Page 30 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)
Chapter Twenty-Nine
T hey had reached Alstead at long last. Violet trembled from the exertion and likely from the lingering fear, though she was loathe to admit it. They did not go immediately to their chamber, instead Max carried her into the study. Once there, he left her for a moment, speaking in hushed tones to the butler. A few words in their whispered conversation stood out to her. Their bodies. Theirs. Who else had Eddington killed?
He turned back to her, closing the distance. Then he sank to his knees before the chair where he’d placed her. "I thought I had lost you. That I had failed you in some unforgivable way," he confessed, his voice breaking as he pulled her into his arms. He held her close, as if he feared what might happen should he let her go. Muffled against her hair, he uttered one heartbreaking phrase. “I thought I had failed you.”
Violet wrapped her arms tightly around him, her own body still trembling from the shock and the residual fear. "No, Max, you didn’t fail me," she murmured, her voice steady despite the tremors that ran through her. "You came for me. You saved me." Her assurance was firm, meant to soothe both his fears and her own.
They stayed like that for a moment, in the middle of his study, servants coming in and out to deposit bandages and poultices. They didn’t notice but continued holding each other in a desperate embrace. Max felt a swell of emotions he had never anticipated—a mixture of fear, relief, and a burgeoning realization of how deeply his feelings for Violet had rooted.
As he slightly pulled away to look at her, the last rays of the setting sun struck the windows, casting long shadows on the floor. But the light struck his face, highlighting the chiseled perfection to be found there. But it was the look in his eyes and the conviction in his voice that held her in sway. "Violet, Nigel told me you were dead.”
“Nigel?”
Max nodded. “Yes. He didn’t have much of a conscience, but enough of one that he balked at murdering you in cold blood. He came here to tell me that Eddington had carted you away from our garden, thinking you dead.”
“I very nearly was,” she stated. “Where is Nigel now, Max?”
He looked away from her. “He’s in the woods, where Eddington first left you.”
“Is he—?” She broke off, unable to ask the question.
“Yes, Violet. He’s gone. Eddington stabbed him with that blasted knife… twisting it in such a way that there was no hope of survival. He was bleeding too rapidly.”
Violet knew that she ought to feel more at his death than she did. In the end, he’d tried to help her, after all. But it was too little and far too late. Had Nigel’s father lived, had Ethella not been such a wretched human being, he might have fared better in life. As a boy, there had been moments of sweetness, moments where his true heart had shown—but Ethella had stamped that out with her conniving ways and her cold disapproval.
“Did he… I hope he had a moment to ask for forgiveness,” she managed.
“He did,” Max assured her. “The very last thing he did, Violet, was to tell me you lived. That Eddington, contrary to what he’d told them earlier, had not actually killed you. When I went into those woods with him, it was not to rescue you. Our intent, at that time, was simply to recover your body. Had it not been for Nigel’s change of heart, today’s outcome would have been terribly different. In ways that I cannot bear to think of anymore.”
She shuddered. “I cannot think how awful that must have been for you.”
“It no longer bears consideration. Because you are here. You are home with me where you belong… and I may never let you out of my sight again.”
A moment later, the study door opened and Hampton, lounging in a silk-lined basket with his tail wagging, was carried in by a footman. A hero’s entrance.
“Your dog, Violet, mangy mongrel that he may be,” Max said, “Shall live out the remainder of his days in the lap of luxury. A reward well deserved.”
More memories of Eddington’s attack came back to her by the second, including Hampton’s attempts to protect her. “He was a very brave boy.”
“Give him a few pats and then upstairs with you… to bed. We’ll send for the physician and have him take a look at your head. I won’t be satisfied until I’ve been assured by him that you are well.”
“I don’t want the physician. I am fine… and if you will take me to bed, Max, I will prove it to you.”
Heat flared in his eyes, but was quickly tamped down. “You are a menace, Violet. And you will not use your wiles to avoid examination by a competent doctor… No matter how much you may detest being fussed over.”
“Max—”
“Hush. If not for your own benefit, do it for mine. I’ve lost ten years off my life today courtesy of Eddington and his viciousness. Give me the peace of mind to be had from a thorough exam,” he insisted. “And afterward, presuming the doctor says you are fit enough, I will show you precisely how happy I am to have you home.”
Sighing in capitulation, Violet offered her reluctant agreement. “Fine. I’ll tolerate the man’s presence. But only for you.”
In the dimly lit drawing room of Wellston Hall, Ethella sat absorbed in the management of estate affairs, her mind far from the familial bonds that might have concerned another in her position. It pained her to admit that Violet was a shockingly competent manager of the family holdings. It would be the only praise she would ever offer her niece.
The quiet evening was shattered by the urgent arrival of footmen from Alstead Manor, their faces somber, their steps heavy with the weight of grim news. As they entered, laying a solemn burden before her, Ethella rose to meet the moment not with maternal grief but with a chilling detachment. The body of her son Nigel was placed gently on the floor, his lifeless face illuminated by the flickering candlelight.
Ethella's gaze upon her son's body was devoid of warmth, her mind swiftly calculating the implications of his demise. Nigel had been a continuous disappointment, she reflected coldly. Perhaps in death, he might finally prove useful, securing me a measure of sympathy from our peers.
"What happened to him?" Ethella inquired, her voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil such an event might typically evoke.
"It was Lord Eddington who murdered him, in the woods near Alstead," one footman explained, clearly uneasy under her icy scrutiny.
A subtle relief washed over Ethella, not for the tragic end of her son but for the resolution of a more practical concern. If Eddington had murdered him so callously, then the debt would be extinguished. How long had it been since she’d been free of such obligations? Another glance at Nigel’s lifeless form. It was a pity and a shame that he’d been such a weak and foolish boy. His life had been wasted. But now with his debts—free of any debts to repay or messes to clean up after him—he might prove useful at least, she thought with a brutal pragmatism. Nigel's death, though harsh, relieved her of the financial burdens his reckless behavior continually wrought. And it would have the added benefit of garnering sympathy for her, presuming she could keep the whole truth from coming out.
“Where is Eddington now? In custody?” An inquest would have to occur, one where she could play the part of the grieving mother to its fullest advantage.
The footman shook his head. “No, ma’am. The Duke of Alstead then killed Lord Eddington in defense of her grace, the Duchess. Some of the stable lads are returning his remains to Colcrest, where his family—if he has any—may make his arrangements.”
"And the Duke?" she pressed, her thoughts already turning to potential social repercussions and her next moves within their tight-knit community.
"He is unharmed, ma'am," the footman reassured. "He acted to protect the Duchess from harm."
Ethella nodded, her only flicker of emotion being a brief flash of annoyance. She would not be able to remain there. If Alstead and Violet both yet lived, they would make things difficult for her. But she could at least return to London a free woman courtesy of her son's final gift to her—a balanced ledger.
"Very well," Ethella commanded with an air of finality, her mind already moving past the death laid out before her. "Summon the undertaker. I wish to be bothered with this as little as possible. Ensure everything is handled appropriately and discreetly."
As the footmen withdrew, bearing Nigel's body away, Ethella settled back into her chair. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she considered the sympathy her son’s untimely demise might evoke among her social circles. Each condolence would be cataloged, each gesture of kindness noted—not for sentiment, but for strategy. In the game of social standings, even grief could be a tool, and Ethella intended to use it to its fullest advantage.
Tonight’s events, though tragic, were not insurmountable. While others might falter at such junctures, Ethella saw the opportunity it could present for her—cold, perhaps, but necessary in the intricate dance of power and prestige that was the basis of London society.