Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

Charles studied the chess board perched on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin. Of the three of them, his brother David was the best player, as much as Charles hated to admit it. David was ruthless, always on the offense. Uncle Selby was a thinker. He took his time, reevaluating his strategy as the board changed. But Charles was certain he could have this match ended in as little as four moves.

It had been a busy day. Charles woke early and ran several errands on his uncle’s behalf. He made a few house calls with the sickest and the most attentive of Finchley’s parishioners. There was old lady Cole, who suffered cruelly from a weak heart, but always served the most divine apple cinnamon scones. She hugged Charles tight and talked at him for over an hour before he made his escape.

Then he stopped by the Parker’s and the Trent’s, staying a mere quarter of an hour with each family, praying over the ill and giving a few comforting words to the family.

Uncle Selby tried to join him, but it was out of the question. Molly railed at the very idea. Apparently, mornings were when he was at his weakest. Charles saw the way his hands shook as he tried to tie his own cravat. Molly tisked at him, batting his hands away as she did it herself.

“It is your turn, sir,” he said gently, his eyes leaving the board to glance up at Uncle Selby.

“Hmm,” was his uncle’s only reply, his lips pursed as he studied the board. He slowly reached forward, trying to reach for a black knight. As he lifted it, his hand wobbled, toppling the pawns to either side. “Oh, damn—”

“It’s okay,” Charles murmured, reaching to right the pieces.

“I’ve got it.” But he didn’t. He set the knight down and that knocked over the white bishop. “Damn—”

Charles sat back, fighting his sudden tears, watching as the ailing old man tried to right the chess pieces with shaking hands. The clock on the mantle dinged and Charles glanced over. Five o’clock already. “Do you still eat supper at six, sir?”

“It’s Thursday,” Uncle Selby grunted, carefully righting the last piece on the board.

“And?” Charles replied with a raised brow. “Oh, right,” he said with a soft laugh. “Thursdays you dine at the great house. Are you feeling well enough to attend?”

“Not hardly,” Uncle Selby replied with a wistful sigh. “Though, your timing is perfect. You’ll go in my stead and make my apologies to the duchess.”

Charles leaned back in his chair. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Of course, you will,” Uncle Selby countered with a wave. “No finer dining in the country. And you know how fond they all are of you. I dare say your company will be a welcome relief compared with this tired old bag of bones.”

Frustration churned in Charles’s gut. Not that he had anything against the Duke of Norland or his family. Quite the contrary, in fact. Charles met the new duchess a few years ago when he was last home. That was before she was married. He thought her kind, and pretty as a picture. If his memory served, she was like him—no birth, no connections, and not two shillings to rub together.

The duke must have been truly besotted to run off and marry her. When Charles heard the news, Lord James had grown in his estimation (not that the man didn’t still frighten him). Lord James—His Grace now—had always been a man of such action and intensity. He was a few years older than Charles. Even as a lad, he never sat still, always hunting, fishing, and riding out. His opinions were as strong as his gaze. Charles always had a feeling of being scolded when the man set his eyes on him. It was strange to think of a free spirit like Rosalie Harrow marrying such a man, but that was her own business.

Regardless, the Corbin’s were decidedly not the reason he was reluctant to dine at the great house. Charles turned his attention back to his uncle. “I don’t wish to dine at Alcott, Uncle. I have come home to see you—”

“And so you have,” his uncle said with a soft laugh. “Now, be off with you and change yourself. You know they always dress smart for dinner.”

It appeared that even in his weakened state, Uncle Selby could still be a bully. He was determined to have his way in this. Charles would just have to suffer through it. If he was careful, he could avoid any unnecessary complications.

With a groan, he stood. “I will go, sir, but I will check in on you when I return,” he added, voice stern. “I mean to be a dutiful nephew while I’m here.”

Uncle Selby nodded, holding his gaze over his wire-rimmed glasses. “A word of caution?”

Charles raised a brow in silent question, waiting, knowing what was coming.

Selby looked through him in that way of his, seeing down to the depths of him. “Best to avoid wandering the park at this time of night, eh? There and back again is safest.”

Charles tried very hard to control his features. He gave his waistcoat a little tug. “Yes, sir.”

“Good lad. Now, off you go.”