Page 45 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
“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.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Violet's breath came in ragged gasps as she staggered toward the very edge of the dense forest, her body aching and her mind swirling with fear and exhaustion. The last slivers of dusk turned the sky a cacophony of colors, but darkness was coming. It would be upon her at any time. No sooner had she thought that than she finally cleared the last of the trees. Just ahead of her lay the looming structure of Wellston Hall, like a specter from the mist.
Panic tightened its grip on her heart. Wellston Hall—the last place she wanted to be. Disoriented as she’d been, she’d gone the wrong way through the woods. Now, there she was, looking at her childhood home with a sense of dread. It was almost as if she’d been drawn to it by some cruel twist of fate. Memories of her relatives’ betrayal and the cold calculations they’d been carrying out against her flashed through her mind. She couldn't, she wouldn't enter that house again. The woods, as dark and uncertain as they were, offered a better sanctuary than the walls that had once conspired in her ruin.
With a shuddering breath, Violet turned to retreat back into the relative safety of the trees, to hide herself until dawn when she could make her way to Alstead Manor, to Max. But as shepivoted on her heel, a figure emerged from the shadows of the woods, a sinister silhouette materialized as if conjured by her fears.
Eddington stood there, his expression unreadable in the dim light, a knife in his hand gleaming with a dark, viscous liquid. Blood. Her heart plummeted into despair.
"Violet," Eddington called out, his voice eerily calm. "I'm afraid Max will no longer be offering you sanctuary."
Her breath caught in her throat. "What have you done?" she whispered a dreadful realization dawning on her.
"I've ensured he won't interfere with our plans," Eddington replied smoothly, stepping closer. "He's gone, Violet. I'm sorry it had to come to this."
Violet's mind raced, terror and disbelief warring within her. She didn't—couldn't—believe Max was dead. Something inside her, some tether of connection that she felt with Max, pulsed still with life. It had to be a lie. It must be.
Then, through the stillness of the night, a voice called out, piercing the veil of her fear. "Violet! Where are you?"
It was Max. Alive. Relief flooded through her, followed swiftly by a surge of urgent fear. He was close, so terribly close, and Eddington was between them with a knife still wet with blood.
Without thinking, she acted. "Eddington is here! He’s armed!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, hoping her voice would carry through the trees to Max.
Eddington cursed under his breath, his eyes narrowing into slits of fury. "Foolish girl," he hissed, and lunged toward her.
Violet turned to run, her legs pumping as fast as they could carry her, but she was weak, disoriented, and slow. Eddington was quicker, fueled by rage and desperation. He crashed into her from behind, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Violethit the hard-packed earth with terrible force, the impact driving the air from her lungs.
As she struggled to catch her breath, the cold, hard ground beneath her, and Eddington's looming figure above, Violet knew she had to survive, had to escape. She needed to warn Max, to save him, as he had come to save her.
But as Eddington raised his knife, all Violet could see was the glint of moonlight on the blade, and all she could hope for was a miracle.
The forest was eerily silent as Max emerged from the dense thicket, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. The last rays of the setting sun filtered through the trees, casting long shadows that stretched like dark fingers across the ground. His eyes scanned the clearing ahead, and his breath caught at the sight before him.
Violet lay on the ground, her body tense and struggling beneath the weight of Eddington, who knelt over her with a knife raised high. The blade, slick with blood, caught the dying light, creating a sinister glint that sent a chill down Max's spine.
Without a moment's hesitation, Max pulled a brace of pistols from his coat pockets. His hands were steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins—a testament to his skill and calm under pressure. He aimed quickly, knowing that Violet's life hung in the balance and that his shot needed to count.
The pistol cracked loudly in the quiet of the evening, a sound that echoed off the trees like a promise of retribution. The ball struck Eddington in the shoulder, causing him to falter but notfall. Violet seized the momentary lapse to wriggle beneath him, trying desperately to escape his grasp.
