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R as pushed past the startled butler of Nate’s gentlemen’s home.

The building housed four men of good rank but reduced funds.

This allowed the men to share servants, but it did little to ensure excellent service, as evidenced by a butler who did nothing to challenge Ras as he stormed up to Nate’s bedroom on the top floor.

He banged once on the door then pushed through to his former friend’s sitting room. It was cluttered with books and papers of all kinds. Nate loved his scribblings and up until this day, Ras had supported the man’s interests though it ran to literature rather than politics.

“Nate!” he bellowed. “Wake up!” He slammed the damned newspaper against the wall to vent his fury. Then he stomped into the bedroom intending to beat some sense into the man.

He should have noticed the scent earlier, but his blood was up, and he was moving fast. The room was too dark to see much of anything, and he fouled his footing on a stack of books.

Cursing, he fumbled his way to the curtain and hauled the things open.

At least it was a bright day so light flooded the room.

He wasn’t surprised by the groan coming from the bed.

He was fully aware how light could pain a man with a sore head.

But Nate deserved that and more, so he didn’t moderate his voice as he bellowed again.

“Wake up, so I can curse you—”

He cut off his words with a choke of horror.

Nate’s bedsheets were stained with blood.

Worse, the dark mass in the middle wasn’t spoiled linens, but his friend with a swollen face and still seeping wounds.

The man was in the clothing he’d worn last night, though now it was ripped from a thorough thrashing.

No knife cuts that he could see, but his friend’s feet—

Hell. The man’s feet were cut nearly to shreds, looking as if he’d walked the whole of London without his shoes.

Then he noticed the smell. Old blood in a musty room. Not putrid, thank heaven, or sick, but the scent was not pleasant. And underneath it all, the fishy scent of the docks. What the hell had the man been doing?

“My God, Nate, what happened?”

He rushed to the bedside and saw that Nate had one eye open. “Ras? What are—ow.”

Not dead then, nor insensate. That was something. No gushing wounds. Nothing large enough to indicate a stabbing. Footpads, most likely. Ones who liked a good pair of boots.

“Damn it, man,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you just give them what they wanted? No need to fight.”

“You give ’em what they want,” Nate grumbled. “I keep what’s mine.”

“You try to keep it,” Ras said as he gently ran his hands down his friend’s arms and legs. Though the man winced several times, there was no cry of pain from broken bones. “How bad are the ribs?”

“Leave me alone.”

“The hell I will. Damn it, I came here to beat some sense in you. Leave it to you to get it done beforehand.” Ras straightened up. “Stay here. I’ll send for a doctor.”

“No.”

“If it’s a matter of payment, I’ll take care—”

“No!” Nate’s breath wheezed into a whimper. When he spoke next, his words were slow and careful. “No doctor. He’ll bleed me and charge you for the pleasure. I’ve lost enough blood.” He waved absently at the window. “Close that and leave me to die.”

He knew Nate was joking, but the possibility of death was all too real. Even without broken bones, the risk of infection was severe. And here? In a cluttered room with no manservant? This was not acceptable.

“What’s the name of the butler here?”

“What?”

“Your butler’s name. What is it?”

“Hopfer. Good man if you pay him extra.”

That didn’t sound like a good man to Ras, but then he had the luxury of retainers who had served the dukedom for generations. They often took his ducal status more seriously than he did and would never extort him for more money. Of course, it helped that he paid them well.

He walked swiftly to the top of the stairs. “Hopfer! I need clean water and linens. And you will send a footman to my home. I have a message for my housekeeper.”

Mr. Hopfer peered up the stairs, his expression none too pleased. “And why—”

“I am the Duke of Harle, and I do not like being questioned.” He rarely needed to throw his title in someone’s face, but sometimes it expedited things.

He went back into Nate’s sitting room and scrawled out a message for his staff.

Nate would not lie here on bloodied sheets while he recuperated.

Ras had few true friends among the sycophants and leeches who always surrounded a duke.

He would not lose one now, no matter what Nate had written in his blasted gossip column.

He intended to wait until his friend was healthy and then thrash Mr. Pickleherring. Verbally.

Once his letter was done, he went into Nate’s room.

He quickly spotted clean clothes and the man’s last pair of shoes.

He packed what was needed in a satchel. Nate had fallen back into an uneasy sleep.

Ras hated to disturb him, but it was necessary.

Especially as a footman arrived with a basin of water.

“Wot happened to ’im?” the footman asked.

Ras raised a brow. He was not used to servants who asked cheeky questions. It was not the footman’s business what had occurred, but again, that was a ducal privilege. Servants pried if they were allowed, and apparently Mr. Hopfer had a lax hand with his staff.

“Footpads,” he snapped. “Tell my coachman I require Tillman’s assistance.” His coachman would have to stay with the horses, but Tillman, a groom, was young and strong. Together, they could get Nate into the carriage.

“You don’t need anyone else. I can ’elp,” the footman said. And indeed, the man was larger than Tillman, but his curiosity was palpable. His gaze kept running around the room, landing on papers and whatever it was Nate had strewn about. That was the attitude of a man looking to pinch something.

“You will help by showing Tillman up here. I will let you know if I require more.”

The man sniffed as if he’d been insulted, but he did as he was bid. Meanwhile, Ras went to Nate’s side and began to wipe away the worst of the damage.

“Stop,” his friend moaned.

Ras ignored him. Normally, he’d strip Nate out of his clothing first, but that might as well wait until they got to his home. He was just mitigating the damage until he could get Nate transported.

“Where is your lock box? Your important papers?”

“What?”

“I’m taking you to my home, and I don’t trust your butler as far as I can throw him. Tell me what you need to have with you because, by God, you are not staying here.”

Nate blinked open one eye. “I don’t need—”

“The hell you don’t.”

“I’ll not be another Broderick.”

Ras growled in frustration and fear. Nate had long since proven he wasn’t a leeching sycophant. “You’re a bloody idiot!” he fumed, startled when he realized his curse was literally true. “Now let me make sure you don’t die. If you must pay me back, you can scrub my floors afterwards.”

“You scrub your floors,” his friends muttered. “I need a nap.”

He needed a doctor, clean sheets, and good food. And someone who took care of matters rather than argue with Nate’s pride. So Ras didn’t say more. He just took charge.

Looking down at Nate’s feet, he decided that there wasn’t a prayer in hell that Nate could get shoes on. Which meant he’d have to hobble barefoot down to the carriage. Or be carried, which would not go over well. But at least he could have on thick socks so that there wouldn’t be any more damage.

He was just looking about the room when Tillman showed up. “Your Grace?” he said as he bowed.

“Find a pair of socks and put them on him. We’re carrying him to the carriage.”

The man didn’t so much as blink. He nodded then began the search. The same could not be said of Nate who moaned as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“Have done, Ras. You’re a good friend. A stand-up duke and all that, but I’m too tired to fight you. I’ll be fine.”

“Of course, you will be.” Because he’d be at Ras’s residence.

The water in the basin was now dark red, and the cloth would never be clean again. He carried the things out into the hall where Hopfer stood watching with undisguised curiosity.

“Excellent,” he said as he shoved the basin at the man.

Hopfer had to take it or let it drop on his feet.

“Be aware that I will send my secretary and housekeeper to clean these rooms.” His secretary would sort through whatever papers Nate had lying about and collect what was important.

His housekeeper would see everything cleaned properly, and then the two would put a new lock on the door.

If nothing else, it would keep what was left from being ransacked.

Predictably, Hopfer cut up stiff. “This house has no thieves. I run a proper household, but I cannot account for how the gentlemen spend their time.”

Ras didn’t bother answering. He’d known Nate since they were young boys at Eton.

The man was casual about his papers, but he was neater than this.

Or he had been when they were at school.

Ras was startled to realize that he had no idea how Nate usually lived now because they’d always met elsewhere.

This was the first time he’d been in the man’s rooms since school.

Ignoring that unsettling realization, Ras sat down on the edge of the bed and regarded his friend. Though Nate was sitting upright, he looked pale and sweaty, which was not a good sign.

“Do you need a bucket?”

“No.” The word came out as a bare whisper.

“I’m going to help you up. Tillman will be on the other side. Then the three of us are going downstairs to the carriage.”

“God, Ras. Leave me alone.” There should have been a bite to the words, but Nate was in too much pain to put force into his voice.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I can’t.”