Chapter 002 Percy
Perhaps I had been too forward.
Too blunt.
Too honest.
Henry needed truth. The world he had returned to would not spare him its edges. His father—white, stubborn, defiant—had married a Black woman despite every raised eyebrow in the county. William’s mother had been pale and proper. When she died, the old earl went to London and came back with Henry’s mother. Beautiful. Dark. Unapologetic.
Henry carried both worlds in his veins.
Wealth had opened doors that would have stayed barred to most. Money softened prejudice. It did not erase it.
In America, men and women with skin like Henry’s mother were bought and sold.
The thought turned my stomach.
I did not see colour.
I saw Henry.
Had seen him since we were thirteen.
I loved him then.
I loved him still.
Without thinking, I slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and guided him into the bath.
He hissed.
The water was hot. Almost too hot.
Good.
He needed the heat to reach the ache in his bones.
I steadied him as he sank. Lower. Lower. Until the water closed over his face.
He held his breath.
I counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
He surfaced with a gasp that sounded like pain and relief together.
I handed him the soap.
He tried.
His left hand fumbled. The bar slipped.
I watched the struggle for only a moment.
“Would you like assistance, my lord—”
“Henry.”
The single word cracked across the steam.
“Henry.” I softened it. “Would you like me to help?”
“It had to be the right arm.” Bitter. Low. “As though losing one limb were not enough.”
I took the soap from him.
No answer seemed adequate.
I lathered my hands.
I washed him.
Slowly.
The grime of travel came away in grey rivulets. His skin emerged darker, warmer. Scars crossed his chest like pale lightning. The stump ended just above where the elbow had been.
I did not flinch.
I had seen worse on battlefields—only stories, never the fields themselves—but I had imagination enough.
His hair had been trimmed recently. Thank God. I worked soap into the short curls, rinsed, worked again until the water ran clear.
A knock.
Martha with fresh buckets.
I thanked her quietly.
Closed the door.
Tested the new water with my fingers.
Scalding.
I mixed it carefully.
“Just pour it.”
“I will not burn you.”
“I can take it.”
I smiled at that. Of course he could.
I poured slowly over his head.
He closed his eyes.
When the stream ended, he shook his head like a dog.
Water flew.
Everywhere.
Including across my shirt and waistcoat.
“Hellfire.” He looked at the damage. “I do apologise.”
“Nothing that won’t dry.” I flicked droplets from my sleeve. “At least you are clean.”
A ghost of a smile.
The first I had seen from him since the carriage rolled up the drive.
“Yes.” Quiet. “I am.”
He braced to rise.
The stump brushed the tub’s edge.
He swore.
Viciously.
I moved without thought. Arms beneath his. Lifted.
He was heavier than he looked—muscle still there, beneath the wasting—but I had the strength.
I held him until his good leg took his weight.
He muttered more curses.
I reached for a towel.
Dried him.
Carefully.
Everywhere.
I tried not to look lower.
I had seen men. In London. In shadowed rooms. Quick, silent encounters that left me emptier than before.
I had never seen Henry.
Not like this.
I kept my gaze professional.
Mostly.
When he was dry enough, I helped him into loose trousers and a soft shirt. Lounging clothes. Tonight he would not descend to the dining room.
Tonight he would eat in bed like an invalid.
He hated that.
I saw it in the set of his mouth.
I left him sitting on the edge of the mattress and went down to the kitchen.
Martha looked up from the range.
“Two trays?”
“Yes.” I kept my voice level. “So I may stay close.”
She smiled. “It is good to have the master home.”
“He will need time.”
Understatement.
Mr. Fortescue appeared at my elbow as if summoned by the word master.
“I have a list.” He produced it like a sword. “The Marstons. Lord Linwood. The Somersets. John Sutherland from Blackthorne Estate. All anxious to pay their respects.”
My jaw tightened.
“He is grieving.” I kept my voice low. “Three deaths in six months. Injuries that nearly killed him. He will receive when he is ready.”
Fortescue lifted one brow. “The earl has obligations.”
“His obligation is to Isabella.” I stepped closer. “To the tenants. To the land. He owes society nothing yet.”
Martha’s eyes widened.
She had never heard me speak so to the butler.
Fortescue drew himself up. “I remind you of your place, Mr. Dankworth.”
“My place is beside him.” Quiet steel. “To see to his comfort. His health. His peace. Until he dismisses me himself.”
I took the trays and left before the man could answer.
When I returned, Henry was asleep.
Sprawled across the bed like a man who had finally lost a long fight.
I set one tray aside.
Ate my own stew in the chair by the fire.
Rich.
Hearty.
The bread still warm.
Butter sweet.
The house had carried on without a master for months. Cook’s kitchen ran like a regiment. Wiggins kept the accounts. Fortescue kept the hierarchy.
All waiting for Henry.
He stirred near midnight.
I was at the bedside before his eyes opened fully.
“Do you need…?”
“To piss.” Flat. “Yes.”
I helped him.
He hated the necessity.
I saw it in every stiff muscle.
When I turned to empty the chamber pot, I caught the glimpse I had avoided earlier.
Impressive.
I disposed of the contents quickly.
Returned.
“Are you ready for food?”
“Wine.” He rubbed his face. “Whisky. Anything.”
I hesitated.
“You said you would assist me.”
I poured wine.
Half a goblet.
Cook had sent only half a bottle. Wise woman.
I brought the tray.
He managed to sit higher against the pillows.
I set the tray across his lap.
Reached for the spoon.
He snatched it with his left hand.
Fierce.
“I can still feed myself.” The scowl returned. “Buttons are impossible. Cravats worse. But this I can do.”
I sat back.
Let him.
He ate with concentration. A little awkward. No spills.
“Good?”
“Magnificent.” He took another spoonful. “Army rations were… memorable.”
He had grown thin.
Not just from the injuries.
From years of short commons.
Guilt twisted in me again.
I had stayed safe.
He had not.
When the bowl was empty, I refilled the goblet.
He drank.
“You will entertain.” I kept my voice calm. “The Marstons. Lord Linwood. The Somersets. John Sutherland from Blackthorne. They will come.”
His mouth twisted.
“You will ride again.” I pressed gently. “Maestro is waiting.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“Maestro is still alive?”
“A colt when you left.” I smiled. “Now a gentleman. He remembers you.”
“I cannot ride.”
“Cannot.” I leaned forward. “Or will not?”
He looked away.
I took the empty tray.
Set it aside.
“Eat up, Henry.” I used the name deliberately. “You have work ahead.”
He glared.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
Just slightly.
He thought he had won the small battle over the name.
He had not.
I had only begun.