Page 47 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
“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.
Chapter Thirty
In the comfort of Alstead Manor’s grand drawing room, Max and Violet recounted the harrowing events that had unfolded over the past weeks to the local magistrate—a man accustomed to the dramas of the countryside but unprepared for the tale of deceit and peril that unfolded before him.
Violet, with a composed demeanor that belied the ordeal she had endured, began by detailing the elaborate ruse concocted by Nigel and Ethella. She described how they had falsely declared her brother dead and introduced an impostor to impersonate him, all to seize control of her family’s estate. Max continued the narrative, explaining the sinister intentions of Lord Eddington, who had schemed to marry Violet himself, making their hurried marriage not only a matter of the heart but a crucial shield against the dire threat of such a confirmed and lecherous predator.
As they delved deeper into the story, revealing Eddington’s ultimate act of desperation—absconding with what he thought was Violet’s corpse, only to discover she was very much alive—the magistrate’s initial nods of understanding gave way to a furrowed brow of concern. The tale took a darker turn as theyrecounted the confrontation in the woods, Nigel’s tragic end at Eddington’s hands, and Max’s lethal response to save his wife.
By the time they finished, the magistrate sat back, his expression one of quiet shock, almost as if he’d seen a ghost. His once peaceful domain had been rocked by scheming, subterfuge, and immorality. “This is a quagmire,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Too complex, too scandalous. It would be a circus if there is a formal inquest.”
“I wasn’t aware there was any option other than a formal inquest,” Max remarked.
“It requires a bit of imagination, your grace, but after some thought, I do believe I have worked it all out in my head.”
“Do go on,” Violet encouraged him.
