Magnus Carrington had no idea his wretch of a wife had gone to the constabulary. He was well into his cups by the time the constable showed up. The elder Carrington sat slumped in a winged chair in front of the bare hearth, a crystal tumbler half filled with brandy was cradled in his hand. He sobbed then, feeling the last bits of his sanity starting to crack for all that was happening. How in the fuck had he gone wrong as far as his brood went? Sure, he'd slipped up and sired his youngest daughter with one of the maids and would not let the woman raise her, but she was not to blame for that.

He understood why she did what she did at least, but even still, he was angry at her for doing it when he had all but shoved permission for the boy to court her at Joseph. Then there was most of the rest of his brood, his killer of an heir no longer alive, his second son lost in the clouds with his art, his first daughter was a cruel young woman who took after his bitch of a wife, his triplets were all... well... special in their own way, all arrogant. Needless to say, he could go on and on with the shite his family was putting him through.

He gave a sob and downed the last of that cup before wavering and shaking as he poured another glass. The amber liquid sloshed onto his hand and he nearly toppled from his chair. "Oh, Ballocks!" He threw the decanter, his precious decanter made of crystal, into the fireplace where it shattered. He once again downed the contents of the glass and then slid down in his seat, sobbing even harder.

The sound of it could be heard down into the foyer from the library.