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Synopsis
A spicy, smart, standalone “Why Choose” Regency romance set three years after the events of the Second Sons duology from New York Times bestselling author Emily Rath.
The Lady has an offer. The Vicar has a confession.
When her late aunt leaves her a generous fortune, socially awkward Lady Madeline Blaire believes she’s finally found a way out of the high society husband hunt. There’s only one problem. To claim it, Madeline must marry by New Year’s Eve . . . which is now only three weeks away!
Determined to claim her financial freedom, Madeline slips away from her overbearing family and races off to Alcott Hall. Madeline needs a husband. Now. She will be generous, providing him with a comfortable living. All he has to do is agree never to claim his rights as her husband.
Three years ago, Charles Bray left Finchley and never looked back. It was too painful to dwell in the past. So, when duty calls him home, he returns, heart heavy, to a town full of ghosts. Seeking any distraction, he sparks an unlikely friendship with a quiet young lady who makes him a surprising offer too good to refuse.
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 576
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Alcott Hall
Emily Rath
Hello again, beautiful readers! Are you ready to go back to Alcott Hall? This is the third book in the Second Sons series. Book one is Beautiful Things and book two is His Grace, the Duke. Both are available on KU, Kindle, and paperback.
This book is set three years after the end of His Grace, the Duke. The following is going to **SPOIL** the first two books for you, so proceed with caution. Here’s what happened:
BEAUTIFUL THINGS:
Rosalie Harrow, a young, penniless woman, travels to Alcott Hall to spend the summer as the guest of the Dowager Duchess of Norland. She arrives to find herself thrust in the middle of a high society husband hunt. While she avoids the drama of the ladies chasing after the duke (who does not want to be chased), Rosalie develops friendships with three gentlemen:
• Lord James Corbin, Viscount Finchley, the duke’s younger brother
• Mr. Horatio Burke, a bastard son of the former duke’s steward
• First Lieutenant Tom Renley, a childhood friend of James and Burke
Shenanigans ensue. Lady Madeline Blaire is one of the ladies being hurled at George (much against her will). She becomes close with Rosalie. By the end of book one, Rosalie has a relationship budding with Mr. Burke and Lieutenant Renley.
At the Michaelmas Ball, the proverbial shit hits the feathered fan. The Dowager Duchess demands that George marry a lady named Piety Nash. Then she forces Mr. Burke into an engagement with the insufferable Lady Olivia Rutledge. Renley’s ex reappears, telling Rosalie they’re engaged. In a panic spiral, Rosalie and James take off together for London . . . and don’t tell anyone.
HIS GRACE, THE DUKE:
Rosalie and James are followed to London by Burke and Tom. Burke confesses his love (again) and commits to her, even without marriage. We learn Tom’s ex lied and he’s not engaged. He’s also in love with Rosalie . . . and Burke. James loves her too, obvs, but he’s a dramatic pain in the arse, and he’ll hold out on us pretty much all book. Don’t hate him. When he comes around he . . . he comes. It’s all good. We forgive him.
Anyway, the fearsome foursome work tirelessly to unravel the messes made by the Dowager Duchess, including getting Burke unengaged to Lady Olivia, and helping George find his inner light. We meet new characters, we have loooots of sex, and it’s a pretty great time.
By the end of His Grace, the Duke, Rosalie is fully committed to being with her men and they want to be with her . . . and each other. Yep, this is a full polyam pretzel. Everyone is with everyone, and it’s swoony and romantic and hot as hell.
Rosalie marries James and becomes the Duchess of Norland. Burke and Tom commit to living with them at Alcott Hall, and they will be a blissfully happy foursome.
The book ends with two epilogues. In the first, we learn Rosalie is pregnant with her first child, and Tom is being recalled to his ship. The second flashes forward five years. I want us to hit pause three years in. That’s where Madeline’s story starts.
Are you ready to go back to Alcott Hall? Grab your smelling salts, and get ready to clutch those pearls!
XO,
Emily
The carriage rolled to yet another stop, wheels rattling on the cobblestones. London traffic was always busy this time of day, but this was getting ridiculous. A trip that should have taken all of fifteen minutes had now stretched for well over thirty. Something about an overturned hay cart.
At this point, it would have been faster to simply walk, but Lady Diana Blaire, Viscountess of Raleigh, would never sanction an act so pedestrian as walking to one’s destination. As she so often said, walking to a social function ought to be reserved for prostitutes and Catholics on pilgrimage.
Her daughter Madeline sat across from her, shivering under the weight of a thick wool blanket. The winter chill was brutal this morning, forcing Madeline to bury her nose deeper inside her fur muffler. She resented having to leave the warmth and comfort of her favorite reading nook, especially for a task as arduous—and ultimately pointless—as taking tea at her aunt’s house.
“Don’t slouch, Madeline.”
Madeline huffed, the warm air moist on her lips inside the muffler. “Mama, it is just we two here,” she replied. “And it’s freezing—”
“It’s undignified,” her mother snapped. “Besides, you could pull a muscle. Now sit up straight, before you give me a headache.”
Biting back her retort, Madeline shifted her hips and rolled her shoulders back until she was in a more dignified seated position. Of all the fights she felt like picking with her mother today, her posture was low on the list.
The carriage rattled back into motion and both ladies gave little sighs of relief. The city bustled with life all around them as other carts and carriages passed by. The sounds of the horses shod hooves were sharp and metallic on the crisp winter air.
Her mother leaned forward, nestling her hands under her own thick fur muff. “Now, as I was saying, Aunt Judith wrote this morning just before breakfast to say she thinks Lord Everton will be at today’s tea. You remember him, dear? From the Cabot’s party?”
Madeline just nodded, already intuiting the instructions her mother was about to give her. They were the same every week: corner the gentleman currently at the top of her mother’s ‘most eligible’ list, two light touches and three polite questions within the first ten minutes, and don’t forget to smile.
Lord Bryson Everton was the current favorite in the race for Madeline’s hand. Only, after three years out in society, it was no longer a race so much as it was a leisurely stroll through the back garden.
“Now, when Lord Everton arrives, you’re to draw his attention to you straight away,” her mother ordered. “I know Judith has her eye on him for Mary, but they’re not well suited. And frankly, she shouldn’t even be out yet,” she said with a wave of her gloved hand. “She’s far too young. A flighty little frippet if you ask me.”
Madeline pursed her lips, glad her mother couldn’t see her incredulous look behind her muffler. “She’s a year older than me when I came out, Mama.”
Her mother scoffed. “Much good it did you. Three seasons out, and still unmarried. Your father is losing patience, you know. You cannot rely on his beneficence forever, Madeline. You have a duty to take this seriously.”
“I know, Mama,” she replied, swallowing down the nerves that were already mounting. She couldn’t help that she was frightfully awkward in social settings. She’d never mastered the ability to be at ease in a crowd. It didn’t help that the sharks of the ton loved to prey on weakness. Debilitating shyness in a lady was akin to bleeding straight into the water. The sharks were ravenous for her. After three years, Madeline was all but a social outcast, teased and wholly dismissed as a suitable candidate for marriage.
And yet, her mother persisted, much to everyone’s chagrin, especially Madeline’s.
Her mother leaned forward; eyes alight. There was nothing she loved better than the thrill of matchmaking. “I’ve had it from Lady Spencer that Lord Everton is a fan of horse racing, so that should be your opener. You could discuss the races we attended this summer.”
Talking point number one. Thank you, Mama.
“Oh, and remember we went with your cousin Bertie to those horse trials at Windsor? There was a chestnut we liked the look of very much. I think it was bought by the Duke of Devonshire—”
Chestnut horse at Windsor. Talking point number two.
“And perhaps you could invite him to come by our stables,” her mother went on. “We may have a champion in the making, our own diamond in the rough. I’m sure His Lordship would be pleased to take Lord Everton on a tour—”
Come see my father’s stables. Talking point number three.
“Yes, Mama. Thank you—”
“And don’t forget to offer the occasional warm look or touch,” her mother added. “Just because the weather is frigid, it doesn’t mean you must be too. Men like a little playfulness, Madeline. You’re always so serious. There’s demure and then there’s, well . . . you.”
Of all the expectations that came with courting, Madeline found touching strangers to be the most off-putting. For some, the dance was an act almost carnal in its level of sensuality. For Madeline, it was an exercise in patience as she fought to keep her body from flinching as strange men rubbed their calloused hands on her shoulders, her waist, her back, gripping her fingers too tight and stepping on her toes. She hardly tolerated intimate touches from her own family, let alone these endless strings of bumbling suitors. The only form of touch she enjoyed was the thrill of a hit when she landed a strike with her foil in fencing practice.
“I will do my best, Mama—”
“And for heaven’s sake, smile,” her mother urged, throwing her another pleading look.
There it is.
“I swear, the Lord cursed you with that pale skin and those big doe eyes. You simply must smile more. When you don’t, you look like a ghostly apparition.”
“Yes, Mama—”
“And this weather does nothing to help your complexion, dear. Your winter pallor makes you look almost ill. Be sure to pinch your cheeks a few times to rosy them up, and just keep smiling.”
Madeline let out a steadying breath, trying to find her courage. She couldn’t think about Lord Everton or his love of horse racing. She’d been alone with her mother for half the morning now, and she still hadn’t managed to ask the one question eating her alive.
She blamed Patrick. Her cousin always made a habit of sticking his nose into her business. They were barely a month apart in age, and so similar in size and coloring, that they were often confused for twins. He’s said something last night that had her mind spinning like a top. She’d hardly slept. She wanted to confront her mother about it, but the viscountess could be slippery as an eel when she wanted to be.
Her mother leaned over and tugged the curtain aside, glancing out the window. “Oh, thank heavens, we’re nearly there. I’m sure Judith will be sick with worry. She’ll think we were taken in by carriage robbers.”
Almost there, meaning it was now or never.
“Mama . . . ” Madeline sat forward, tugging down gently on her muffler to uncover the lower half of her face.
Her mother was still looking out the window. “Hmm?”
“Do you know anything about Great Aunt Maude’s will?”
The lady stilled, one gloved hand still on the pretty yellow velvet curtain. “Her will? Whatever can you mean, dearest?”
The truth was in the way her voice had suddenly raised an octave, her hands dropping to her lap as she sat straight and still. Madeline’s heart sank. Her mother was a terrible liar, and even worse at subterfuge. “Did she mention me, Mama? In the will?”
Her mother pursed her lips. “You know I’m not involved in any legal matters. You’ll have to talk to your papa when we get home.”
“But—”
“Put it from your mind, Madeline,” her mother ordered. “You have more important matters at hand today. Lord Everton is a fine prize, worthy of all your most sincere attention. If you can snap him up now, we could have you married in the spring. Oh, how I’d just love to finally rub a wedding in Judith’s face! She’s always been determined to show me up. Five daughters and three already married. Madeline, if you let even little Mary find a husband before you, I don’t know that I could ever forgive you.”
Madeline blinked away the tears of frustration stinging her eyes. How was it possible that the whole of her life’s worth was going to be weighed, measured, and found wanting based on her inability to find a man willing to marry her?
Before she could argue the point further, the carriage rattled yet again to a stop. Only this time, the driver thumped his fist twice on the top, and the footman hopped off the back, coming quickly around to lower the step and open the door. They’d arrived at last at Aunt Judith’s new townhouse.
Her mother rounded on her, eyes narrowed in determination. “Now, what are you going to do?”
Madeline balled her hands into tiny fists. “I’m going to corner Lord Everton—”
“Charm, Madeline,” her mother corrected with an exasperated huff. “You’re going to charm Lord Everton. And?”
“And I will ask him at least three interesting questions about horses.”
Her mother nodded. “Very good. And?”
Madeline sighed, losing all her will to fight as she readied herself for yet another round in the social arena. “And I’m going to smile.”
The viscountess beamed at her. But Madeline couldn’t miss the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It never reached her eyes when directed at Madeline, and it hadn’t for a very long time. “Wonderful. Lord Everton is going to fall in love with you, dearest. I can just feel it.
Lord Everton was, in fact, not ready to fall in love with Madeline. That would be impossible, for Bryson Everton, second son of the Marquess of Ely, already fancied himself very much in love with a bay racing filly named Turkish Delight.
It had to be love, right? What else did you call it when a man could talk for twenty-six minutes without taking a breath about every facet of a horse’s form, fitness, and family pedigree. Poets had less to say about the wonders of love than Lord Everton did about his filly’s well-shaped stifles.
In a way, it made things easier for Madeline. She could keep one eye on the clock and use her cup of tea as a shield, brandishing it between her and the lord. Whenever it sounded like he was about to run out of things to say about Turkish Delight, Madeline made a little hmm sound in her throat as she brought her cup to her lips. That was all the encouragement he needed to keep going.
“We meant to start her under saddle when she turned two, but my trainer said we ought to give her another year entire. You can ruin a horse by starting them too soon. Some fillies need the extra year, you know, to gain much needed muscle mass.”
Madeline offered him a weak smile and a nod. “And where do you intend to race her, sir?”
Taking a deep breath, he launched into a one-sided discussion comparing the merits of dirt tracks to turf. Each time he paused to take a bite of cranberry scone, little crumbs dusted down onto the lapels of his coat. With his full chops and bushy mustache, he put Madeline very much in mind of a well-dressed squirrel.
Her mother’s choice for ‘most eligible bachelor’ may have been a bit more eccentric of late, but Lord Everton went beyond the pale. In what world did Lady Raleigh really consider him the most eligible match in England? Was Madeline truly such a hopeless case?
Yes, came the easy answer in her mind. It used the same shrill, calculating voice as her mother.
Madeline couldn’t help her mind from wandering as he droned on. She was seated in the corner of her aunt’s cozy drawing room, near to the fire. That, at least, was a blessed relief. After nearly forty-five minutes in the freezing cold, she was only just starting to feel completely thawed out. The fire crackled and hissed in the grate, working overtime to heat the chilly room.
All around her, the other guests sat on chairs and poufs, the ladies gaily chatting with their own eager suitors. Her cousin Charlotte even sported a fan, fluttering it before her face in a way Madeline assumed must be seductive, only it was December, and this room was bitterly cold. Madeline fought the urge to smirk. Lord Tewksworth hardly seemed to notice, lost in the dazzle of Charlotte’s smile.
On the sofa opposite Madeline, even her youngest cousin Mary was making good progress with the Earl of Lindsey’s son. Just as Lady Raleigh feared, the little frippet seemed poised to land herself a match by year’s end. Madeline smiled. Mary wasn’t a frippet, in fact she was highly clever and emotionally sensitive. She was just better at this game than Madeline, which annoyed the viscountess to no end. It wasn’t about Mary’s success. It was always only ever about Madeline’s repeated failure.
The handsome young lord let out a loud chortle at something Mary said, leaning forward to snag a biscuit off her plate. She swatted at him playfully. “Oh, Lord Allen, you are a thief! Mama, Lord Allen has stolen my last biscuit!”
There was a flurry of squeals and laughter across the room as Mary launched from the sofa, determined to replace her biscuit. Lord Allen hurried after her, nearly tripping on the carpet as he gave eager chase.
Madeline had to clutch her cup and saucer to herself, pressing back against the cushions to avoid the whip of his coattails. Next to her, Lord Everton sighed, checking his pocket watch for the third time. He was bored of her. She didn’t blame him. She’d contributed all her useful knowledge about horse racing twenty-one minutes ago.
But it was finally her turn to lead the conversation, and her mind was blank. What could she possibly say at this man that he would want to hear? What were her mother’s talking points again? How did Madeline bring one up naturally?
It suddenly felt as if the whole room were spying on her, ready to watch her fail. She felt the prickle of eyes on the back of her head. Oh yes, how entertaining to watch Mu-mu-muttering Madeline make a fool of herself yet again.
She dared a glance across the room to where her mother sat, pretending to be in conversation with Aunt Judith. Lady Raleigh was such a stately woman—tall where Madeline was short, poised where Madeline was tense, verbose where Madeline was silent. Not for the first, time, Madeline felt envious of her mother. The only thing they shared was their coloring, fair blonde hair and sky-blue eyes.
She didn’t miss the pointed look the viscountess gave her, those narrowed eyes darting from her to Lord Everton and back. “Say something,” she mouthed.
Madeline cleared her throat, her finger curling tighter around the handle of her teacup. Why did she make this so difficult for herself? What was wrong with her that she couldn’t just say one of the thousand and one thoughts currently rolling around inside her head? The pressure to perform felt overwhelming, even when the stakes were as low as failing to impress Lord Bryson Everton. But she had to try. She had to set her confounded shyness aside. She had to say something!
“So . . . do you . . . umm . . .”
That’s it. That’s as far as she got with a coherent thought.
The fire crackled and popped, the hiss of the flames loud in her ears. Atop the mantle, the handsome carriage clock went tick, tick, tick, tick, counting up the seconds of Madeline’s mortification. All around her, the other ladies laughed and chittered, easily letting words pour forth like so many musical fountains. While, across the room, she could practically hear the silent groan her mother suppressed.
“Stables,” she blurted, feeling as if the word had been squeezed from her throat.
“Pardon?” said Lord Everton, his mouth full of his fourth scone.
She took a breath. “My father’s stables are very grand.” She winced at the unnecessary superlative. They were, in fact, rather average. Lord Raleigh wasn’t much of a horseman. “We could see them,” she went on. “Or you could. I mean, that is to say, would you like to see them?”
God, she really was hopeless. She bit her bottom lip, waiting for his rejection.
He pursed his lips, glancing down to finally notice the spray of crumbs dusting his jacket. He brushed them off with a lazy wave of his hand, setting aside his empty plate. “Actually, I had rather hoped to ask about the stables at Leary House. I was curious as to their condition.”
Madeline stilled, her cup raised halfway to her lips. All the sounds in the room were suddenly muted. There was only a faint humming in her ears. This wasn’t possible. Could it be a coincidence?
No, Madeline didn’t believe in coincidences.
She rattled her cup onto the saucer and sat forward, eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”
He slurped his coffee, his hands appearing overly large clutching the dainty, floral patterned china cup. “I said I was curious to know the conditions of the Leary stables. Are they in proper working order? Renovations are a chore, and the price of lumber has never been higher. I don’t want to be making a poor investment.”
Madeline’s heart was racing. Further proof. She could hardly draw breath. Her eye darted from Lord Everton to the place where her mother watched. She set aside her cup of tea with a soft clatter. “And why would that be a thing that came of your mouth?” she pressed.
He raised a confused brow, clearly off-put by her sudden rudeness. “I beg your pardon?”
She leaned forward, hands clutched tightly in her lap. “Why are you asking me about Leary House?”
His lips pursed under that thick mustache. “Well, because of the inheritance. It is part of your dowry now, no?” At her look of confusion he sighed. “Look, you’re a lovely girl, Lady Madeline. But if the Leary fortune isn’t part of your dowry, tell me now. I don’t like feeling as though I’ve wasted my time.”
She gasped, sinking back as if struck. “I . . .”
Without thinking, she was on her feet. Lord Everton nearly tumbled his plate off his lap in his rush to stand as well. “Lady Madeline—”
“I thank you, Lord Everton,” she said on a breath. “It’s been a pleasure, but I must go.” She didn’t even wait for his response. Feeling the eyes of the room on her, she rushed towards the door. Her cousins all called after her, polite words or worry and concern. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.
“Madeline?” her mother called. “Madeline, wait—”
But Madeline was already out of the drawing room, rushing away down the hall towards the front door.
“Madeline, what on earth are you doing?” her mother cried, hot on her heels. “Go back in at once, and apologize to Lord Everton. He came here expressly to see you—”
“No, he didn’t,” Madeline huffed, snatching her pale blue pelisse off the hook by the door. “He came here to see if my dowry had improved. He doesn’t want me, Mama. He only wants the money—”
“Lower your voice,” she hissed, stepping closer, one eye looking warily over her shoulder. “Do you want him to hear you?”
Madeline just shook her head, fingers fumbling as she buttoned her pelisse. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what? Madeline, what are you doing? Take that off at once, and go back to the drawing room,” her mother ordered.
“I can’t stay here. I have to go.”
“Where are you going?”
“Away.”
Her mother huffed an empty laugh. “You will go when I say you can go. Now, stop being petulant, and go apologize to Lord Everton. Then I think you should lie down for a quarter of an hour in Mary’s room. You’re clearly ill.”
Madeline paused, her fingers frozen on the last button of her pelisse. “Were you ever going to tell me?” She didn’t dare turn around. She didn’t want to watch her mother lie to her face.
“Tell you what? Madeline, this behavior is unpardonably rude—”
Madeline spun around. “The will, Mama! Were you going to tell me about Great Aunt Maude’s will?”
Lady Raleigh sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes darting to take in Madeline’s face. “Oh, this again? What are you on about?”
Madeline squared her shoulders at the woman who towered over her. “Your game is up. I know the truth, Mama.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “How—oh!” She hissed like an angry cat. “When I see that shameless excuse for a law clerk again, I will ring his neck myself. How dare he upset you like this!”
“Patrick told me the truth, Mama,” Madeline cried. “Which is more than I can say for you. How long have you known she wrote me into her will?”
Her mother crossed her arms, still glancing over her shoulder towards the open drawing room doors. “What did your cousin tell you?”
“Enough,” Madeline replied.
That was a lie. Patrick only mentioned the will last night in passing. He’d meant it as a joke, voicing his surprise that she wasn’t making more of an effort to claim her new inheritance. When it became clear she had no idea what he was talking about, he’d gone slightly red in the face and scampered before they could finish their game of chess.
“Are you going to tell me about my inheritance? Or did you plan to keep trying to force me into a match with the likes of Lord Everton, a man so impossibly dull he makes watching the seconds tick by on a clock more thrilling than opening night at the theatre!”
“Madeline!” her mother gasped, one hand flying to cover her dainty mouth.
Madeline said that last loud enough to be heard down the hall, she was sure of it.
Good. I want this bridge burned.
“Just tell me the truth,” she pleaded. “Could this all be over?” She waved a hand, gesturing down the hall towards the drawing room. “Did Aunt Maude leave me money in her will? Could I be free of this hell at last?”
To her surprise, Lady Raleigh didn’t respond with anger. In fact, her eyes went glassy, and she sniffed back tears. “Oh, Madeline.” She gave her head a gentle shake. “No.”
Madeline blinked, fighting back her own tears now. “Mama, please,” she murmured. “Please, if you love me at all, just tell me.”
Madeline waited, watching as her mother sniffed again.
Lady Raleigh held her head high. “Your father’s aunt wrote you into her will, it’s true,” she admitted. “The family only found out about it last week. Maude left everything to you, Madeline.”
It was Madeline’s turn to suck in a gasping breath.
What? Could this be possible?
Lady Maude Blaire (née Leary) was the last living Leary, an old line of Irish earls. The title died out generations ago when the male line failed, but the Leary fortune had been passed down through the eldest female Leary, ending with Maude.
In her youth, Maude married Madeline’s great uncle, Archibald Blaire. They lived unhappily until his early death, and then Maude lived alone in her beautiful London townhouse. She rarely ventured out into society. In the last years of her life, Madeline was one of the few relations to visit her.
Madeline liked the odd bird. She appreciated silence as much as Madeline and boasted a fantastic library. She let her borrow as many books as she wanted on whatever topic. It was thanks to Maude and her fantastic linguistics collection that Madeline was learning German.
It broke a little piece of Madeline’s heart when they got the news two months ago that Maude had died quietly in her sleep. The family that had ignored her for half a century all turned up for her funeral. Most of them even wore black for a month. Madeline had asked her father more than once what was going to happen to Leary House, and he’d merely replied with, “It’s complicated, my dove.”
After her questions went unanswered, she let it drop until Patrick brought it up last night.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “What can you mean she left me everything?”
Her mother huffed. “I mean to say she left you everything, Madeline. The whole of the Leary fortune. She left you Leary House, the hunting lodge in Kerry, half shares in two profitable tin mines, and an annual income of three thousand pounds per annum.”
“Oh, god—” Madeline couldn’t breathe. Why was she still standing? Surely, one must sit to receive this kind of news. She glanced around, her hand waving awkwardly as if it could fashion a chair in thin air. She panted, turning and sinking her weight against the wall against the rest of the coats. “I—can’t—what does this mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything, because you cannot claim it,” her mother replied, her tone clipped. “Which is why it was beastly of Patrick to mention it to you at all.”
Madeline shook her head. This didn’t make sense. “Why can’t I claim it? I want to claim it. What must I do? Does Uncle Rodney have the will? Surely, he can help—”
“You cannot meet the conditions set forth in the will,” her mother snapped. “It is impossible, Madeline. Once the will is contested, your unclaimed assets will revert to the oldest of the Blaire children.”
Madeline blinked twice. “But . . . papa is the oldest.” An odd feeling of hope and foreboding mingled in her chest. “If I cannot claim my inheritance, the money will go to my father?”
Her mother gave a curt nod.
Madeline felt her sense of hope blooming. “Well, then surely, if I can’t claim it directly, he can claim it and give it to me as it was intended—”
“Oh, be sensible, Madeline,” her mother huffed. “What would a girl of twenty know about claiming such a fortune? You are a child. A sweet, ignorant fool. Best leave this to your father. He will take care of you, as he always has.”
Madeline reeled back as if slapped, her hope bursting inside her chest like a soap bubble. They meant to keep it from her. Whatever the conditions set forth in the will, they meant to keep her in the dark. Surely there must be a timing aspect to it. They were waiting out the clock. Madeline was about to lose her chance at a fortune she never even knew was hers, and the person ready to take it from her was none other than her own father. And her mother was in on the subterfuge.
“Who els
This book is set three years after the end of His Grace, the Duke. The following is going to **SPOIL** the first two books for you, so proceed with caution. Here’s what happened:
BEAUTIFUL THINGS:
Rosalie Harrow, a young, penniless woman, travels to Alcott Hall to spend the summer as the guest of the Dowager Duchess of Norland. She arrives to find herself thrust in the middle of a high society husband hunt. While she avoids the drama of the ladies chasing after the duke (who does not want to be chased), Rosalie develops friendships with three gentlemen:
• Lord James Corbin, Viscount Finchley, the duke’s younger brother
• Mr. Horatio Burke, a bastard son of the former duke’s steward
• First Lieutenant Tom Renley, a childhood friend of James and Burke
Shenanigans ensue. Lady Madeline Blaire is one of the ladies being hurled at George (much against her will). She becomes close with Rosalie. By the end of book one, Rosalie has a relationship budding with Mr. Burke and Lieutenant Renley.
At the Michaelmas Ball, the proverbial shit hits the feathered fan. The Dowager Duchess demands that George marry a lady named Piety Nash. Then she forces Mr. Burke into an engagement with the insufferable Lady Olivia Rutledge. Renley’s ex reappears, telling Rosalie they’re engaged. In a panic spiral, Rosalie and James take off together for London . . . and don’t tell anyone.
HIS GRACE, THE DUKE:
Rosalie and James are followed to London by Burke and Tom. Burke confesses his love (again) and commits to her, even without marriage. We learn Tom’s ex lied and he’s not engaged. He’s also in love with Rosalie . . . and Burke. James loves her too, obvs, but he’s a dramatic pain in the arse, and he’ll hold out on us pretty much all book. Don’t hate him. When he comes around he . . . he comes. It’s all good. We forgive him.
Anyway, the fearsome foursome work tirelessly to unravel the messes made by the Dowager Duchess, including getting Burke unengaged to Lady Olivia, and helping George find his inner light. We meet new characters, we have loooots of sex, and it’s a pretty great time.
By the end of His Grace, the Duke, Rosalie is fully committed to being with her men and they want to be with her . . . and each other. Yep, this is a full polyam pretzel. Everyone is with everyone, and it’s swoony and romantic and hot as hell.
Rosalie marries James and becomes the Duchess of Norland. Burke and Tom commit to living with them at Alcott Hall, and they will be a blissfully happy foursome.
The book ends with two epilogues. In the first, we learn Rosalie is pregnant with her first child, and Tom is being recalled to his ship. The second flashes forward five years. I want us to hit pause three years in. That’s where Madeline’s story starts.
Are you ready to go back to Alcott Hall? Grab your smelling salts, and get ready to clutch those pearls!
XO,
Emily
The carriage rolled to yet another stop, wheels rattling on the cobblestones. London traffic was always busy this time of day, but this was getting ridiculous. A trip that should have taken all of fifteen minutes had now stretched for well over thirty. Something about an overturned hay cart.
At this point, it would have been faster to simply walk, but Lady Diana Blaire, Viscountess of Raleigh, would never sanction an act so pedestrian as walking to one’s destination. As she so often said, walking to a social function ought to be reserved for prostitutes and Catholics on pilgrimage.
Her daughter Madeline sat across from her, shivering under the weight of a thick wool blanket. The winter chill was brutal this morning, forcing Madeline to bury her nose deeper inside her fur muffler. She resented having to leave the warmth and comfort of her favorite reading nook, especially for a task as arduous—and ultimately pointless—as taking tea at her aunt’s house.
“Don’t slouch, Madeline.”
Madeline huffed, the warm air moist on her lips inside the muffler. “Mama, it is just we two here,” she replied. “And it’s freezing—”
“It’s undignified,” her mother snapped. “Besides, you could pull a muscle. Now sit up straight, before you give me a headache.”
Biting back her retort, Madeline shifted her hips and rolled her shoulders back until she was in a more dignified seated position. Of all the fights she felt like picking with her mother today, her posture was low on the list.
The carriage rattled back into motion and both ladies gave little sighs of relief. The city bustled with life all around them as other carts and carriages passed by. The sounds of the horses shod hooves were sharp and metallic on the crisp winter air.
Her mother leaned forward, nestling her hands under her own thick fur muff. “Now, as I was saying, Aunt Judith wrote this morning just before breakfast to say she thinks Lord Everton will be at today’s tea. You remember him, dear? From the Cabot’s party?”
Madeline just nodded, already intuiting the instructions her mother was about to give her. They were the same every week: corner the gentleman currently at the top of her mother’s ‘most eligible’ list, two light touches and three polite questions within the first ten minutes, and don’t forget to smile.
Lord Bryson Everton was the current favorite in the race for Madeline’s hand. Only, after three years out in society, it was no longer a race so much as it was a leisurely stroll through the back garden.
“Now, when Lord Everton arrives, you’re to draw his attention to you straight away,” her mother ordered. “I know Judith has her eye on him for Mary, but they’re not well suited. And frankly, she shouldn’t even be out yet,” she said with a wave of her gloved hand. “She’s far too young. A flighty little frippet if you ask me.”
Madeline pursed her lips, glad her mother couldn’t see her incredulous look behind her muffler. “She’s a year older than me when I came out, Mama.”
Her mother scoffed. “Much good it did you. Three seasons out, and still unmarried. Your father is losing patience, you know. You cannot rely on his beneficence forever, Madeline. You have a duty to take this seriously.”
“I know, Mama,” she replied, swallowing down the nerves that were already mounting. She couldn’t help that she was frightfully awkward in social settings. She’d never mastered the ability to be at ease in a crowd. It didn’t help that the sharks of the ton loved to prey on weakness. Debilitating shyness in a lady was akin to bleeding straight into the water. The sharks were ravenous for her. After three years, Madeline was all but a social outcast, teased and wholly dismissed as a suitable candidate for marriage.
And yet, her mother persisted, much to everyone’s chagrin, especially Madeline’s.
Her mother leaned forward; eyes alight. There was nothing she loved better than the thrill of matchmaking. “I’ve had it from Lady Spencer that Lord Everton is a fan of horse racing, so that should be your opener. You could discuss the races we attended this summer.”
Talking point number one. Thank you, Mama.
“Oh, and remember we went with your cousin Bertie to those horse trials at Windsor? There was a chestnut we liked the look of very much. I think it was bought by the Duke of Devonshire—”
Chestnut horse at Windsor. Talking point number two.
“And perhaps you could invite him to come by our stables,” her mother went on. “We may have a champion in the making, our own diamond in the rough. I’m sure His Lordship would be pleased to take Lord Everton on a tour—”
Come see my father’s stables. Talking point number three.
“Yes, Mama. Thank you—”
“And don’t forget to offer the occasional warm look or touch,” her mother added. “Just because the weather is frigid, it doesn’t mean you must be too. Men like a little playfulness, Madeline. You’re always so serious. There’s demure and then there’s, well . . . you.”
Of all the expectations that came with courting, Madeline found touching strangers to be the most off-putting. For some, the dance was an act almost carnal in its level of sensuality. For Madeline, it was an exercise in patience as she fought to keep her body from flinching as strange men rubbed their calloused hands on her shoulders, her waist, her back, gripping her fingers too tight and stepping on her toes. She hardly tolerated intimate touches from her own family, let alone these endless strings of bumbling suitors. The only form of touch she enjoyed was the thrill of a hit when she landed a strike with her foil in fencing practice.
“I will do my best, Mama—”
“And for heaven’s sake, smile,” her mother urged, throwing her another pleading look.
There it is.
“I swear, the Lord cursed you with that pale skin and those big doe eyes. You simply must smile more. When you don’t, you look like a ghostly apparition.”
“Yes, Mama—”
“And this weather does nothing to help your complexion, dear. Your winter pallor makes you look almost ill. Be sure to pinch your cheeks a few times to rosy them up, and just keep smiling.”
Madeline let out a steadying breath, trying to find her courage. She couldn’t think about Lord Everton or his love of horse racing. She’d been alone with her mother for half the morning now, and she still hadn’t managed to ask the one question eating her alive.
She blamed Patrick. Her cousin always made a habit of sticking his nose into her business. They were barely a month apart in age, and so similar in size and coloring, that they were often confused for twins. He’s said something last night that had her mind spinning like a top. She’d hardly slept. She wanted to confront her mother about it, but the viscountess could be slippery as an eel when she wanted to be.
Her mother leaned over and tugged the curtain aside, glancing out the window. “Oh, thank heavens, we’re nearly there. I’m sure Judith will be sick with worry. She’ll think we were taken in by carriage robbers.”
Almost there, meaning it was now or never.
“Mama . . . ” Madeline sat forward, tugging down gently on her muffler to uncover the lower half of her face.
Her mother was still looking out the window. “Hmm?”
“Do you know anything about Great Aunt Maude’s will?”
The lady stilled, one gloved hand still on the pretty yellow velvet curtain. “Her will? Whatever can you mean, dearest?”
The truth was in the way her voice had suddenly raised an octave, her hands dropping to her lap as she sat straight and still. Madeline’s heart sank. Her mother was a terrible liar, and even worse at subterfuge. “Did she mention me, Mama? In the will?”
Her mother pursed her lips. “You know I’m not involved in any legal matters. You’ll have to talk to your papa when we get home.”
“But—”
“Put it from your mind, Madeline,” her mother ordered. “You have more important matters at hand today. Lord Everton is a fine prize, worthy of all your most sincere attention. If you can snap him up now, we could have you married in the spring. Oh, how I’d just love to finally rub a wedding in Judith’s face! She’s always been determined to show me up. Five daughters and three already married. Madeline, if you let even little Mary find a husband before you, I don’t know that I could ever forgive you.”
Madeline blinked away the tears of frustration stinging her eyes. How was it possible that the whole of her life’s worth was going to be weighed, measured, and found wanting based on her inability to find a man willing to marry her?
Before she could argue the point further, the carriage rattled yet again to a stop. Only this time, the driver thumped his fist twice on the top, and the footman hopped off the back, coming quickly around to lower the step and open the door. They’d arrived at last at Aunt Judith’s new townhouse.
Her mother rounded on her, eyes narrowed in determination. “Now, what are you going to do?”
Madeline balled her hands into tiny fists. “I’m going to corner Lord Everton—”
“Charm, Madeline,” her mother corrected with an exasperated huff. “You’re going to charm Lord Everton. And?”
“And I will ask him at least three interesting questions about horses.”
Her mother nodded. “Very good. And?”
Madeline sighed, losing all her will to fight as she readied herself for yet another round in the social arena. “And I’m going to smile.”
The viscountess beamed at her. But Madeline couldn’t miss the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It never reached her eyes when directed at Madeline, and it hadn’t for a very long time. “Wonderful. Lord Everton is going to fall in love with you, dearest. I can just feel it.
Lord Everton was, in fact, not ready to fall in love with Madeline. That would be impossible, for Bryson Everton, second son of the Marquess of Ely, already fancied himself very much in love with a bay racing filly named Turkish Delight.
It had to be love, right? What else did you call it when a man could talk for twenty-six minutes without taking a breath about every facet of a horse’s form, fitness, and family pedigree. Poets had less to say about the wonders of love than Lord Everton did about his filly’s well-shaped stifles.
In a way, it made things easier for Madeline. She could keep one eye on the clock and use her cup of tea as a shield, brandishing it between her and the lord. Whenever it sounded like he was about to run out of things to say about Turkish Delight, Madeline made a little hmm sound in her throat as she brought her cup to her lips. That was all the encouragement he needed to keep going.
“We meant to start her under saddle when she turned two, but my trainer said we ought to give her another year entire. You can ruin a horse by starting them too soon. Some fillies need the extra year, you know, to gain much needed muscle mass.”
Madeline offered him a weak smile and a nod. “And where do you intend to race her, sir?”
Taking a deep breath, he launched into a one-sided discussion comparing the merits of dirt tracks to turf. Each time he paused to take a bite of cranberry scone, little crumbs dusted down onto the lapels of his coat. With his full chops and bushy mustache, he put Madeline very much in mind of a well-dressed squirrel.
Her mother’s choice for ‘most eligible bachelor’ may have been a bit more eccentric of late, but Lord Everton went beyond the pale. In what world did Lady Raleigh really consider him the most eligible match in England? Was Madeline truly such a hopeless case?
Yes, came the easy answer in her mind. It used the same shrill, calculating voice as her mother.
Madeline couldn’t help her mind from wandering as he droned on. She was seated in the corner of her aunt’s cozy drawing room, near to the fire. That, at least, was a blessed relief. After nearly forty-five minutes in the freezing cold, she was only just starting to feel completely thawed out. The fire crackled and hissed in the grate, working overtime to heat the chilly room.
All around her, the other guests sat on chairs and poufs, the ladies gaily chatting with their own eager suitors. Her cousin Charlotte even sported a fan, fluttering it before her face in a way Madeline assumed must be seductive, only it was December, and this room was bitterly cold. Madeline fought the urge to smirk. Lord Tewksworth hardly seemed to notice, lost in the dazzle of Charlotte’s smile.
On the sofa opposite Madeline, even her youngest cousin Mary was making good progress with the Earl of Lindsey’s son. Just as Lady Raleigh feared, the little frippet seemed poised to land herself a match by year’s end. Madeline smiled. Mary wasn’t a frippet, in fact she was highly clever and emotionally sensitive. She was just better at this game than Madeline, which annoyed the viscountess to no end. It wasn’t about Mary’s success. It was always only ever about Madeline’s repeated failure.
The handsome young lord let out a loud chortle at something Mary said, leaning forward to snag a biscuit off her plate. She swatted at him playfully. “Oh, Lord Allen, you are a thief! Mama, Lord Allen has stolen my last biscuit!”
There was a flurry of squeals and laughter across the room as Mary launched from the sofa, determined to replace her biscuit. Lord Allen hurried after her, nearly tripping on the carpet as he gave eager chase.
Madeline had to clutch her cup and saucer to herself, pressing back against the cushions to avoid the whip of his coattails. Next to her, Lord Everton sighed, checking his pocket watch for the third time. He was bored of her. She didn’t blame him. She’d contributed all her useful knowledge about horse racing twenty-one minutes ago.
But it was finally her turn to lead the conversation, and her mind was blank. What could she possibly say at this man that he would want to hear? What were her mother’s talking points again? How did Madeline bring one up naturally?
It suddenly felt as if the whole room were spying on her, ready to watch her fail. She felt the prickle of eyes on the back of her head. Oh yes, how entertaining to watch Mu-mu-muttering Madeline make a fool of herself yet again.
She dared a glance across the room to where her mother sat, pretending to be in conversation with Aunt Judith. Lady Raleigh was such a stately woman—tall where Madeline was short, poised where Madeline was tense, verbose where Madeline was silent. Not for the first, time, Madeline felt envious of her mother. The only thing they shared was their coloring, fair blonde hair and sky-blue eyes.
She didn’t miss the pointed look the viscountess gave her, those narrowed eyes darting from her to Lord Everton and back. “Say something,” she mouthed.
Madeline cleared her throat, her finger curling tighter around the handle of her teacup. Why did she make this so difficult for herself? What was wrong with her that she couldn’t just say one of the thousand and one thoughts currently rolling around inside her head? The pressure to perform felt overwhelming, even when the stakes were as low as failing to impress Lord Bryson Everton. But she had to try. She had to set her confounded shyness aside. She had to say something!
“So . . . do you . . . umm . . .”
That’s it. That’s as far as she got with a coherent thought.
The fire crackled and popped, the hiss of the flames loud in her ears. Atop the mantle, the handsome carriage clock went tick, tick, tick, tick, counting up the seconds of Madeline’s mortification. All around her, the other ladies laughed and chittered, easily letting words pour forth like so many musical fountains. While, across the room, she could practically hear the silent groan her mother suppressed.
“Stables,” she blurted, feeling as if the word had been squeezed from her throat.
“Pardon?” said Lord Everton, his mouth full of his fourth scone.
She took a breath. “My father’s stables are very grand.” She winced at the unnecessary superlative. They were, in fact, rather average. Lord Raleigh wasn’t much of a horseman. “We could see them,” she went on. “Or you could. I mean, that is to say, would you like to see them?”
God, she really was hopeless. She bit her bottom lip, waiting for his rejection.
He pursed his lips, glancing down to finally notice the spray of crumbs dusting his jacket. He brushed them off with a lazy wave of his hand, setting aside his empty plate. “Actually, I had rather hoped to ask about the stables at Leary House. I was curious as to their condition.”
Madeline stilled, her cup raised halfway to her lips. All the sounds in the room were suddenly muted. There was only a faint humming in her ears. This wasn’t possible. Could it be a coincidence?
No, Madeline didn’t believe in coincidences.
She rattled her cup onto the saucer and sat forward, eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”
He slurped his coffee, his hands appearing overly large clutching the dainty, floral patterned china cup. “I said I was curious to know the conditions of the Leary stables. Are they in proper working order? Renovations are a chore, and the price of lumber has never been higher. I don’t want to be making a poor investment.”
Madeline’s heart was racing. Further proof. She could hardly draw breath. Her eye darted from Lord Everton to the place where her mother watched. She set aside her cup of tea with a soft clatter. “And why would that be a thing that came of your mouth?” she pressed.
He raised a confused brow, clearly off-put by her sudden rudeness. “I beg your pardon?”
She leaned forward, hands clutched tightly in her lap. “Why are you asking me about Leary House?”
His lips pursed under that thick mustache. “Well, because of the inheritance. It is part of your dowry now, no?” At her look of confusion he sighed. “Look, you’re a lovely girl, Lady Madeline. But if the Leary fortune isn’t part of your dowry, tell me now. I don’t like feeling as though I’ve wasted my time.”
She gasped, sinking back as if struck. “I . . .”
Without thinking, she was on her feet. Lord Everton nearly tumbled his plate off his lap in his rush to stand as well. “Lady Madeline—”
“I thank you, Lord Everton,” she said on a breath. “It’s been a pleasure, but I must go.” She didn’t even wait for his response. Feeling the eyes of the room on her, she rushed towards the door. Her cousins all called after her, polite words or worry and concern. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.
“Madeline?” her mother called. “Madeline, wait—”
But Madeline was already out of the drawing room, rushing away down the hall towards the front door.
“Madeline, what on earth are you doing?” her mother cried, hot on her heels. “Go back in at once, and apologize to Lord Everton. He came here expressly to see you—”
“No, he didn’t,” Madeline huffed, snatching her pale blue pelisse off the hook by the door. “He came here to see if my dowry had improved. He doesn’t want me, Mama. He only wants the money—”
“Lower your voice,” she hissed, stepping closer, one eye looking warily over her shoulder. “Do you want him to hear you?”
Madeline just shook her head, fingers fumbling as she buttoned her pelisse. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what? Madeline, what are you doing? Take that off at once, and go back to the drawing room,” her mother ordered.
“I can’t stay here. I have to go.”
“Where are you going?”
“Away.”
Her mother huffed an empty laugh. “You will go when I say you can go. Now, stop being petulant, and go apologize to Lord Everton. Then I think you should lie down for a quarter of an hour in Mary’s room. You’re clearly ill.”
Madeline paused, her fingers frozen on the last button of her pelisse. “Were you ever going to tell me?” She didn’t dare turn around. She didn’t want to watch her mother lie to her face.
“Tell you what? Madeline, this behavior is unpardonably rude—”
Madeline spun around. “The will, Mama! Were you going to tell me about Great Aunt Maude’s will?”
Lady Raleigh sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes darting to take in Madeline’s face. “Oh, this again? What are you on about?”
Madeline squared her shoulders at the woman who towered over her. “Your game is up. I know the truth, Mama.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “How—oh!” She hissed like an angry cat. “When I see that shameless excuse for a law clerk again, I will ring his neck myself. How dare he upset you like this!”
“Patrick told me the truth, Mama,” Madeline cried. “Which is more than I can say for you. How long have you known she wrote me into her will?”
Her mother crossed her arms, still glancing over her shoulder towards the open drawing room doors. “What did your cousin tell you?”
“Enough,” Madeline replied.
That was a lie. Patrick only mentioned the will last night in passing. He’d meant it as a joke, voicing his surprise that she wasn’t making more of an effort to claim her new inheritance. When it became clear she had no idea what he was talking about, he’d gone slightly red in the face and scampered before they could finish their game of chess.
“Are you going to tell me about my inheritance? Or did you plan to keep trying to force me into a match with the likes of Lord Everton, a man so impossibly dull he makes watching the seconds tick by on a clock more thrilling than opening night at the theatre!”
“Madeline!” her mother gasped, one hand flying to cover her dainty mouth.
Madeline said that last loud enough to be heard down the hall, she was sure of it.
Good. I want this bridge burned.
“Just tell me the truth,” she pleaded. “Could this all be over?” She waved a hand, gesturing down the hall towards the drawing room. “Did Aunt Maude leave me money in her will? Could I be free of this hell at last?”
To her surprise, Lady Raleigh didn’t respond with anger. In fact, her eyes went glassy, and she sniffed back tears. “Oh, Madeline.” She gave her head a gentle shake. “No.”
Madeline blinked, fighting back her own tears now. “Mama, please,” she murmured. “Please, if you love me at all, just tell me.”
Madeline waited, watching as her mother sniffed again.
Lady Raleigh held her head high. “Your father’s aunt wrote you into her will, it’s true,” she admitted. “The family only found out about it last week. Maude left everything to you, Madeline.”
It was Madeline’s turn to suck in a gasping breath.
What? Could this be possible?
Lady Maude Blaire (née Leary) was the last living Leary, an old line of Irish earls. The title died out generations ago when the male line failed, but the Leary fortune had been passed down through the eldest female Leary, ending with Maude.
In her youth, Maude married Madeline’s great uncle, Archibald Blaire. They lived unhappily until his early death, and then Maude lived alone in her beautiful London townhouse. She rarely ventured out into society. In the last years of her life, Madeline was one of the few relations to visit her.
Madeline liked the odd bird. She appreciated silence as much as Madeline and boasted a fantastic library. She let her borrow as many books as she wanted on whatever topic. It was thanks to Maude and her fantastic linguistics collection that Madeline was learning German.
It broke a little piece of Madeline’s heart when they got the news two months ago that Maude had died quietly in her sleep. The family that had ignored her for half a century all turned up for her funeral. Most of them even wore black for a month. Madeline had asked her father more than once what was going to happen to Leary House, and he’d merely replied with, “It’s complicated, my dove.”
After her questions went unanswered, she let it drop until Patrick brought it up last night.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “What can you mean she left me everything?”
Her mother huffed. “I mean to say she left you everything, Madeline. The whole of the Leary fortune. She left you Leary House, the hunting lodge in Kerry, half shares in two profitable tin mines, and an annual income of three thousand pounds per annum.”
“Oh, god—” Madeline couldn’t breathe. Why was she still standing? Surely, one must sit to receive this kind of news. She glanced around, her hand waving awkwardly as if it could fashion a chair in thin air. She panted, turning and sinking her weight against the wall against the rest of the coats. “I—can’t—what does this mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything, because you cannot claim it,” her mother replied, her tone clipped. “Which is why it was beastly of Patrick to mention it to you at all.”
Madeline shook her head. This didn’t make sense. “Why can’t I claim it? I want to claim it. What must I do? Does Uncle Rodney have the will? Surely, he can help—”
“You cannot meet the conditions set forth in the will,” her mother snapped. “It is impossible, Madeline. Once the will is contested, your unclaimed assets will revert to the oldest of the Blaire children.”
Madeline blinked twice. “But . . . papa is the oldest.” An odd feeling of hope and foreboding mingled in her chest. “If I cannot claim my inheritance, the money will go to my father?”
Her mother gave a curt nod.
Madeline felt her sense of hope blooming. “Well, then surely, if I can’t claim it directly, he can claim it and give it to me as it was intended—”
“Oh, be sensible, Madeline,” her mother huffed. “What would a girl of twenty know about claiming such a fortune? You are a child. A sweet, ignorant fool. Best leave this to your father. He will take care of you, as he always has.”
Madeline reeled back as if slapped, her hope bursting inside her chest like a soap bubble. They meant to keep it from her. Whatever the conditions set forth in the will, they meant to keep her in the dark. Surely there must be a timing aspect to it. They were waiting out the clock. Madeline was about to lose her chance at a fortune she never even knew was hers, and the person ready to take it from her was none other than her own father. And her mother was in on the subterfuge.
“Who els
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