Page 1 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

W ellston Hall, 1814

It was, Violet Honeywell reflected with no small amount of irritation, a most inauspicious day for an ambush. Of course, there was never an auspicious day for one, but she’d already done battle with the steward that morning. He questioned every decision she made simply because she lacked a certain uniquely masculine appendage. Why the absence of that bit of flesh should also signal an absence of good sense was a mystery to her.

As she watched the carriage turning down the lane, she grimaced. It wasn’t as if she spent her every waking hour anticipating an ambition, but she made a habit of not being caught off guard. If anything, she prided herself on her preparedness, on the skill she had cultivated in predicting precisely when and where certain individuals—most notably her loathsome relatives and rebellious employees—would attempt to ruin her day. Typically those paths did not overlap. Today was to be an exception it seemed.

Standing on the not-quite-grand steps of Wellston Hall, watching as the infuriatingly gaudy Cavender carriage rolled up the drive with all the delicacy and restraint of an invading army, she pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache was blooming behind her eyes and she wished desperately to ward it off. After all, she was already at a disadvantage and pain was a distraction she could not afford.

Grimly, she steeled herself for what was to come. She did not require the dark cawing of a crow overhead or the foreboding grey sky to recognize an omen when she saw one. That carriage, in all its ostentatious glory, was the harbinger of doom. Or at the very least the harbinger of a bad day to come. And this—this—would most certainly be a terrible one.

Nigel Cavender was not a man who traveled without motive, and his mother, the odious Mrs. Ethella Cavender, did not bother herself with the discomforts of travel unless there was something particular to be gained from it, or extreme unpleasantness to inflict upon others.

For six months, Violet had been managing Wellston Hall in her brother’s absence as he served on the Continent in the battle against Napoleon. For six months, she had fought to be taken seriously, to ensure the tenants were satisfied, the accounts balanced, and that neither the steward nor the solicitor conspired behind her back to hand over control to some foolish man with an inflated sense of self-importance.

She had succeeded, thus far, by sheer dint of will. And yet, here was Nigel. Striding toward her with the unmistakable air of a man who believed himself entitled to everything that lay before him merely by virtue of his sex. And the harping of his mother, of course.

Violet inhaled sharply through her nose and curled her fingers into her skirts, lest she be overcome with the very unladylike urge to introduce her fist to his overly smug face.

“Nigel,” she greeted coolly, her gaze flicking to the shroud of black crape that engulfed the skeletal frame of his mother. “Aunt Ethella. I was not expecting you.” Her tone—pointed and entirely devoid of warmth—did not deter them.

Nigel smirked, his expression the precise shade of insufferable she had come to associate with him. “No, dear cousin, I rather imagine you weren’t.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence in which the wind whistled through the trees, kicking up the gravel at their feet.

Violet arched a brow. “Then why are you here?”

Ethella, always one for needless theatrics, let out a dramatic sigh and placed a hand to her breast. “My dear, I fear we bring dreadful news.”

Violet barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Do you.”

Ethella pursed her lips. “It concerns your brother.”

Violet’s pulse stumbled. She forced herself not to react.

Nigel stepped forward, his expression faux-sympathetic. “James is dead,” he announced, with all the finesse of a man ordering a plate of roast beef.

Violet blinked in shock. And then she laughed.

Not a delicate, ladylike titter, but a rich, full-throated laugh that rang through the cold morning air and echoed against the stone walls of Wellston Hall.

Nigel’s smirk faltered.

Ethella stiffened.

“I hardly think—” Nigel began, his irritation evident.

Violet waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, do hush, Nigel. James is most certainly not dead.”

Ethella’s sharp gaze pinned her. “We have it on good authority that he is.”

Violet tilted her head. “And where, pray, did this ‘authority’ come from? A passing fortune-teller? A particularly ominous dream? Tea leaves?”

Nigel’s jaw tightened. “From Major Lionel Smythe, who served alongside your brother. A letter came just days ago confirming his death in battle.”

Violet’s stomach twisted. She knew her brother. Knew his caution, his skill, his refusal to engage in reckless heroics. And she certainly knew better than to accept Nigel Cavender’s word as law. “How very strange,” she mused. “And yet, I have received no such letter.”

Nigel’s expression soured. “James, in his dying breath, wished for us to deliver the news.”

Violet snorted. James, in his dying breath, would have been far more likely to curse Nigel to eternal damnation than to entrust him with anything—particularly delivering such terrible news to her. “So,” Violet said, crossing her arms, “your argument is that my brother, rather than contacting his beloved sister, instead elected to bestow his final wishes upon—” she gestured vaguely at Nigel, “—you?”

Nigel bristled.

Ethella’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Regardless, my dear, it does not change the fact that as his closest male relation, Nigel must assume control of Wellston Hall.”

Violet did not move. She neither blinked nor flinched. Instead, she braced herself for battle. Because the only way she’d give over control of Wellston to them would be over her dead, cold corpse.

Then, after a long moment, she smiled. Slow and sharp as a blade. “Well,” she said lightly, “then I suppose it is rather inconvenient that I do not believe a word of it.”

Nigel’s face reddened. “You cannot?—”

“Oh, but I can,” she interrupted smoothly. “Until I have proof—real proof, not some fabricated letter delivered by a man whose very existence is suspect—then Wellston Hall remains mine.”

Ethella’s gaze darkened.

Nigel clenched his fists.

Violet smiled sweetly. And with that, she turned on her heel, swept up the grand steps, and disappeared inside her house—leaving them fuming in her wake.

Wellston Hall was hers.

And she would see it defended.