Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

Madeline went still as stone, eyes wide. Her father was here. He’d traveled through a winter storm to rip her from the house and challenge the Duke of Norland to a duel.

“I cannot possibly deal with this now,” James muttered, turning his attention back to his wife.

“James, you have to go,” Rosalie said, her voice weak. “You have to say something. Calm him down.”

“My place is here,” he replied, smoothing a hand through her dark hair. “I’m not leaving you, angel. Not until Doctor Rivers arrives and assures us all is well.”

“What shall I do with him then, Your Grace?” asked the housekeeper.

“Tell him to get bloody lost,” growled Mr. Burke.

“No,” Rosalie cried. “Please, don’t make this any worse. One of you must go. For Madeline—you must call him down—”

“I will go,” Madeline murmured, finding her voice at last.

They all turned to face her.

Rosalie gave her a knowing look. “Madeline, you don’t have to let him bully you.”

“You are our guest,” James added. “He is not. Handle him however you see fit. Mrs. Davies, see that she has all she requires.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Madeline followed Mrs. Davies out of the duchess’ room and into the hallway.

“Oh, Lady Madeline, your father is ever so angry,” the housekeeper murmured. “He’s been calling curses down on the house.”

Madeline stiffened, lifting in chin in quiet defiance. “Yes, I can imagine.”

“And there’s a young man with him.”

Madeline halted. “What?”

“A young gentleman traveled with him from town. I didn’t get his name, but they both wait below. The poor man seems afraid of the viscount—”

“Patrick,” Madeline said on a breath, rushing towards the stairs.

Oh, what had she done? She’d been so reckless to think of leaving, not caring for what might happen to Patrick after she left. She hurried to the front of the house, where the main entryway opened up from top to bottom, the stairs spiraling down to the black and white marble floor below. Generations of Corbin’s adorned the walls in gilded frames, stacking up to the very top of the domed ceiling.

As she reached the railing’s edge, she heard him.

“Norland! Get down here, you bastard! You bloody coward! Bring me my daughter!”

The sound of her father’s ire had Madeline’s stomach twisting in knots. She’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid hearing that tone in his voice—never stepping a toe out of line, never talking back or disagreeing with him. So long as he got what he wanted, he was charm itself, all friendliness and ease. But this was the Viscount Raleigh when he did not get his way. He became like a decidedly angry bull in a china shop.

She placed her hands on the rail, gazing down. Her father paced across the marble floor, calling up more insults. He was a big man—not unlike Mr. Burke in height and width of the shoulder—but he was not nearly so fit as Mr. Burke. Perhaps when he was a younger man. Now he had a stomach stretched tight under a waistcoat and jacket. His hair was grey, with long chops framing his face.

Steeling herself, she called down. “Father!”

His gaze darted up to her. “Madeline! Get the hell down here right now, you wretched creature! Come to me at once!”

A shadow moved in the corner and Patrick stepped forward, his tousled blonde hair as messy as ever as he gazed up at her. From here, she couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face.

“And where the hell is Norland? I mean to call the blackguard out!” her father shouted.

Madeline pushed back from the rail, glancing over at Mrs. Davies. The housekeeper gave her a sympathetic nod. Taking a deep breath, Madeline began her descent down the stairs. Her hand slid across the top of the stone banister as she descended into the lion’s den. She took the last set of stairs, facing her father with every step, inching closer to him. She stopped three from the bottom.

“Father…”

He stormed forward, his light blue eyes flashing with malice. “Do you have any idea the expense you’ve cost me? Hunting you down across all corners of England…to say nothing of the mortification you’ve put your mother through! The scandal, the shame!”

She stiffened, trying to summon all her courage.

“Well? Speak!” he barked. “What excuse can you possibly give?”

Before she could reply, Patrick stepped forward out of the shadows. He looked like a kicked dog, his expression solemn, his blonde hair a spiky mess. And then there was his eye…

Madeline gasped. “Oh…Patrick!” His left eye was black and blue, the bottom swollen. She spun to face her father, her fear of him evaporating and quickly being replaced with righteous anger. “Did you do that to him? Did you hurt him?”

The viscount huffed. “The little weasel is lucky it’s not worse.”

Tears burned her eyes as Patrick shrugged helplessly. “Father, how could you—”

“Because he lied to me,” her father bellowed. “He lied to his father, his brothers, your mother, a constable.”

“Rory did it,” Patrick muttered, and Madeline felt a renewed surge of loathing for her eldest cousin.

“He merely beat me to it,” her father replied. “You both acted in a manner so duplicitous, I can hardly stand to call you family. And Madeline, god help me, you will tell me why!”

“Because I wanted a chance,” she cried.

“A chance? A chance to do what?”

“A chance to live,” she replied, surprising herself with the honesty of her answer.

He huffed. “What are you on about?”

“All my life, I’ve been your perfect doll,” she shouted. “A creature entirely of your making. I never learned to ride because you said it was unladylike. I-I learned French instead of German. I dance and embroider cushions and-and play the violin,” she went on, trying to control the nervous stammer in her voice. “I have done everything you’ve ever asked me to do! Never once have I done a single thing for myself and—”

He surged forward. “You dare show yourself so ungrateful? Why…because we pampered you? Because we polished you and gave you every advantage in life—”

“You caged me,” she countered. “You beat me down with harsh words and looks and battered me. You kept me in a box! So, I escaped. I came here to Alcott so that for once in my life I could feel free!”

“This is all the duchess’s doing,” he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. “I told your mother it was wrong to indulge your friendship with that trumped up gutter snipe,” he added, waggling a thick finger in her face.

“She is my friend—”

“She is not good company to keep! Well, it ends now. Madeline, go and pack your things at once. We’re leaving. With any luck you will never see this Corbin filth again!”

Madeline’s heart sank as she glanced around the grand entryway. She didn’t want to leave. Not yet, not with everything so unsettled. She couldn’t leave Rosalie. She couldn’t leave Charles and Warren. She belonged here in a way she’d never belonged anywhere else in her life. If Madeline had it her way, she would never leave Alcott Hall again.

And then the lovely truth sank into her bones: she didn’t have to leave. She glanced over at the housekeeper, who stayed to hear this entire horrid exchange. A pair of footmen stood sentry by the door.

She lifted her chin, seeking out the deepest reserves of her courage. “Father,” she declared, her chin raised in defiance. “Rosalie Corbin is my dearest friend in all the world. And you showing up like this to demean her is most unwelcome.”

He blustered, stepping forward. “You—”

She inched back a step, raising herself above him. “Her lying in has begun, and she needs peace in her house. Calm and order. You are upsetting her, sir, and that I cannot allow.”

“I am not leaving without you—”

“You cannot make me go!” She held tighter to the banister. “I am a guest of Alcott Hall, and I will decide when I go—”

“You selfish, cruel, unfeeling girl—”

“Uncle, stop!” called Patrick, stepping forward at last.

Her father spun around on him. “You stay out of this, nephew. Or I’ll teach you another lesson in respecting your elders.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong! And neither did the duke—”

“Nothing wrong? He stole my daughter away! I am going to knock his teeth in! Norland is a man without honor. I have never been so humiliated in my life. I sent a constable here, and the man told a bold-faced lie—”

“No, he didn’t,” Madeline countered, hands on her hips.

Her father rounded back on her. “I heard from the constable myself. He asked the duke if you were here, and the villain denied it. I twisted the arm of your pathetic excuse for a cousin and finally got to the truth. Norland lied, and I mean to have my honor satisfied!”

“He did not lie,” she said again. “The constable asked for my whereabouts and the duke said that, to the best of his knowledge, I was not in the house. Which, at the time, I wasn’t!”

“Then where the bloody hell were you?” he bellowed.

Madeline shrank back, fighting the urge to bite her bottom lip. “I was…well, I was outside. So technically I was not in the house. It was no word of a lie!”

Her father processed the logic, his nostrils flaring. “Scheming snake in my garden! Honor-less lout!”

“That is quite enough, sir,” she cried. “I am a guest of His Grace, the Duke of Norland, and I will not stand here and listen to you abuse him in his own house.”

“But—”

“The duke is indisposed, sir,” she said over him. “That is all I came down here to say. His place is at his wife’s side. He will not be coming down. You can bellow the pictures out of their frames, but you will not get the satisfaction you seek.”

Her father’s face went—if possible—an even deeper shade of red. “I will call the man out. I will not let this go unremarked!”

She crossed her arms. “And what will you do? You are but a viscount. James Corbin is a duke. He outranks you, sir. Call him whatever manner of names you wish. Renounce him in the papers, mock him in your infernal club. He can weather your storm with ease.”

“You think I will leave here without you?”

“I neither know, nor care,” she replied, tears in her eyes. “My friend is having a baby and—and there are complications,” she admitted, her bottom lip quivering. “I cannot leave her without support. The storm has waylaid the doctor, and we are all frightened for her. She needs someone with knowledge of childbirth to help her. Someone who knows what to do when a baby is turned—”

She froze, her words dying on her lips.

Oh, god…oh, god!

Why hadn’t she thought of him sooner? She darted around her father calling for the footman. “Geoffrey, you need to go get Mr. Warren. Now.”

“Madeline,” her father growled, chasing after her.

The footman’s eyes went wide. “My lady?”

“You need to have Mr. Warren fetched here immediately. There’s not a moment to lose, do you understand? The duchess’s life hangs in the balance, Geoffrey. Go now. Go!”

Spinning on his heel, the footman rushed away.

“Madeline, what the bloody hell is going on?” her father asked.

She spun around, heart thundering in her chest. “I think I know of a way to help the duchess…at least until the doctor gets here. Father, I have to go. I have to be with her.” She rushed past him, heading back for the stairs.

“You expect me to just wait here for you?” he bellowed after her.

She had her skirts fisted, taking the stairs as fast as she could. “Mrs. Davies, please see that the viscount and my cousin are given rooms for the night,” she called over her shoulder.

“What the—you do not give orders here!” her father called after her. “It’s not your bloody house!”

She smiled as she heard the housekeeper’s voice from below. “If you’d like to follow me, sirs, I’ll show you to a comfortable room where you might take your rest.”