The Serpent Prince
Page 9

For a moment the captain was speechless. He frowned thunderously, but Simon knew when he had scored a point.
“Ha. Well. Ha.” The older gentleman rocked back on his heels and glanced at the coach. “Just what I’d expect from city toffs. Ha. Have to tell Mrs. Brodie, then.”
He turned in time to nearly collide with Hedge. The manservant had come outside and was stopped dead in his tracks, gaping at Simon’s liveried coachman and footmen.
“Gor. Would you look at that,” Hedge said with the first hint of reverence Simon had ever heard in his voice. “Now that’s the way a man oughter be dressed, silver braid and purple coats. ’Course, gold braid would be even better. But still, it’s a lot finer than some dress their staff.”
“Staff?” The captain looked outraged. “You’re not staff. You’re the odd-jobs man. Now help them with the boxes. Good God, staff.” And with that he stomped into the house, still muttering.
Hedge headed in the opposite direction, also muttering.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Christian whispered.
“The captain?” Simon started to the house with the younger man. “No, no. The man positively adores you. That’s just his way, really. Did you see the puckish twinkle in his eye?”
Christian half smiled, as if uncertain whether to take Simon’s words at face value or not. Simon felt a momentary pang. To be so young in the world, like a new-hatched chick, its feathers still wet from the shell, surrounded by larger, less benign fowl and the threat of the foxes lurking just out of sight.
But then Simon frowned at a thought. “Where did you hear these rumors of my imminent demise?”
“There was talk about it at the Harrington’s ball the other evening and again the next afternoon at my coffeehouse. But I didn’t take it very seriously until I heard it at Angelo’s.” Christian shrugged. “And, of course, you didn’t show for our regular match.”
Simon nodded. Dominico Angelo Malevolti Tremamondo—known simply as Angelo to his patrons—was the fashionable fencing master of the moment. Many aristocratic gentlemen attended the Italian’s lessons or came to his school of arms in Soho simply to practice and exercise. Simon had actually met Christian at the master’s establishment several months ago. The younger man had openly admired Simon’s technique. Somehow the admiration had turned into a weekly fencing match with Simon giving his acolyte pointers on form.
“What did happen to you?” They entered the hall, dark after the sun outside. Christian’s strides were long and quick as he talked, and it was an effort for Simon to pace him without showing weakness. “Henry didn’t seem to know.”
“Stabbed.” The captain was already in the sitting room and must have overheard the question as they entered. “The viscount was stabbed in the back. Hit the shoulder blade. Farther to the left and the knife would’ve pierced a lung.”
“Then I guess he was lucky.” Christian stood as if uncertain how to proceed.
“Damn right, he was lucky.” The captain made no move to welcome the other men. “Ever see a man die from a lung wound? Eh? Can’t breathe. Suffocates in his own blood. Nasty way to end.”
Simon sat down on a settee and leisurely crossed his legs, ignoring the pain in his back. “Your description fascinates me strangely, Captain.”
“Ha.” The captain settled in an armchair, a grim smile on his face. “What fascinates me is why you were attacked in the first place. Eh? Jealous husband? Insulted someone?”
Christian, left standing by himself, looked around and found a wooden chair by the settee. He lowered himself, only to freeze as the chair creaked ominously.
“I’ve insulted many, many men over the course of my lifetime, I’m sure.” Simon smiled back at the captain. He mustn’t underestimate the older man’s perception. “As for jealous husbands, well, discretion forbids I say anything.”
“Ha! Discretion—”
But the captain was interrupted by the entrance of his daughter, followed by Mrs. Brodie carrying a tea tray.
Simon and Christian stood. The captain made it to his legs and almost immediately sat back down again.
“My dearest lady,” Simon said, bending over her hand. “I am overwhelmed by the radiance of your presence.” He straightened and tried to tell if she’d been avoiding him today, but her eyes were veiled, and he could not discern her thoughts. He felt a surge of frustration.
The angel’s lips curved. “You had better be careful, Lord Iddesleigh. One day my head may be quite turned by your flowery compliments.”
Simon clapped his hand to his chest and staggered back. “A hit. A direct hit.”
She smiled then at his antics but turned her golden eyes to Christian. “Who is your guest?”
“He is but the poor son of a baronet and red-haired to boot. Hardly worth your divine notice.”
“For shame.” She sent him a chiding glance—oddly effective—and held out her hand to Christian. “I like ginger hair. And what is your name, poor son of a baronet?”
“Christian Fletcher, Miss . . . ?” The younger man smiled charmingly and bowed.
“Craddock-Hayes.” She curtsied. “I see you’ve already met my father.”
“Indeed.” Christian raised her hand to his lips, and Simon was forced to resist the urge to throttle him.
“You’re a friend of Lord Iddesleigh?” she asked.
“I—”
But Simon had had enough of her attention elsewhere. “Christian is everything I hold dear in a fellow man.” For once he didn’t know if he spoke the truth or lied.
“Really?” Her face was solemn again.
Damn her for taking him so seriously; no one else did, not even himself.
She sat gracefully on the settee and began to pour the tea. “Have you known Lord Iddesleigh long, Mr. Fletcher?”
The younger man smiled as he accepted his teacup. “Only a few months.”
“Then you do not know why he was attacked?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”
“Ah.” Her eyes met Simon’s as she proffered his tea.
Simon smiled and deliberately stroked a finger across her hand as he accepted the cup. She blinked but didn’t drop her gaze. Brave little angel. “I wish I could assuage your curiosity, Miss Craddock-Hayes.”
“Harrumph!” The captain exploded on the settee beside his daughter.
Christian selected a scone from the tray and sat back. “Well, whoever attacked Simon must’ve known him.”
Simon stilled. “Why do you say that?”
The younger man shrugged. “It was three men, wasn’t it? That’s what I heard.”
“Yes?”
“So they knew you were—are—a master swordsman.” Christian sat back and munched on his scone, his face as open and innocent as it’d ever been.
“A master swordsman?” Miss Craddock-Hayes looked between Simon and Christian. “I had no idea.” Her eyes seemed to search his.
Damn. Simon smiled, hoping he gave nothing away. “Christian overstates—”
“Oh, come! I have never known you to be modest, Iddesleigh.” The younger man was all but laughing in his face. “I assure you, ma’am, bigger men quake in their boots when he walks by and none dare call him out. Why, only this fall—”
Good God. “Surely that tale isn’t for a lady’s ears,” Simon hissed.
Christian flushed, his eyes widening. “I only—”
“But I enjoy hearing things not meant for my delicate ears,” Miss Craddock-Hayes said softly. Her gaze challenged him until he could almost hear her seductive siren’s call: Tell me. Tell me. Tell me who you truly are. “Will you not let Mr. Fletcher continue?”
But the protective papa stirred, saving him from further folly. “I think not, poppet. Leave the poor fellow be.”
His angel flushed, but her gaze did not waver, and Simon knew if he stayed here much longer, he would drown in those topaz eyes and bless the gods for his fortune even as he went down for the third time.
“NUDE? ALTOGETHER NUDE?” Patricia McCullough leaned forward on the ancient settee, nearly upsetting the plate of lemon biscuits on her lap.
Her round face with its peaches-and-cream complexion, plump ruby lips, and golden curls gave her the look of a vapid shepherdess in a painting. A look that actually was at odds with her personality, which was more like that of a housewife intent on bargaining down the local butcher.
“Quite.” Lucy popped a biscuit into her mouth and smiled serenely at her childhood friend.
They sat in the little room at the back of the Craddock-Hayes house. The walls were a cheerful rose color with apple-green trim, invoking a flower garden in summer. The room wasn’t as big or as well furnished as the sitting room, but it’d been Mama’s favorite and was cozy for entertaining a dear friend like Patricia. And the windows overlooked the back garden, giving them a nice view of the gentlemen outside.
Patricia sat back now and knit her brows as she studied the viscount and his friend out the window. The younger man was in his shirtsleeves, despite the November chill. He held a sword in his hand and was lunging about with it, no doubt practicing fencing in a serious way, although the steps looked rather silly to Lucy. Lord Iddesleigh sat nearby, either giving helpful encouragement or, more likely, searing his friend with his criticism.
What was the story that Mr. Fletcher had so nearly blurted out yesterday? And why had the viscount been so determined that she not hear it? The obvious answer was some kind of scandalous love affair. That was the sort of thing usually deemed too sordid for a maiden’s ears. And yet, Lucy had the feeling that Lord Iddesleigh wouldn’t mind overmuch shocking her—and her father—with his bedroom exploits. This was something worse. Something he was ashamed of.
“Nothing like that ever happens to me,” Patricia said, bringing her back to the present.
“What?”
“Finding naked gentlemen beside the road whilst walking home.” She pensively bit into a biscuit. “I’m more likely to find one of the Joneses drunk in the ditch. Fully clothed.”
Lucy shuddered. “I should think it would be better that way.”
“Undoubtedly. Still, it does give one something to tell the grandchildren on a cold winter’s night.”
“This was the first time it happened to me.”
“Mmm. Was he facing up or down?”
“Down.”
“Pity.”
Both ladies turned back to the window. The viscount lounged on the stone bench under one of the apple trees, long legs stretched before him, shorn hair glinting in the sun. He grinned at something Mr. Fletcher said, his wide mouth curving. He looked like a blond Pan; all he needed was the hooves and horns.
Pity.
“What do you suppose he was doing in Maiden Hill?” Patricia asked. “He’s as out of place here as a gilded lily on a dung heap.”
Lucy frowned. “I wouldn’t call Maiden Hill a dung heap.”
Patricia was unmoved. “I would.”
“He says he was attacked and left here.”
“In Maiden Hill?” Patricia’s eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief.
“Yes.”
“I can’t imagine why. Unless he was attacked by particularly backward robbers.”
“Mmm.” Privately, of course, Lucy had been wondering the same thing. “Mr. Fletcher seems a nice enough gentleman.”
“Yes. Makes you wonder how he became friends with Lord Iddesleigh. They go together like crushed velvet and burlap.”
Lucy tried to repress a snort and wasn’t entirely successful.
“And red hair is never entirely satisfactory on a man, is it?” Patricia scrunched her freckle-covered nose, making herself look even more adorable than usual.