Page 11 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)
Chapter Ten
I t had been a very busy morning for Ethella Cavender, with many tasks. Checking in with the housemaid she’d bribed for information after the Dowager Duchess had so unceremoniously kicked them out. Ethella smiled, oh and she had been a veritable fountain of useful information. Afterward, they’d come to York to put the next phase of their plan into action. Major Smythe had been located and, after being appropriately outfitted, would make his way to Alstead Manor to pay his respects.
But as she sat in the hard chair Ethella Cavender realized that all was not going as she wished. She had never tolerated defiance from anyone. It was an intolerable affliction, and she had spent a lifetime curing it in others—either by the firm hand of logic or, when necessary, by more coercive means.
As she sat before the Bishop of York in his grand, if musty, chambers, she found herself facing the most insufferable kind of defiance there was—legal authority. Without his consent, they could not bring the matter of Violet’s marriage, and potential annulment, before the ecclesiastical court. That meant toadying to him in a way that positively mortified her. She loathed it.
The bishop was a staid, wrinkled old man, his skin like parchment stretched over brittle bone, and he was currently regarding her with the dispassionate indifference of one who had been subjected to far too many trivial grievances in his tenure. “Madam,” he intoned, his voice edged with the mildest irritation, “for the third time, I fail to see any legal reason why I should entertain this petition.”
Ethella pressed her lips together in a tight, composed smile—one that betrayed nothing of the fury simmering beneath her cool exterior.
“My niece,” she began again, each syllable measured and deliberate, “acted in haste, quite recklessly, I might add. And without the proper guidance of her family. The law is clear?—”
“The law is indeed clear,” the bishop interrupted, his bushy white brows lifting with distinct impatience. “And as I have already stated, your niece is well past the age of not only consent but majority! She is neither a minor nor under guardianship. Therefore, her marriage requires no consent beyond her own.”
Nigel, sitting beside his mother, had begun to fidget uncontrollably, his hands wringing together in a manner that was altogether pathetic.
“B-but surely,” he stammered, his voice cracking under the pressure, “a lady of her standing ought to have observed propriety! A proper engagement! Banns read in the church?—”
The bishop exhaled a great sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Your cousin’s marriage was sanctified under a common license—issued by me, no less— which, I might remind you, is perfectly lawful.” He fixed Nigel with a weary glare. “Do you mean to suggest that His Grace, the Duke of Alstead, a respected peer of the realm, coerced Miss Honeywell into marriage against her will?”
Nigel’s Adam’s apple bobbed furiously. “W-well, no, not coerced precisely, but?—”
“Was there some fraud committed? Are either of them married or committed elsewhere?”
“No, not that we are aware,” Ethella admitted reluctantly. “What would constitute fraud?”
“If either of them is wed to another, if a prior marriage contract for Miss Honeywell existed— or if their union was not consummated due to… inability.”
“And how would we prove that the marriage has not been consummated?” She asked.
“Well, her grace would have to consent to an examination by a physician—an event I certainly do not foresee happening,” the bishop replied stiffly. “But knowing what I do of Alstead, I’m certain that is not the case!”
Ethella nodded, thinking of the intelligence she’d gleaned from the housemaid just that morning. She’d been given all the information she needed about the state of marital congress between Violet and the Duke, but she wasn’t quite ready to use that. Not just yet. Being able to assure Eddington of Violet’s continued virginity would go a long way toward getting what they wanted out of him. “If you could simply see that this marriage is not to Violet’s benefit?—.”
“The duke is wealthy, relatively young, handsome by most standards, and not given to any particular vice to a worrisome degree. What, exactly, is your complaint?”
Nigel sputtered uselessly, looking to his mother for rescue.
Ethella, who had spent a lifetime pulling him from his own stupidity, merely smiled.
“It is not my nephew’s concern we bring before you, Your Grace, but mine,” she said smoothly. “A family matter. A young woman, impressionable and unguarded, married without deliberation—surely you must see how unwise it is.”
“I see nothing of the sort,” the bishop replied dryly. “They both appeared quite levelheaded to me. I saw no indication that either was reluctant or even conflicted about their decision!”
Ethella’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “I must insist that?—”
“No, madam.” The bishop’s thin mouth pressed into a tight, unimpressed line. “I must insist that you cease this foolishness immediately. My decision is firm and I will hear no more about it.”
The words landed like a slap.
Nigel sank deeper into his chair, visibly wilting.
Ethella remained perfectly composed, though a sharp prickle of rage surged through her.
The bishop stood, his voice rising with finality. “The Duchess of Alstead is lawfully wed, and no amount of posturing will change that. You will cease this meddling, madam. It is unseemly. And frankly, tiresome.”
There was a long and damning silence.
Ethella, seeing there was nothing further to be gained at that moment, inclined her head gracefully.
“My apologies if our concerns have inconvenienced you, Bishop,” she said, her voice smooth as silk.
She rose elegantly, gesturing for Nigel to do the same. He scrambled to his feet, casting nervous glances at the bishop, who was already returning to his papers, scribbling away as he utterly dismissed their very existence.
As they exited the chamber, Ethella’s mind whirled. Fraud. They would have to prove it or other, more permanent, steps would need to be taken.
The early morning fog was thick as Max dismounted in front of Colcrest Hall, the home of Lord Bertram Eddington. It was time to beard the serpent in his den, so to speak. Climbing the steps to the front door, he lifted the knocker and let it fall, striking the brass plate beneath. Only seconds later, the door was opened by an aged butler who appeared to be at least a century old, if not more.
“May I help you?”
“The Duke of Alstead,” Max said. “I need to speak with your employer… Lord Eddington.”
The butler stepped back enough to allow him entrance, but only into the foyer. “If you will wait here, your grace, I will see if his lordship is at home.”
“He’s at home,” Max said. “Asking to see him was merely good manners. I will see him, whether he wishes it or not.”
The butler drew back, clearly shocked by his insistence. “I see. I will inform him, your grace.”
Several minutes passed while Max wiped for the ancient retainer to shuffle down the hall toward Eddington’s study. An equal amount of time was taken for him to shuffle back. “This way, your grace.”
“No need. I know the way,” Max said. He was out of patience and had no wish to be led down the hallway at a snail’s pace. Brushing past the butler, he made for the study and the reprobate who awaited him there.
“Alstead. I wish I could say it was a pleasure,” Eddingotn said, as he entered.
“Our distaste for one another is the only common ground we possess,” Max observed. He didn’t bother to take a seat, he simply walked forward, placed his hands flat on Eddington’s desk, and leaned in. When he spoke again, his tone was pitched low, lethal and heavy with warning. “I’ve come to tell you that Violet is now my wife and you will stay far, far away from her. Whatever Faustian bargains you have struck with the Cavenders, she is mine and I will protect her at all costs.”
Eddington leaned back in his chair, a smirk twisting his thin lips in such a way that it bared his teeth, giving him a skeletal appearance. “I have no notion what you mean, Alstead. I’ve no interest in your little country bride. Now, your late wife… Katherine, wasn’t it? Now she was a beauty. Certainly more than enough to tempt a man.”
Max didn’t take the bait. He knew well that Eddington and Katherine had indulged in an affair. But he didn’t care. He’d never really cared, more’s the pity. “You may be able to convince others of that, but I know the truth. I know that you were sniffing after her when she was little more than a child. I know that you loaned Nigel Cavender money for the sole purpose of demanding access to Violet as part of the repayment. And I’ll be damned to hell and back before you ever touch her.”
Eddington crossed his arms over his thin chest, cocking his head in challenge. “And what will you do if I touch her? Murder me in cold blood? Challenge me to a duel? You’re far too upstanding for such actions, Alstead.”
“I’ll do whatever I have to do, Eddington, and it’s best you remember that… When it comes to Violet, there are no rules I won’t bend, no laws I won’t break, and no sins I will balk at committing in order to protect her.”
With that, Max turned and walked away. He’d just reached the door when Eddington called out, “Katherine was quite the wild one, Alstead. You know I wasn’t her only lover, don’t you?”
Max looked back at him. “I’m aware. And I couldn’t care less. But Katherine isn’t Violet and I’ll not warn you again.”
Leaving Eddington’s home, he mounted his horse once more and made for home. It was a short ride. No more than seven miles. The only thing separating his estate from Eddington’s was Wellston. Eddington wanted Violet because she’d had the audacity to defy him, but also because she was the key to getting what he wanted—the creek that ran through his estate and also through Wellston. Not because he needed access to the water, but because he intended to dam the creek and destroy crops and livestock to starve out the tenants. All for the sake of petty vengeance.
If there was one thing he was entirely certain of, it was that Eddington wasn’t done. Their war was just beginning.