The flesh on his thigh was turning purple, and he growled as he noted how his boots were scuffed, possibly beyond repair. He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, focusing on calming his churning mind. He didn’t want to think about his mother’s words, nor did he wish to remember what had just transpired, but it haunted him on the edge of his mind.

A sarcastic scoff escaped his lips, and a dry sneer teased his lips. Hadn’t he been musing over the confidence in Lady Joan’s words? Choosing to spend more time with his mother, be a better son? It was all for naught.

He’d known that Robert was the favorite, but for her to so clearly indicate that was heart-wrenching.

Lowson knocked once and then let himself back in the room, giving a quick nod to indicate the missive had been sent. “Shall we address this, then?” He gestured to Rowles’s leg.

Rowles nodded once, not trusting his voice or much else at the moment. He was still reeling with shock from the whole fiasco. But one thing was for certain: something needed to be done. His mother was a danger, and he couldn’t, in good conscience, continue to let the nurses address her violent behavior.

Lowson poured water into a bowl and began to dab the blood caked on Rowles’s thigh. “No stitches, I’d say. But we’d best get this splintered wood out, Your Grace.”

“Do what you must,” Rowles rumbled.

In short work, Lowson had removed the splinters and bandaged him well, with only the faint sting reminding him of the earlier pain. A knock sounded at the door as Lowson finished tying Rowles’s cravat as the final touch on his new and cleaner clothes.

“Enter,” Rowles called, tugging on his shirtsleeves.

A maid entered and curtsied. “The doctor has arrived, Your Grace.”

Rowles nodded. “I’ll be down directly.”

The maid curtsied and left as Rowles let out a tight breath. “This is not how I imagined my day going,” he muttered.

“I’m sure, Your Grace,” Lowson murmured.

As Rowles exited his bedroom and started for the stairs, he steeled himself for what he was about to do.

God have mercy on them all.

Six

Men are sometimes hanged for telling the truth.

—Joan of Arc

Joan resisted the urge to fidget or twitch or nervously tap her foot as she held court in the green salon for all her callers. The previous night’s party had been a smashing success, if only because no fewer than five suitors had called, and it was only half past four. The clink of china teacups sounded throughout the room as she scanned the occupants. Three earls, a viscount, and a baron, all vying for her attention.