Where I had suffered my injury.
Timed to coincide with the end of the war.
Apparently timing was never on my side.
Twelve years of war. Somehow, against all odds, I survived twelve years of war. Many men I had known died. I eventually commanded soldiers—many of whom died as well. I carried that knowledge with me.
From a man who took nothing seriously—including women’s virtues—to a commander responsible for ensuring his men returned to Britain alive.
More failure.
I attempted to shake off the dark thoughts.
“My lord?”
I met Percy’s crystal-blue eyes. Read the concern. In turn, I cleared my throat. “Bath.”
“I shall see it done.” He sprinted ahead of me—which had not been my intention. However, if that action resulted in me being able to sink sooner into the steaming water of a bath, I had no complaints.
My steady steps carried me to the mansion. Steady thanks to the cane.
Blasted Percy.
Except he was correct far more than not. For a former footman who was now a valet, he was extremely well read. His education had carried on longer than most children’s. When formal schooling ended, his father asked my father if Percy could read the books in our massive library.
Apparently my father had been so surprised at the request that he had agreed.
Mr. Dankworth had been my father’s cherished butler until Father’s passing ten months ago. At that point, Mr. Dankworth had taken his retirement, choosing to move into a cottage on our property.
With a woman he recently married—Percy’s mother having died more than a dozen years ago.
We had not visited with the elder Dankworth today, but I intended to. The man was one of the last tangible connections to my father.
Upon his leaving the post, Mr. Fortescue had taken on the reins of the household. Having been trained at Mr. Dankworth’s side, the man had been ready for the responsibility and, if Wiggins was to be believed, was competent.
My own eyes had shown me as much.
By the time I reached Crosswood Hall, my thigh burned, and the thought of climbing those stairs nearly brought tears to my eyes. I would not, of course, cry. Hastings did not cry. The Earl of Hartridge would never be seen weeping.
Still, by the time I reached my room, my limp was pronounced, and I nearly fell into the chair.
Percy entered moments later and clucked his tongue.
I rolled my eyes.
He moved to my feet and immediately removed my boots.
For reasons I could never quite explain, that alleviated my thigh pain.
Well, a modicum.
“We shall get you undressed. Perhaps a glass of wine while I prepare the bath?”
“All right.” I felt he was often stingy with the wine and so smiled when he offered me a glass.
By the time he assisted me into the bathtub, I was pliant. The fragrant water seeped into my muscles within moments, and I exhaled loudly.
He chuckled. “I shall return.” He scooped up my clothes and departed.
