Page 7 of The English Duke
“Your Grace, a carriage is approaching.”
Jordan looked up from his whiskey to see Frederick standing at the door of his library.
At the moment his majordomo was looking as disgruntled as he felt.
“A carriage?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Damn, he’d forgotten.
“The York family,” he said. “They said they’d be here today and they are.”
“The York family?”
He glanced over at Reese seated in the twin of the wing chair he occupied.
“Matthew York’s family,” he said. “He and I conferred about the ship I’m testing. A brilliant man.”
“I didn’t realize you knew York. The world lost a great inventor when he died.”
Reese’s comment sparked his own interest. His friend had evidently been aware of the older man. Had Reese known about Matthew’s work on the torpedo ship?
“Why is his family visiting?”
He stood. “Hardly visiting. They’re bringing me Matthew’s bequest. Evidently, he wished me to have his notes and work. I don’t want them.” Reaching for his walking stick, he began the laborious and overly painful process to reach the door.
Reese kept pace with him, no doubt thinking it a kindness. He wished the other man would go on ahead, but he was doomed to fail in that just like he’d done keeping the York family away.
Walking was a horror for him, but at least he could do it now. The doctors had been doubtful he’d be able to from the beginning. He’d finally found a physician who was more optimistic. Or perhaps Dr. Reynolds had lied better than the others.
“It’s a matter of time, Your Grace.”
Time. How easily the physician had uttered those words. Time. It had taken time, all right. Ten months, two weeks, three days to get upright and shuffle one foot in front of the other. He still didn’t do it well. Nor would he, a judgment his ordinarily optimistic doctor had offered him on his last visit.
“You’ve already accomplished much more than was thought possible, Your Grace. You should congratulate yourself instead of wishing for more.”
“It isn’tmorethat I want, Dr. Reynolds. I want to be able to walk without a limp.” Without requiring a cane, or a walking stick as his housekeeper so quaintly phrased it. He wanted to be able to cross the room without people turning to stare at him, marking his passage, and noting how the effort to do so evidently pained him.
“Your leg was shattered, Your Grace. There’s muscle damage and more. I consider it a miracle you’re not confined to a wheeled chair.”
“Then your idea of a miracle and mine differ greatly,” he said.
He would have consulted another physician, but Dr. Reynolds was his third and the only one who’d given him any hope. The man had also furnished a tall, burly Swedish sadist by the name of Henry who insisted on pummeling him on a daily basis, stretching his leg over his head until he wanted to scream from the pain. But if anyone deserved the credit for his walking again, it was probably Henry, damn the man. If he’d made that remark, Henry would have smiled and insisted on another session.
He’d made Henry his valet, reasoning the man could learn another skill and he could save on the expense of a manservant. Henry was still learning how to care for his clothes, but since Jordan eschewed social events, he didn’t give a flying farthing if his cravat was tied correctly. In addition, most of the maids at Sedgebrook sighed after Henry. The man had a handsome face and a remarkable physique coupled with a ready smile.
Jordan finally made it to the door.
“Go on ahead and greet them,” he said, hoping Reese wouldn’t insist on remaining with him each agonizing step. “Otherwise, Frederick will send them away and I’ll have to sort through hurt feelings.”
“God forbid,” Reese said, smiling.
“They’re only staying for a moment,” he added. “As long as good manners dictate they remain.”
He’d offer them tea, but hoped they’d decline. An hour at most and they’d be gone. In a few days Reese would leave and he’d finally be alone. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors or even a friend at this point.
Chapter 3
