“Do not say a word, Duke, I mean it. Even Clementine has not realized yet. She has been tired of late, and she did not even want to eat the baklava Roman’s aunt sent us for Christmas.” She gestured with her hand as though pointing out the obvious. “Clem loves baklava.”
He eyed her for a few moments. Violet was something else. Did she realize how much he admired her for looking after her siblings so diligently? To know them better than they knew themselves? There was certainly something to be said for having a Violet in one’s life.
“Roman will be thrilled.”
“Not a word, Duke,” she repeated, wagging a finger.
“Not a word, I promise.” Duke imagined his friend might well wish to throttle him for keeping it from him, however. “Though I do rather owe the man.”
“Owe him?”
“If he had not insisted on coming, things might not have gone so successfully when meeting Doyle’s men.”
“I’m not certain I wish to know.”
“No you probably do not.”
Violet leaned forward. “Tell me what happened?”
“So long as you swear not to be furious with me.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I cannot guarantee it. If I was not so relieved you and Roman returned home and I did not have to send out a search party, I’d likely still be furious with you.”
“I suppose it is a given.” He flashed a grin. “You are often furious with me.”
She threw a chunk of bread at him, and he caught it, letting his grin widen as her gaze narrowed.
“Tell me what happened.”
“It was a trap,” he said simply.
“A trap? Did you know it to be so?”
“Well, I hardly expected them to hand over my father and send me on my way, did I?”
“So you went along, knowing they intended to—what—take you?”
“I was not playing their game and the leverage of my father had not persuaded me to defend Doyle. They wanted to keep me captive instead.”
She sucked in a breath. “And so they intended to take you by force rather than wait for you to agree to defend Doyle.”
“Indeed.”
I wonder at Doyle’s insistence you should defend him. With connections like his, it seems easier to find another lawyer—one with fewer principles.”
“As I keep telling you, Vi, I’m the best.” He popped a chunk of cheese in his mouth. “And men like Doyle are used to having what they want.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I keep forgetting.”
“I’m not certain how. Is it not obvious?” He gestured to himself.
“At present, perhaps not.”
“You wound me.” Duke pressed a hand to his heart.
“As if that is possible. Your ego is entirely untouchable.” She took a sip of lemonade and smiled smugly.
“Ah, well there you are wrong. It is entirely too easy for you to wound me.”