Page 2 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter One

Alstead Manor

T here were only two circumstances under which Violet Honeywell would voluntarily call upon Maxwell Able, Duke of Alstead. The first would be if every other man in England perished in a sudden and catastrophic event, leaving Max the only person left to speak to. The second would be precisely this sort of wretched circumstance, in which she required his assistance in a matter of grave importance and had no other reasonable alternative.

Neither scenario was particularly pleasing to her. Thus, it was with a most unladylike scowl that she rapped upon the grand doors of Alstead Manor, half-expecting them to collapse under the force of her irritation.

The butler—a serious, long-suffering man who had endured the strange and tumultuous relationship between Violet and his master for many years—opened the door.

“Miss Honeywell,” he intoned with only the barest lift of his brow.

“I need to see his grace. Immediately.”

The butler did not look impressed.

Violet exhaled sharply, stepping inside and closing the doors behind her. She had spent enough of her childhood in this house that she required no direction.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“In his study, Miss Honeywell,” the butler answered with the patience of a saint, already stepping aside as she marched unapologetically down the corridor.

“Of course he is,” she muttered. Where else would Maxwell Able, the most infuriating man in all of England, be but brooding in his study, avoiding society, and doing whatever it was dukes with questionable personalities did in their leisure time?

She reached the door, did not wait to be announced, and threw it open.

Inside, Max was precisely where she had expected him, seated at his great mahogany desk, a glass of brandy in hand, a ledger open before him, and an expression of supreme displeasure at the sight of her.

He sighed heavily, as though her very existence had just given him a headache. “Violet.”

“Maxwell,” she returned, equally unamused.

“I assume you have come to disturb my peace.”

“While I hate to rob you of your usual miserable solitude,” she quipped. “I do, sadly, require your assistance.”

He set his glass down, rubbing his temple as though bracing for the worst. “Must we do this right now?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He sighed again, gesturing for her to continue. “Very well. Inflict your grievances upon me.”

She ignored his exaggerated martyrdom and folded her arms. “Nigel and Aunt Ethella have descended upon Wellston like a pair of ill-bred carrion crows with the dubious proclamation that James is dead.”

Max’s entire demeanor changed. The amusement in his gaze vanished instantly, replaced by something sharp and unreadable. He straightened in his chair, his posture suddenly rigid. “That is impossible.”

“Yes,” Violet agreed, gritting her teeth. “And yet, that did not stop those odious fiends from arriving at my doorstep this morning, claiming they had a letter from an officer confirming James’s death.”

Max’s fingers curled into a fist. “Did they present proof?”

“No.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

She could see it—the way his mind was already calculating the logistics of such a claim, dissecting it for weaknesses.

Then he exhaled sharply. “And why, precisely, do you think they are making such a claim?”

Violet arched a brow. “Oh, I don’t know, Max. Perhaps because if James were declared legally dead, Nigel would inherit everything?”

Max’s jaw clenched. “And you would be left with nothing.”

She let out a bark of laughter. “How very astute of you.”

His gaze darkened further. “You believe they mean to forge documents?”

“I believe they are exactly the sort of people who would forge documents, bribe officials, and even resort to murdering their own relatives if it served their cause,” she stated firmly.

Max rubbed a hand down his face, looking as though he deeply regretted being involved in this conversation. Flatly, he asked, “And what, precisely, do you want from me?”

Violet lifted her chin. “Help me prove that James yet lives.”

Silence.

Max stared at her, his blue eyes unreadable. Then he leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk.

“This could take weeks,” he said at last.

“I am well aware.”

“It may require bribes, correspondence, travel?—”

“Yes, Maxwell, I am familiar with the concept of effort,” she snapped.

His lip twitched, but he wisely did not smirk. Instead, he exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple again. “And if, by some horrendous misfortune, they actually possess proof of James’s demise?”

Violet’s stomach twisted painfully. She swallowed hard, lifting her chin. “Then I shall believe it when I see it from someone who does not stand to gain from his death.”

Max studied her for a long moment. Then, with great reluctance, he nodded. “Very well.”

She exhaled, only just realizing how much she had been holding her breath. But before she could thank him, he tilted his head, his expression turning wickedly smug.

“This means, of course,” he mused, “that I shall be in a position of immense favor over you.”

She scowled instantly. “I take it back. I do not require your help.”

“Too late.”

She glared at him. “You are insufferable.”

“I am aware.”

“You will use this against me at every possible opportunity.”

“Oh, without a doubt,” he said cheerfully.

She inhaled sharply, thoroughly regretting this entire conversation. Then, before she changed her mind, she turned on her heel and strode for the door.

Behind her, Max called, “Shall I expect you for tea tomorrow, or will you be suffering my presence in some other way?”

She slammed the door behind her in response.