Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  Edward cleared his throat. “I didn’t notice. Too busy stanching the flow of your ducal blood.”

  “I’ve summoned my physician, Your Grace,” Jackson said.

  “Thank you,” he managed. “Hurts like the very devil.”

  “I’ve sent word around for your physician,” Edward said. “Let his physician tend you until then.”

  “Don’t have one,” Jared contradicted, edgy with pain and frustration at having been caught with his guard down. A facer from his younger brother. Embarrassing!

  “Dr. McIntyre,” his brother reminded him.

  “Ah, Father’s physician.” The duke tried to ignore the mind and face-numbing pain wondering whose physician would arrive first.

  “If I may examine your injury, Your Grace.”

  Jared lowered the compress enough to look at the man who was undoubtedly Jackson’s physician. “Your name?”

  “Smythe, Your Grace.”

  Jared noted the man looked as if he’d had his nose fractured more than once. But chose to keep that thought to himself.

  “If I may?”

  While the physician tended to him, he heard Jackson and his brother talking quietly off to the side. His ears were still ringing, and he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. No doubt something to do with his injury and his blasted elevated station in life.

  “With your permission, Your Grace, I could straighten your nose,” the physician said. “Best not to let it remain in this position. With the swelling, it’ll be days before I can attempt to straighten it again.”

  “If he waits?” his brother asked, “what then?”

  Gentleman Jackson answered before the physician could. “It’ll have to be re-broken in order to shift it into position.”

  Jared drew in a deep breath, wondering how he’d escaped such an injury until now when he was moving forward to repair the family name and the object of gossip and innuendo—especially after last evening. Absolutely not looking forward to the prospect of having to have his nose broken intentionally at a later date in order to straighten it, he ground out, “Go ahead.”

  “Someone needs to hold His Grace still,” the physician told them.

  “I will.” Edward offered, and placed his hands on Jared’s shoulders.

  “Hang on to the arms of the chair, Your Grace,” Jackson instructed. “And don’t let go. The sooner Dr. Smythe has your nose in place, the sooner we can add another cold compress.”

  The pain was immediate and excruciating. He couldn’t move or speak for long moments until the first wave of agony passed.

  A blessed cold was applied to his face a second time. He nearly wept with gratitude.

  “Shall I carry His Grace out to his carriage?” Jackson asked Edward.

  Jared wanted to attempt to answer but felt his brother’s hands squeeze his shoulder. Edward had yet to let go of him. Jared was thankful for that.

  “Is there somewhere we can retire to until my brother can recover enough to walk out unaided?” Edward asked.

  “Of course, your lordship.”

  “Easy, Brother,” Edward said, removing his hands. “Jackson’s man and I will help you to the salon in the back. You can rest there until your head clears and you can walk.”

  Jared was grateful his brother had accompanied him to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy. God forbid if he’d come on his own and been reduced to such circumstances by someone other than his brother. Better the devil you know, he thought to himself.

  Now that everything was said and done, his brother helped him to stand. Jared made the mistake of looking down—bright crimson stained the front of his sodden linen shirt. “So much blood,” he rasped as his vision faded.

  “Bloody hell,” he ground out as his world went black.

  Chapter Five

  “Broken nose. Two black eyes and its highly probable Your Grace is slightly concussed,” Dr. McIntyre pronounced, stepping back from the duke’s bedside.

  “I prescribe rest—no laudanum for the pain for the first full day—and cold compresses to bring the swelling down,” the physician added.

  Jared’s face and head ached abominably. “Whiskey then?”

  McIntyre chuckled. “A tot,” he cautioned. “No more. We cannot risk the injury to your brain, Your Grace.”

  Jared paused, wondering at the change in the physician’s attitude toward him. “You used to call me Jared.”

  “Ah, Your Grace,” the physician said. “That was before you became the Duke of Wyndmere.”

  “Bloody inconvenient,” Jared mumbled. At least he’d regained consciousness and hadn’t slipped back into the void of darkness again. It had only happened once before when he’d fallen out of the tall oak on the village green when he’d been but twelve, landing on his head.

  “I have appointments,” he began.

  “Do you wish me to sugarcoat your injury, or speak plainly as I did with your father?” McIntyre inquired.

  “Plainly,” Jared said.

  “There is a chance the injury to your brain is more serious than it would appear. Absolute bedrest for two full days to ensure your complete recovery, Your Grace.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Jared,” his brother beseeched him from the other side of the bed. “Bad enough I was the one who caused this.”

  Jared reached for his brother’s hand. “My fault, and you know it.”

  “I happened to hear a bit of scuttlebutt on my way to attend Your Grace,” McIntyre said.

  Jared roused sufficiently to ask, “What did you hear?”

  “A contretemps at Gentleman Jackson’s earlier today involving the new Duke of Wyndmere and his brother, Earl Lippincott.”

  Jared’s head ached already. Hearing the cause of that pain would be added to as the latest on dit to be consumed by society made it pound in earnest. “What else?”

  “As with any facial injury,” the doctor began, “there was a prodigious amount of blood.”

  Jared vaguely remembered the state of the four cravats. He never thought he’d admit to lowering himself—at his brother’s urging—wearing two cravats to try to affect the latest fashion in neckwear. But thank God he had. Two of his own and two of his brother’s had been saturated…then there was his fine lawn shirt. “Was that mentioned as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you suggest an advert in the morning Post?” Jared asked.

  Dr. McIntyre grew thoughtful. He finished washing his hands and asked the servant to remove the bowl and bring fresh water for the patient. Drying his hands, he rolled down his sleeves and approached the duke’s bedside. “I won’t pretend ignorance of the last few years, and the reason for your suggestion,” he said. “Your father was the best of friends—prior to his ascending his role as the fourth duke.”

  Jared and Edward listened to the man they’d known since childhood.

  “I feel as if I’m swimming upstream against a strong current,” Jared admitted, “even before the facer Edward planted on me.”

  His brother grumbled beneath his breath while the good doctor tried to hide his amusement at Jared’s expression. “Your father was, above all, a fair man, one who knew the consequence of his actions and therefore cautious not to bring censure upon the house of Wyndmere.”

  Jared closed his eyes and wished he could take back the hours spent in Gentleman Jackson’s establishment. Up until the moment he’d been distracted, he’d been enjoying himself—immensely.

  He gave voice to what everyone knew. “The fifth duke was the antithesis of the fourth.”

  “Oliver was a horse’s ass,” Edward said without preamble.

  Jared tried to stifle the snort of laughter and ended up moaning in pain. “Bloody hell!”

  “Do not make him laugh, your lordship,” McIntyre instructed. “The duke needs quiet, bedrest, and cold compresses. Shall I send someone around to attend to him?”

  Jared roused enough to answer, “Mrs. Wigglesworth has offered.”

  “
Stouthearted woman,” the doctor acknowledged. “She’s seen her fair share of broken bones, cracked skulls, and the like over the years.”

  A knock sounded on the duke’s bedchamber door. The doctor opened the door to admit the housekeeper. “Ah, just who we were speaking of.”

  “I’ve more cold compresses with me, Dr. McIntyre,” Mrs. Wigglesworth said, bustling into the room. “More than enough supplies here to take care of the lad…er…His Grace.” She blushed to the roots of her white hair. Apologizing profusely, she added, “I’m so sorry, Your Grace!”

  Jared waved her words away and dug deep to reply. “You’ve been caring for my brothers and me as far back as I can remember. No apology necessary,”

  “But you’re the duke now,” she whispered, moving about the room, straightening up as she laid out the stack of clean white linen and a pitcher with condensation on the outside. “And you’ve worked so hard to right what your—”

  She shut her mouth and shook her head. “Here now, no more talk else I say something wrong and you’ll sack me for sure.”

  “Never,” Jared and Edward said at the same time.

  His head had cleared sufficiently enough to see the fear on their longtime housekeeper’s face. “If I’ve given the impression—” he began only to be interrupted by his brother.

  “We cannot undo all our brother has done,” Edward said. “But Jared has been struggling to repair what can be repaired.”

  “You may always speak your mind when it is just us,” Jared told her.

  “But Dr. McIntyre here—”

  “Has known us just as long and has sworn an oath not to discuss those under his care,” Edward said.

  The doctor agreed. “Just so. I’ll leave you in excellent hands, Your Grace,” he said. “Send word if his condition changes.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” she agreed, walking with him to the door.

  “I’ll see Dr. McIntyre out.” Edward moved to the door. “My brother needs to rest.”

  “Of course, Edward—er…your lordship.”

  Edward chuckled as he closed the door behind Dr. McIntyre. Joining the doctor on the stairs, he asked, “You don’t believe he suffers from a brain injury, do you?”

  One of their footmen was handing the doctor his hat and gloves when he paused to answer, “I do not. But it’s best not to take any chances, especially given the added strain your brother has been under as of late.”

  Edward fell silent, wondering what he could and should have done to aid in Jared’s quest to restore the family wealth lessening that strain. Now his brother was attempting the nearly impossible task of restoring the family name their brother had dragged into the mud.

  He sighed, thinking of the bevy of beauties he’d been pursuing prior to the debacle at the Hollisters’ ball. They’d have to wait for a bit longer. Looking at the doctor, Edward admitted, “I’m afraid I did not offer to help before he asked it of me.”

  McIntyre placed a beaver top hat on his head and turned to place a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Knowing His Grace as we both do, he wouldn’t have accepted an offer unless or until he required it.”

  “His injury is my fault entirely,” Edward rasped.

  “His Grace was quite clear when he stated he’d been momentarily distracted and dropped his guard, the split second you threw the punch. Unavoidable. Not your fault.”

  He nodded, accepting the physician’s wise words. “One more question.”

  “Of course, your lordship.”

  “Should Jared or I speak to someone to ensure Gentleman Jackson’s establishment remains clear of any wrongdoing?”

  “A sound idea. Not necessary, in my opinion, as the embellished story is hard for those with little else to do will no doubt be discussing over their first pot of tea. However, I’d caution against disturbing His Grace any further today. He desperately requires rest in order to heal.”

  “I’ll attend to it at once.”

  The doctor’s last words eased the tiniest bit of guilt he felt. “Your father would be proud of you both.”

  Edward went to his brother’s study and penned a note to the duke’s solicitors—brothers Clayton and Carlton Roxbury, asking them to come at once. Neither Edward nor his brother knew if what occurred earlier at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy would be considered a crime—harming a peer of the realm. After all, they were brothers, but matters such as these were often compounded by interference of well-meaning friends in the form of rumor and innuendo. Best to have the truth known to their solicitors, should anything come of the debacle.

  Many other members of the ton frequented Jackson’s and Angelo’s and had been injured. He could not remember any hue and cry go up at the time—other than the inevitable rumors the ton so desperately fed upon, but it was best to be overly cautious.

  An hour later, he’d explained the early morning occurrence at the boxing establishment more times than he’d have thought necessary. However, the end result would put to rest any question of culpability.

  As he walked with their solicitors to the entryway, Jenkins was accepting yet another message from a concerned member of society. By half-seven that evening, Jenkins had accepted condolences from a half a dozen concerned peers, three of whom hadn’t spoken to them since their father had gone on to his reward and their elder brother assumed the mantle of duke. Tedious was Edward’s first thought, but necessary would be what Jared would no doubt say.

  Mrs. Wigglesworth had come in to check on him more than once during that time, advising the duke was resting as comfortably as possible and had managed an hour of much-needed sleep.

  When he declined the evening meal, she asked, “Shall I have one of the servants bring you a light collation? It’s been hours since you’ve stopped for more than a bracing cup of tea.”

  He coughed to cover the snort of laughter. In his estimation, a cup of tea had never quite taken the edge off a long and trying day the way a snifter of brandy would.

  Knowing Mrs. Wigglesworth would wait as long as necessary for his reply, he hastened to agree, “Something light would be appreciated. Thank you.”

  “I’ll attend to it at once.”

  “Is my brother sleeping now?”

  She paused in the doorway. “Not at the moment.”

  “Would you have a tray sent upstairs and include something for Jared?”

  “Very good, your lordship. I do believe the doctor left instructions as to what His Grace may eat tonight. Don’t let him get out of that bed!” she called over her shoulder.

  Edward had no intention of letting his brother up or adding insult to the injuries Jared had suffered at his hands. “You have my word,” he promised.

  Edward walked into his brother’s bedchamber and found him on his feet. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “It should be bloody obvious,” Jared grumbled, walking slowly to the screen shielding the corner of the room.

  “Damn!” Edward hesitated—he hadn’t considered the possibility. “Do you need my assistance?”

  “Good God, no!” Jared’s voice sounded more strained than it should.

  “I’m coming!”

  “Give me strength,” Edward heard his brother say. “I’ll be out momentarily.”

  True to his word, his brother gingerly made his way around the standing screen. “Could use a steadying hand now, though.”

  Edward helped his brother back into bed. “I’ll just ring to have the chamber pot emptied.”

  While his brother did just that, Jared sighed as he tried to get comfortable. “Now I have an inkling as to what it may have been like when Father was so ill.”

  Edward closed the door behind the servant and walked back to sit beside the bed. “And why Father was grumbling most of the time after he suffered the last attack and was bedridden.”

  “Change of topic, if you don’t mind,” Jared said.

  His brother was more than ready to oblige. “Dr. McIntyre agreed it would not hurt to speak
to your solicitors about what happened.”

  “Whatever for? I am certain more than one member of the ton has taken a fist to the face at Jackson’s without repercussions.”

  “Need I remind you, as of late, you are the subject of more than one conversation over a morning pot of tea or glass of something stiffer at White’s? You are a peer of the realm,” Edward reminded him. “I wish I knew if injuries sustained by a peer, intentional or not, were suspect. I’m fairly well certain it is not a punishable offense as it would be if you were an officer in the Royal Navy and been assaulted.”

  “Mayhap that was at the root of why the cuckolded husband turned the pistol on himself,” Jared said.

  Edward considered, seeming to be giving it thought. “After he put paid to Oliver’s account, the lord was unlikely able to face the rumor and innuendo amongst the ton…far more damning in society’s eyes than taking his own life.”

  “I do not think it was necessary to summon our solicitors,” Jared said, “but I commend you on your forethought and action. You’d do well as the next duke, Brother.”

  Edward visibly shuddered. “Good God! Do not even suggest such a thing.” He sat in the chair by the bed, staring at his brother for a moment. “I am sorry, Jared.”

  “I know. Again, I repeat, it was not your fault. ’Twas mine. You were helping me vent frustration that would have likely ended the both of us in the suds when my temper let loose.” He fell silent for a few moments, before asking, “Did Jackson send word around he was being questioned?”

  “No. We thought it best to lay the groundwork, as it were, while you were resting to avoid any such circumstance from arising.”

  “Thank you.”

  “’Tis the very least I can do after breaking the nose of my noble brother.”

  Jared leaned against the comfort of a small mountain of pillows cushioning him from the carved walnut headboard and closed his eyes.

  “Should I ring for Mrs. Wigglesworth?”

  “No. I don’t think she’s had a moment to spare since we arrived home. She should, you know.”

  Edward walked to the door and opened it. “I’ll ask one of the footmen stationed outside your room to send down word you insist she take the time to have a restorative cup of tea and a meal.”