Every instinct in him said to leave the room and let the nurse attend to her, but instead he took several slow steps toward her bedside.

“No.” Her eyes widened.

Rowles tipped his head in confusion, then took a step back as his mother lurched forward from her bed.

“No! Deceiver! Where’s Robert? Where’s my son?” The words were a shriek as she grasped his shoulders and pushed him backwards with surprising force. Caught off guard by her assault, he landed on a wooden side table as the nurse came in with the requested tea.

“Oh my!” the nurse exclaimed and rushed back out the door, calling for footmen.

Rowles stood from his sprawled position on the floor, casting a furtive glance at the now-shattered side table and the splintered wood that had embedded itself in his skin. Wincing in pain, he watched his mother cautiously as she continued to advance toward him.

It was a difficult position; he didn’t want to harm her but also didn’t wish to be assaulted further. Yet he knew that he’d gladly take more abuse rather than defend himself against her. She let out a loud screech and lunged for him. Rowles reached out and grasped her in a hug, pinning her arms to her sides as he held her tight. Three footmen rushed in, followed by two nurses.

“Your Grace!” one of the footmen shouted and then started forward at the moment his mother took the opportunity to Rowles in the shoulder.

He howled in pain, releasing her reflexively.

The footmen held her fast and then guided her to her bed as she spat epithets at them all.

Rowles panted with shock as he watched them pin his mother to her bed. A nurse poured a dose of laudanum into a cup, then added water. With shaking hands, she took the cup to his thrashing mother. He watched as the nurse all but forced the liquid down his mother’s throat, amid her gagging and coughing, with a good measure of spitting thrown in, till at least some portion was swallowed. The footmen held fast for several minutes as they waited for the opiate to take effect.

Slowly, his mother ceased her fighting, and her protesting became weaker as she relaxed. None too soon, the only sound was the soft noise of her snoring as she fell asleep.

The footmen gently released their hold and stood cautiously, then turned to face him. “How can we assist you, Your Grace?” one asked. His livery vest was open, the gold buttons of his uniform scattered across the floor from the duchess’s assault as he’d held her fast. Another footman’s lip was swollen, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.

The third refused to turn, standing vigil over the duchess, making sure she didn’t awake and renew her assault.