do my duty.”
Her breath caught, and she swallowed back a strangled cry. Griffin was not dead, thank the Lord. But he was perhaps wounded, and Mr. Swift was armed, threatening to shoot him.
“He is The Gryphon.” Griffin’s voice rang out next. “He is the man responsible for selling League secrets to Mahoney and the Fenians.”
“Cease your lies.” There was the dead thud of something hard connecting with flesh and Griffin’s quiet grunt of pain.
Violet bit her lip to keep from crying out.Dear God, everything she had feared was true. And now the villain was holding Griffin captive.
“I have seen you before.” Another voice, this one tinged with an unmistakable Irish brogue, entered the conversation. “In Dublin. I saw you meeting with Mahoney. You are the cousin of Thomas Rourke.”
Thank heavens for Mr. O’Malley. Lucien had to believe in Griffin’s innocence now.
