Page 28 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A s the dusk deepened into an opaque veil of darkness, Max and Nigel pressed on through the thick undergrowth of the forest, their lanterns casting eerie shadows among the gnarled trees. The urgency of their mission lent speed to their steps, yet the vastness of the woods seemed to mock their efforts with its silence and secrets.
Nigel, wracked with guilt over his past complicity and now driven by a newfound resolve to set things right, moved slightly ahead of Max, his eyes scouring the ground for any sign of Violet. The tension in the air was palpable, each snapped twig or the rustle of leaves sending jolts of alarm through their tense frames.
Suddenly, Nigel's foot caught on something softer than the hard-packed earth—a shallow indentation in the forest bed. He paused, his heart hammering in his chest as he pulled back enough to take it all in. The depression in the leaves and soil was unmistakably human-shaped, as if someone had been laid there or had fallen heavily. He knelt for a closer examination and his fingers brushed against leaves that were sticky with drying blood. A cold dread settled over him as he realized the gravity of his find.
Before he could call out to Max, a rustling sound from behind made him turn sharply. Lord Eddington emerged from the shadows, his face a mask of cold fury, his eyes gleaming with malevolence in the lantern light.
"Nigel," Eddington hissed, his voice low and threatening. "You should not have changed allegiances.”
“She lives,” Nigel said. “Or you would not still be here.”
“For now but not for long. I’ll finish her off soon enough.”
Nigel stood slowly, facing Eddington with a defiant stare despite the fear gnawing at his gut. "It's over, Eddington. Let them be."
Eddington's response was a cruel smirk. Without another word, he lunged forward, his hand gripping the hilt of a dagger concealed in his coat. The blade flashed in the dim light, and before Nigel could react, Eddington drove it deep into his side, between the ribs, aiming with lethal precision.
The pain was sharp and immediate. Nigel gasped, his breath catching in his throat as he looked down to see the blade buried in his flesh. Even as he did so, Eddington twisted it brutally. Nigel reached out, trying to grasp Eddington, but his strength was fading fast. Eddington stepped back, pulling the knife free.
Blood poured from the wound at such a rate that Nigel knew it was well over for him. With a grimace of pain and betrayal, he sank to his knees, clutching at the wound that was rapidly staining his shirt with blood.
Eddington watched for a moment, his expression unreadable, then turned and disappeared back into the darkness of the woods, leaving Nigel alone. The forest seemed to close in around him, the sounds of the night now a distant echo as his vision began to blur. He fell forward onto the cold ground, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.
Alstead, having apparently heard the scuffle, called out, "Nigel!" But by the time he reached him, Nigel was lying motionless, the life ebbing from his body with each shallow, labored breath. Max knelt beside him, horror etched across his face as he realized what had happened.
“I will get help,” Alstead offered.
“No… too late,” Nigel said, his breath gurgling a bit as blood filled his lungs. As he watched Alstead’s face he saw that terrible truth reflected back at him. They both knew death was claiming him. But there was one last thing. “She lives… he’s looking… for her.”
“Save your breath, man. If you must speak, it should be to the Lord. Hedge your bets, Cavender. Beg forgiveness while you can.”
Nigel began to pray, silently. He no longer had the strength to utter the words, so he spoke them with his heart. A heart filled with bitter regrets. He would leave the world behind and meet his maker, to face whatever perdition had planned for him. And no one would miss him in the slightest.
The killing of Nigel had been an impulse, a sudden and violent reaction to the fear of his plans being exposed. As Nigel had stumbled upon the scene, a moment of weakness on Eddington's part had turned into an opportunity—a way to silence one more threat. While he had not planned to spill blood so recklessly, he found no regret festering in his heart. It was, after all, a necessary correction.
Now, as he stood alone amidst the encroaching darkness of the woods, Eddington knew he needed to evolve his strategy. His mind, ever resourceful and cunning, began to weave a new narrative—one that could potentially save him and ruin others.
He decided he would plant insidious whispers in the right ears, rumors designed to scandalize and horrify. He would suggest that Violet, driven by a secret and illicit passion, had been involved with Nigel. In his fabricated tale, Max, the Duke of Alstead, upon discovering this supposed betrayal, would be portrayed as a man overcome by a violent rage, leading to tragic consequences.
"Evidence" would be carefully laid to support this narrative: a few of Violet's personal items near Nigel's body, perhaps a letter artfully forged to hint at a clandestine meeting. By the time he was done, Eddington planned to have it appear that Max, whether duke or not, could not escape the stain of murder.
But first, he needed to find Violet. The thought of her, lost somewhere in these vast woods, possibly seeking help, spurred his anxiety further. He had to find her, and when he did, he would have to silence her—permanently. Only then could his tale hold any weight. Only then could he ensure his own survival while casting Max into the depths of scandal and suspicion.
With a grim set to his jaw, Eddington began to move through the woods again, his eyes scanning the darkening landscape for any sign of Violet. Each rustle of the leaves, each snap of a twig underfoot heightened his alertness. The forest had become a labyrinth, and in its shadows, the stakes were life or death—not just for Violet, but for himself as well.
As he moved, his plan crystalized, each detail sharpening into focus. It was a dangerous game he played, but desperation lent him a reckless kind of courage. If all went as he envisioned, he would emerge unscathed, his reputation intact and his adversaries destroyed. The alternative was not worth considering. It was a risk he was willing to take, for he had too much to lose and everything to gain.