Her brother was not wrong in his analogy, she was sure of it. But the trouble was, the thought of bearing fruit with Charles made her queasy.
“Is this the talk mothers have with their daughters prior to their wedding night?” she could not help but ask, struck by morbid curiosity.
“No, devil take it. That one will be left to Aunt Hortense.” His ears were crimson once more.
Wicked Violet emerged before she could stifle her. “Did husbands and wives have a wedding night in 1845?”
A smile quirked her brother’s lips, before he quashed it, replacing his expression with a stern frown instead. “I am certain they did, else they would not have had progeny. However, none of that is pertinent to this discussion. What is important is that you understand Lord Almsley will make an excellent husband to you. Trust me in this, Violet.”
She believed her brother thought he was acting in her best interest. Truly, she did. But her mind had been made up.
“I do not like aspic,” she told her brother then, opting for Strathmore’s analogy instead. “Regardless of how many times I partake of it, it retains the same perplexing texture, and I do not enjoy eating the stuff. If I do not like it now, what makes you so certain I would change my mind?”
“Some things are an acquired taste.” Her brother’s frown grew more severe. “Lord Almsley will be good to you. By his own admission, he is hopelessly in love with you. Even if you do not return that love, I feel certain that, in time, you will.”
Yes, Charles did claim to love her. But he had also never mentioned her brother had approached him first, not in all the months of their courting. She thought again of his kisses. Of the broken flowerpot and his reaction. Of his mother, the dowager, and her sour face of disapproval. Of living with her, of suffering Charles’s dry, overeager kisses for the rest of her life.
No.
It was all she could think.
Just, simply, no.
But she would not allow Lucien to see her true reaction now. Instead, she recalled the real reason behind her request for this meeting, which had not been to reveal her feelings about Charles at all, but which had instead been to attempt to ascertain when Lucien intended to make a move regarding Strathmore. She needed to know how much time she had left.
“Very well, I shall defer to your wisdom in this matter, Lucien, as I know you would never lead me astray.” The response was perhaps too biddable, and she hoped he would not take note. “Perhaps my misgivings can be attributed to bridal jitters.”
Her brother flashed a relieved smile at her. “I am told it happens to all brides and grooms. There is no harm in it, now your head is firmly set upon your shoulders once more.”
Or so he thought.
“Have you come any closer to finding out who shot at the carriage the other day?” she asked next, cognizant of her need to segue into the true meat of their conversation.
His expression closed instantly, just as it always did when any mentioning of his Home Office and Special League work arose. “Closer, yes.”
“Closer?” she probed.
He cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Violet, you know very well I cannot divulge the finer elements of the investigations I conduct for the League.”
Of course she knew, and the new mantle he wore—though he had donned it with pride—filled her with sadness. She could not help but to feel with each day that passed, he traveled further away from the Lucien she knew.
She tamped down that ill-timed melancholy now. “I do, but I am fearful, Lucien. This business with shots being taken at your carriage…I worry for you. I worry too for myself and Aunt Hortense. Meanwhile, we have all these strangers in our midst; Mr. Swift, a dozen new guards, the Duke of Strathmore.”
Predictably, her brother’s expression turned even more grim at the mentioning of Strathmore. “The Duke of Strathmore will not be beneath this roof for much longer, and he will be one less worry for you.”
A chill ran through her at the pronouncement. “Will he be free to return to his home?”
“Such an innocent.” He sighed, passing a hand over his suddenly weary face. “No, Violet. He will not be going home. He will be going to prison. Allowing him to remain here was a favor I granted the Home Office, who is reluctant to send a peer of the realm to prison without significant evidence. I promised a fortnight’s respite, which is ample time for anyone who gives a—who cares—to produce evidence that gainsays what I have against Strathmore. But I am confident no such evidence exists.”
It was worse than she had supposed. Lucien intended to see Strathmore imprisoned within the week.
“Why are you so certain of his guilt?” she asked, because she had to know.
“Swift uncovered a mountain of evidence at his home,” Lucien answered, sounding as tired as his countenance. “According to the Duke of Carlisle’s final investigation for the League, someone within our ranks is trading secrets to the Fenians in exchange for monetary benefit. What Swift found proves beyond a doubt Strathmore is that man.”
“Why would he need to benefit financially from such a thing?” she had to ask, for to her, it made no sense.
And though she could never admit it aloud to Lucien, she had seen for herself the scars Strathmore had earned in his service to the League. Why would a man who had endured all he had, with a body covered in the proof of his selfless bravery, later commit treason against the Crown he had served?
She had done some digging herself, and from what she had gleaned, Strathmore did not appear to be in need of funds. Quite the opposite, as he hailed from one of the wealthiest duchies in England.
“Sometimes, Violet,” her brother said sadly then, his familiar and beloved voice cutting through her thoughts, “a man will do something just because he can.”
He had committed worse sins in his life, Griffin told himself as he prepared the tools of his escape. He had drunk himself to oblivion until he spent the next morning retching into a chamber pot and cursing his life, swearing he would never touch a drop of drink only to drown himself in the bottle again later that evening. He had smoked opium to dull the pain, even though it hadn’t worked. He had once fornicated with three women at once at a party thrown at the Duke of Carlisle’s townhome. Afterward, he had not been able to recall any of their names.
Not one, aside from the vague impression of multiple syllables.
Indeed, he had spent the last decade of his life attempting, and failing miserably, to overcome the demons inside him, planted there by his incarceration in Paris. He excelled at misdeeds, the wilder the better. But of all the wrongs he had done, he could not shake the feeling the one he was about to commit—absconding with the Duke of Arden’s innocent sister and making her his bride—would go down as the very worst.
Perhaps the final black mark against his soul. The last weight on his scales to tip the balance and send him one day to the fiery pits of Hades, where he no doubt belonged.
And then he thought of the wide emerald eyes and midnight hair and full, kissable mouth of Lady Violet, her lush curves and those long legs and that delicious bosom and the scent of roses, which would forever make his cock hard now for as long as he was doomed to walk the earth.
He thought of all those things, and he knew this sin would be the only one he ever perpetrated in his entire life that would be worth the price he ultimately paid for its commission. Not to mention how fully he would enjoy bringing Arden to his knees and causing him to lose his position as League leader when he proved his incompetence to the Home Office. Nor could he shake the restless feeling that running away with Lady Violet and making her his duchess would save his hide in more ways than one.
Even if doing so would be her ruin. Even if she would one day end up with a husband whose name lived in infamy and ignominy. There remained a strong possibility that, even if he was able to perform the bold move he had carefully planned and intended to execute this evening, he would still be sent to trial and found guilty. His neck could yet fi
nd itself one more victim of the hangman’s noose.
But if he dwelled too much upon such doubts, he would talk himself out of his bold plan altogether, and that would do him no bloody good. Escape, and using Lady Violet as his leverage, seeking out the Duke of Carlisle, hiding himself, digging deep…those were his only options.
And that was why he was currently fashioning a weapon out of a plate emblazoned with Arden’s coat of arms. Lark House was crawling with enough guards to take on a small army. There was only one way he was going to escape with Lady Violet, and it would not be undetected.
Pretending to take her as his prisoner had been her idea, and Griffin had to admit the Machiavellian vein hiding beneath her soft exterior impressed him. Intrigued him. Made him want her that much more. She was not what she appeared to be on the surface; Lady Violet West possessed layers far more captivating than even the allure of her beautifully expressive face. And he longed to learn each one. To strip her bare, literally, as well as figuratively.
He forced such thoughts aside with brutal determination, for now was most certainly not the time to sport a cockstand.
No indeed.
Now was the time for making preparations for what he must do. Because of the additional guards, it was difficult for Lady Violet to find her way to him as often as she had before the carriage incident. She relied upon subterfuge with her most lax guard, a fellow named Pye of all things, and met with him for short increments.
Their time to act would be within the hour.
His last interrogation with Arden and Swift had made it clear their minds had been made up, and they were merely awaiting the formalities involved with trying a member of the League and a peer of the realm. Lady Violet had confirmed his suspicions as well when she had told him her brother intended to act within the week. That meant he could no longer delay.
His bedchamber door opened and a cloud of purple silk containing Lady Violet rustled hastily over the threshold. His pulse and his cock both leapt at her sudden appearance. Roses washed over him, along with gratitude. He still could not believe she would take such a risk on him, for him, because she believed in him.
“No warning knock?” he could not resist teasing her, even as he broke off another shard of plate to complete the wicked-looking blade he would hold to her throat during their departure.
She had offered to steal a knife for him, but Griffin had declined. On the chance their wild bid for freedom failed, he would not have her implicated. He alone would shoulder the blame and she could move on with her life and marry someone else.
Just not Flowerpot. Or any other man, for that matter. The notion of anyone else making Lady Violet his rather set Griffin’s teeth on edge. Which was good. He would need bloodlust this night.
“There was not time for knocking,” she said, her voice hushed. “I was nearly caught by one of the guards.”
“What if I were not properly clothed?” he prodded, testing the sharpness of the makeshift blade with the fleshy pad of his forefinger. “What would you have done, Lady Violet?”
Her cheeks went pink just as he had hoped they would. What fun he would have charming the flushes out of her. It would be a new sport, like shooting pheasants but making Violet blush instead. And then he could remove all the articles of her clothing that acted as impediments, to see just how far her adorable embarrassment traveled.
“I would have closed my eyes,” she said primly.
“Liar.” He winked. “You would have looked, and you know it.”
A fresh wave of color blossomed in her cheeks. She was shy, but daring. A delectable combination.
“Do not be such a rogue, Strathmore. If we mean to do it this evening, we haven’t much time.” Her glinting gaze fell to the blade in his hands. “That looks quite dangerous. You won’t cut me with it, will you?”
“I would not hurt you for the world, Lady Violet,” he promised her solemnly, surprised at how deeply he meant it. The rightness of it traveled through his bones, all the way to the marrow. “It looks far more deadly than it is.”
That, however, was a lie. Any object at all could become a deadly weapon in the right hands, and his were most assuredly the right hands. All the same, she need not ever fear him. He only did harm when defending his life, even after Paris.
“I could have stolen a knife for you,” she argued once more.
“But if you stole a knife for me, it would be apparent to Arden that someone within his household was complicit in my crimes,” he reminded her. “This way is best. If I am stopped, you will not be implicated.”
The flush he found so deuced compelling fled her skin, and she went pale, her eyes wide. “If you are stopped?”
He detected the faint note of trepidation in her voice, the flicker of fear. He had always been confident with her thus far in their plotting and planning. Griffin had learned long ago, when beginning an endeavor of questionable success, it was always prudent to feign great assuredness.
“If I am stopped,” he repeated, closing the distance to her, as much drawn to her—needing to be near her—as attempting to give her some reassurance. “It is highly unlikely, but it is nevertheless a reality we must face. If I fail, you must not confess. You will act as if you are in shock, as if you had no knowledge of my dastardly plot. If I am caught, the first and last time we ever spoke was the day you tripped me with your knitting. Understood?”
She frowned at him. “It was crocheting, but I refuse to allow you to be marched away to prison while I pretend I had no hand in this. If we are caught, I shall go alongside you, where I belong.”
Where I belong.
Her words should not have had such a tremendous effect upon him, but they did. They hummed through him with energy and heat and a great, thrilling pang of longing. The notion of any woman belonging at his side had never even occurred to him. He had not imagined he would ever wed or wish to shackle himself to one woman forever. But though his circumstances were undeniably desperate, he could not help but to feel an unfurling blossom of pleasure when Lady Violet West said she belonged at his side.
And he wholeheartedly agreed.
Just not in the instance of his future incarceration.
He traced the silken curve of her jaw with a fleeting touch that was enough to send a bolt of awareness straight through him. He knew she felt it too, for he absorbed her slight tremble, saw her pupils dilate and her full lips part on a soft exclamation of surprise.
“None of your brother’s hired dogs will be able to stop me,” he promised her. “You worry for naught, my dear. But before we leave this chamber, I will have your promise that in the rare, almost impossible event of my capture this evening, you will maintain your innocence and not allow your reputation to become darkened by me.”
Despite his words, she worried her lower lip. “I wish there was a way to reason with Lucien.”
He ground his teeth at the mention of the Duke of Arsehole. “There is none, my lady. Your brother has convinced himself of my guilt and has already tried me in his mind. If you wish to forego the plan, I completely understand. You may leave this chamber unimportuned, and I will never breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“No.” She shook her head quickly. “I have made up my mind. My brother thinks to live my life for me and make all my choices. This choice is mine, and I choose you.”
He swallowed against a sudden, stinging, and altogether unwanted tide of emotion, knocked loose by her words. “Thank you, my lady. I promise to do everything in my power to prove to you that your confidence is not misplaced.” He took one of her hands in his, raising it to his lips for a kiss.
Her fingers were cold in his grip, small and elegant. Though she was taller than most other ladies of his acquaintance, everything about her was feminine and lovely. She was a wild rose blooming amongst a world of cultivated hothouse roses that all looked and smelled the same.
“I choose you in return,” he told her at last in a voice gone so thick with emotion, he scarcely recognized it
as his own.
Sodding hell. He had been imprisoned and tortured in a besieged city, and he had never once gone maudlin. He had to keep his mind under control. The task at hand was all he could think, see, and do, until he and Lady Violet were beyond the reach of Arden and any of his men.
Lady Violet seemed to sense his shift of mood without him needing to give it voice, for she withdrew her hand, her shoulders going back stiff and straight, chin tipping up in that defiant pose of hers. “Good. But for now, let us get the details out of the way. Lucien left about an hour ago. He told me not to expect him back for supper this evening. Aunt Hortense is having a nap. Pye believes I am looking for some string in the shade of cerulean for the stripe about the edge of the scarf I am making him.”
Jealousy, hideous and foreign, crept its way through him, a silent beast with an appetite for destruction. “You are making him a scarf?”
She blinked. “It was originally meant for Charles, but Pye is a rather nice young man, and he seemed quite thrilled at the prospect of sporting a scarf from me. I offered it to him instead. Besides, how do you think I have been able to find my way to you so often? The scarf seemed to be sufficient bribery for Pye. He has not once questioned my absences.”
This mollified Griffin not one whit. The scarf had initially been crafted with Flowerpot in mind, and then had been reassigned to a bodyguard with a pastry for his surname. “No one has ever knitted me a scarf.”
“It is called crocheting,” she corrected him again, a vee of disapproval furrowing the otherwise faultless skin between her dark brows.
He longed to kiss her there, but refrained. In truth, he knew by now what the lady’s art she practiced with string and hook was called. He simply enjoyed hearing her correct him. “No one has ever crocheted me a scarf either.”
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