Page 27 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
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.
Chapter Fourteen
It was nearing dusk, and Max had been consumed with his thoughts of the visit from Major Smythe that afternoon. He had returned to his study, where he’d sat brooding in front of the fire, but no amount of whiskey or logic had succeeded in driving away the image of Violet’s face—drawn, uncertain, and more vulnerable than he had ever seen it.
It unnerved him.
Not because he believed she was fragile—Violet Honeywell, now Violet Able, had never been fragile. But because he had always thought of her as impervious. She had been born into a world that far too often condescended to women, yet she had always fought back, always laughed in the face of men like Nigel, and always wielded her wit like a blade. He’d watched her face and overcome so many obstacles by sheer force of will.
And yet, in that drawing room, when confronted with the possibility of James’ death…
She had been undone.
It had cracked something open inside him. Something that prompted him to set aside the distance he’d been trying so desperately to keep between them. He needed to see her, asmuch to reassure her of James’ continued well-being as to reassure himself of hers.
Max left the study, moving through the meandering corridors of Alstead Manor with purpose, stopping only to demand from a passing maid, “Where is my wife currently?”
