Page 2 of To Heal a Broken Earl (The Rakes of Mayhem #7)

Near Grosvenor Square, Mayfair

London, England

“Damn and blast!”

The door to the bedroom flew open, and a tall, wiry blond man hurried inside. “My lord! I see you’re…in a bit of a predicament.”

“A predicament?” Michael snapped. “What gave you that impression, Hastings? The fact that I’m lying here on my naked arse in a puddle of ice-cold water?”

His tone was sharp enough to cut glass, given the situation was anything but dignified.

He cast a glare toward the chair near the bed, where Hastings had left a towel neatly folded for him.

If he’d had the sense—or the humility—to ask Hastings to move the chair closer before he climbed into the tub, he might not have slipped trying to reach it.

But pride, as always, had won out over caution.

“Quite right, my lord,” Hastings said, his lips twitching. “Though, had you rung the bell”—he nodded pointedly toward the small table beside the tub— “I might have been able to prevent your current…situation.”

“Help me up, will you?” Michael grumbled.

“Why didn’t you ring for me?” Hastings pressed, moving forward but making no real effort to hide his amusement.

“Because I’m tired of ringing that damn bell like some cranky codger in his dotage, that’s why,” Michael muttered as Hastings helped him to his feet.

Hastings pursed his lips. “Well, you certainly aren’t old , my lord.”

Michael shot him a sideways glare. “Glad to hear it.”

Hastings gave a bland shrug. “Cranky, perhaps. Stubborn, most assuredly. But not old .”

“Stop, Hastings—your compliments are making me blush,” Michael said dryly.

Hastings snorted—a familiar sound, one Michael had heard often enough on the battlefield and in far darker places than this room. Without another word, Hastings steadied him, guiding him toward the bed with the same quiet efficiency that had once saved Michael’s life more times than he could count.

Michael clenched his teeth, lowering himself onto the mattress with a hiss. His left leg was throbbing mercilessly.

Hastings, wiping the floor, glanced at him and said with dry precision, “Perhaps next time you’ll ask for assistance, my lord.”

Michael exhaled slowly, his face tightening. “Like hell, I will,” he muttered.

Hastings wisely said nothing at first. Then, with a twitch of his lips, he murmured, “Miracles do happen.”

Michael pointedly ignored his valet’s smart reply. He shifted his weight—and pain lanced through his thigh. His leg had never truly healed—not after the war, and certainly not after he’d been shot, stabbed, and left to drown in a brackish sea cave on the Isle of Wight.

He was lucky he still had it, though some days, it hardly felt like much of a victory.

Seeing him grimace, Hastings added, “You know, my lord, if you would only heed Dr. Enzo Bianchi’s advice, you might not be in such pain. He is much sought after. Even Wellington himself recommends the Italian.”

Michael grunted. “Yes, so you say.”

“When was the last time you allowed me to massage the salve into your leg?” Hastings asked.

“When?” Michael growled, his voice rough with pain. “Surely you remember the last time. Finn woke from his sleep, started howling, and made a quick exit as if he were running for his life.” He grimaced. “My dog ran away because I reeked, Hastings.”

“Aye, I recall,” Hastings said. “Finn hid until mealtime the next day, and that dog never runs from anything.”

“Especially a meal.” Michael rubbed a hand over his face, half in amusement, half in misery.

Finn never missed a meal.

Michael’s mind flickered back to the scruffy, half-starved spaniel he’d found during a mission in France.

A special assignment had sent him and his team undercover to hunt down a dangerous smuggler.

While inspecting a ship moored off the coast of Brittany, he’d come across a small crate tucked into the hull, housing a trembling, malnourished dog.

The crew claimed they’d found the spaniel wandering the woodlands, appearing half-dead.

It had taken months for Finn to trust him—and to get the dog healthy.

He had been in the crate, forgotten, for too long, and the dog had little muscle tone.

Now, the dog was his constant companion—unless the cursed salve came out.

Then loyalty fled faster than French smugglers spotting a revenue cutter.

“Speaking of Finn, where is he? He’s usually sleeping on his bed near the fireplace,” Michael said, glancing toward the empty spot.

“When I came in earlier to lay out your clothing, Finn got the scent of something our Mrs. Peppers was baking for tomorrow morning, and took off for the kitchen,” Hastings said.

“Last I checked, she was baking scones and biscuits. I imagine Finn is huddled at her side, and we both know Mrs. McDonald can’t resist those big brown eyes.

No doubt he’ll gobble up as much as she gives him. They’ve bonded over her cooking.”

“Traitorous dog,” Michael murmured fondly.

“There’s no need for you to subject yourself to being in pain all the time. It’s all about your pride, my lord,” Hastings said. “The stuff works. At least allow me to massage it into your leg at night. No one will be around to smell it.”

Hastings cared. He’d been with Michael for nearly ten years. Since serving as his batman during the war, he’d continued at his side, assisting him in his work for the Crown. They were more than lord and valet; they were friends. Michael didn’t always like what Hastings said, but he listened.

“I understand, my lord,” Hastings said as if reading his thoughts. “Had the second injury not happened on that special assignment, you might only be dealing with the limp.”

“Yes, I know what you are going to say… again . Had I allowed you to accompany me on the assignment, this might not have happened. You keep reminding me,” Michael ground out. “But as I’ve told you many times, that wasn’t an option.”

“No. I was going to add that Dr. Bianchi’s salve is a tried-and-true remedy.

When you used it those first few times, it gave you relief.

And as you are aware, you might have lost your leg—nay, your life—had your good friends not taken you to Lord and Lady Romney’s residence.

And I don’t have to remind you that Lady Romney—who grew up in America’s Louisiana bayou country and learned herbal medicine from her aunts—saved your life with her expertise. ”

“Your point?” Michael huffed.

“My point, my lord, is that you are fortunate, and owe much of that good fortune to these herbal remedies. Yes, it smells abominable, and no, we’ve no idea what’s actually in the concoction—but it does work."

“Fine. I’ll allow it,” Michael reluctantly agreed.

Since returning to England, he had become more isolated.

His life had changed. He kept to himself more, unaffected by the winsome smiles of young ladies who tried to capture his attention at social gatherings.

He reclined back, adjusted the towel over his frame, and extended his leg for Hastings’s ministrations.

Afterward, as he lay there with a scented handkerchief over his nose, doing everything he could not to breathe in the pungent odor, the door burst open, and his butler swooped in.

“Damn and blast! Doesn’t anyone knock anymore?” Michael said, trying to sit up, while at the same time keeping the smelly salve from staining his coverlet and holding the handkerchief over his nose.

“My lord…forgive the intrusion, but we have a situation,” the butler said, breathing hard.

“Stanhope, this better be good,” Michael said, tossing the useless handkerchief aside. He could still smell the salve anyway.

Stanhope took one sniff and immediately pinched his nose.

Michael bit back a chuckle at the hilarious look on the older man’s face.

Stanhope could barely tolerate any strong aromas; even a lady’s perfume brought a pinched look to his face that made him resemble a cat that had just tasted soured milk.

The foul smell of the salve might give him a fit of the vapors.

“My lord, forgive me, but there’s an emergency at Lady Beadle’s. There’s been a fire, and Lady Beadle needs you right away.”

My God! She’s like an aunt to me. I must get there as soon as possible .

“Have my horse brought to the front, Stanhope,” Michael said.

“Yes, my lord,” the butler said, his eyes watering and his finger still pressed beneath his nose as he hastily left the bedchamber.

A moment later, a footman entered, leading Finn on a leash—just as Michael stood and tossed the towel on the bed, exposing himself to man and beast. Michael heaved a beleaguered sigh. His bedchamber was beginning to resemble a public house.

The footman’s eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed scarlet. Turning his gaze away, he cleared his throat. “My lord, Mrs. Peppers said to tell you that Master Finn has had his fill of sausage rolls, scones, and biscuits, and asked that I escort him to your rooms.”

Snatching the towel back off the bed, Michael wrapped it around his lower torso. “Thank you, Thomas,” he muttered.

Finn made a strange noise as he sniffed the air. With a sudden yelp, he jerked the leash from the footman’s hand and bolted from the room. The footman exclaimed and chased after him.

~*~