Page 14 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Thirteen

T he afternoon light streamed through the tall windows of Alstead’s drawing room, illuminating the rich wood paneling and casting a soft glow over the elegant furnishings. It was a beautiful day, and that bright sunshine mocked her and her dark mood. The dark mood that had been born after Max had pushed her away and called their kiss a mistake. One that would never be repeated.

Now an hour later, trying to put those thoughts from her mind, Violet sat in one of the delicate rosewood chairs of the drawing room. Her hands clenched together in her lap, her gaze fixed upon the stranger before her. Major Lionel Smythe, with truly horrendous timing, had come to call.

The man was not as she had imagined him.

When Nigel had first mentioned the supposed officer who had written of James’s death, she had pictured someone more imposing. A seasoned soldier, broad-shouldered and battle-worn, his presence commanding.

Instead, the man before her was thin and gangly, with a too-eager smile and shifty, restless eyes. He wore the uniform of His Majesty’s army, but it was too crisp, too new, as though it had been donned for show rather than duty. Ut gad clearly never seen battle. Was it a replacement? Had his other uniform been damaged in battle? It was all so very odd.

Something about him unsettled her, though she could not quite determine why. Max, however, had already decided. That much was clear from his posture. He sat stiffly beside her, his expression unreadable save for the slight tick in his jaw, a sure sign that he was deeply irritated.

Major Smythe leaned forward, his voice low and solemn.

“It was a terrible tragedy, Miss Honeywell.” He paused, then coughed awkwardly. “That is… Your Grace.”

Violet barely registered the correction. She was too focused on his words, on the rising unease creeping into her bones.

She swallowed hard. “Tell me,” she said.

The major’s gaze darted briefly to Max, then back to her. “Your brother… he died with great honor.” He exhaled dramatically, as though recalling some harrowing scene. “He was struck down in battle—ambushed by the French in the hills outside Ciudad Rodrigo.”

Violet frowned. “But James was not supposed to be near Ciudad Rodrigo. He was stationed with Wellington’s forces much farther south.”

Major Smythe’s lips parted slightly, as if surprised she knew that. Then, too quickly, he composed himself. “Ah, yes, well… He was reassigned at the last moment. An urgent matter of reconnaissance.” He nodded emphatically, as though convincing himself.

Max exhaled sharply. “How convenient,” he muttered.

Violet shot him a warning look, though truth be told, she had similar doubts. Still, she pressed on. “You were with him when it happened?”

Smythe nodded, his expression melancholy. “Indeed. I was at his side as he breathed his last.”

Her throat tightened. “And he… he sent word to me?”

Smythe sighed heavily, as though this pained him greatly. “Yes. Even in his final moments, his thoughts were only of you. He pleaded with me—begged me, even—to ensure that his dear sister did not receive the news from a stranger He gave me your cousin’s name and urged me to contact him.” He placed a hand dramatically to his chest. “It was the least I could do for a fallen comrade.”

Max’s fingers curled into a fist on the armrest of his chair.

“Touching,” he said flatly.

Violet’s stomach twisted. There was something… off about all of this. James was many things, but he was not sentimental. He had always been pragmatic, and logical to a fault. The idea that he had spent his final breaths pleading for her emotional well-being seemed… unlike him. That he would have entrusted such a thing to Nigel? Well, that defied all reason.

And yet.

If it was true—if he was truly gone—then James had been thinking of her. The last of her family, gone forever. A lump rose in her throat, and she blinked hard, forcing it down.

“I—” she started, but her voice caught on the words.

Max’s gaze flicked to her, his expression softening ever so slightly, though his voice remained cool when he spoke.

“Major Smythe,” he said, tone light but sharp as a blade, “forgive my curiosity, but I find it rather odd that no official report has reached us. As you well know, letters from officers confirming deaths are standard procedure.” He smiled blandly. “And yet, your letter was the only word we received.”

Smythe blinked rapidly, clearly unprepared for the question. “Ah, well, His Majesty’s army is rather—how shall we say?—disorganized when it comes to bureaucracy.”

Max’s smile widened, though it did not reach his eyes. “Indeed? I enlisted myself many years ago. Saw battle and lived to tell the tale. I have never known the British Army to fail in the one area it prides itself on so greatly… its efficiency.”

Smythe laughed nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Well, of course. But with the chaos of war, things do tend to get lost.”

Max hummed noncommittally.

Violet’s heart thudded unevenly. Was Max right? Was this man lying? She wanted to believe James was alive. Desperately. And yet, what if he wasn’t? She could not bear to hope only to have it crushed.

Smythe shifted uneasily. “I understand this is difficult,” he said, his voice oily with feigned sympathy. “But I felt it my duty to come in person, to offer my sincerest condolences.”

Max leaned forward slightly, his presence looming, commanding.

“Yes,” he said, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. “And I find that very… curious.”

Smythe stiffened.

Max continued, his expression pleasant but edged with warning. “Because it seems to me that a man who fought and bled beside James would know—undoubtedly—that his dear sister is not some delicate, fragile creature in need of comforting words, but rather a woman who would demand facts. Solid, verifiable facts.”

Violet exhaled sharply, her spine straightening. Max was right. James knew her. James would know that empty reassurances and romanticized retellings were of no use to her.

Smythe sputtered slightly, looking from Max to Violet as if considering a hasty retreat.

Violet’s voice was cold, steady when she finally spoke. “You will, of course, understand if I require further confirmation.”

Smythe forced a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Ah, yes. Of course.”

Max leaned back, satisfied. “Then I suggest you provide it, Major. Until then, I trust you understand that your word alone is rather… insufficient.”

Smythe’s jaw ticked, as he swallowed convulsively. Nervously. But then he forced a nod. “Of course. I… I shall send word when I receive additional reports.”

Max smiled coolly. “Yes. Do be sure to do that.”

Violet watched as Smythe muttered another half-hearted condolence before making a hasty departure.

She exhaled sharply, her head pounding.

Max stood, his movements calculated and controlled. “He was lying,” he said flatly.

Violet swallowed. “You don’t know that.”

Max turned to her, pinning her with that piercing blue gaze. “Yes,” he said, voice uncompromising. “I do.”

She folded her arms, looking away. “And what if you’re wrong?”

“I am not.”

Violet closed her eyes, willing the aching uncertainty in her chest to settle. She wanted to believe Max. But if she did—if Smythe had been lying—then James was still out there. And that meant he needed her. Needed them.

Max must have seen the struggle on her face, because his voice gentled, just slightly. “We will find the truth,” he said.

Violet took a slow breath, then nodded. Because no matter what happened next— She would not stop until she had answers.