The Serpent Prince (6 page)

The third man in the room, Lord Gavin Walker, stirred in his armchair by the fire. Walker was built like a navvy, big and broad, his hands the size of hams, his features course. If not for the costly clothes and wig he wore, one would never guess he was an aristocrat. In fact, his family line dated back to the Normans. Walker withdrew a jeweled snuffbox from his coat pocket, deposited a pinch of snuff on the back of his hand, and inhaled it. There was a pause; then he sneezed explosively and employed a handkerchief.

Sir Rupert winced and looked away. Filthy habit, snuff.

“I don’t understand, James,” Walker said. “First you say Iddesleigh is dead and we have no further worries, and then he resurrects himself. Are you sure your men got the right gentleman?”

Sir Rupert leaned back in his desk chair and looked at the ceiling as he waited for the inevitable outburst from James. His study walls were a masculine deep brown, broken at waist height by a cream chair rail. A thick black and crimson carpet lay underfoot, and old-gold velvet curtains muffled the street noise from without. A collection of botanical engravings hung on the walls. He’d started the collection with a small study of a
Chrysanthemum parthenium
—feverfew—that he’d found in a bookshop over thirty years ago now. The print was not a good one. It had a water stain in the corner, and the engraved Latin name of the plant was smudged, but the composition was pleasant, and he’d bought it at a time when it meant going without proper tea for a month. It hung between two much larger, more expensive prints. A
Morus nigra
—mulberry—and a rather elegant
Cynara cardunculus
. Cardoon.

His wife, children, and servants knew never to disturb him in his study unless it was the most dire of emergencies. Which made it all the more galling to give up his personal domain to James and Lord Walker and the troubles they brought with them.

“Sure? Of c-c-course I’m sure.” James whirled and tossed something to Walker. It glittered as it flew through the air. “They brought that back to me.”

Walker, usually a slow, lumbering fellow, could move quickly when he wanted to. He caught the object and examined it, and his eyebrows rose. “Iddesleigh’s signet ring.”

The hairs on the back of Sir Rupert’s neck stood up. “Dammit, James, what the hell did you keep that for?” He was working with dangerous idiots.

“Didn’t matter, d-d-did it, with Iddesleigh d-d-dead.” James looked petulant.

“Except that he’s not dead anymore, is he? Thanks to the incompetence of your men.” Sir Rupert tossed back a healthy swallow of his whiskey. “Give it to me. I’ll get rid of it.”

“S-s-see here—”

“He’s right,” Walker interrupted. “It’s evidence we don’t want.” He crossed the room and set the ring on Sir Rupert’s desk.

Sir Rupert stared at the ring. The Iddesleigh crest was shallow, the gold eroded with age. How many generations of aristocrats had worn this ring? He covered it with his hand and palmed it, transferring it to his waistcoat pocket.

Covertly, he massaged his right leg under the table. His father had been an import merchant in the city. As a boy, Sir Rupert had worked in the great storehouse his father had maintained, carrying sacks of grain and heavy crates of merchandise. He didn’t remember the accident that had crushed his leg—not entirely, at least. Only the smell of the cod packed in salt that had spilled from the broken barrel. And the pain of the smashed bone. Even now, the smell of salted fish was enough to turn his stomach.

Sir Rupert looked at his partners and wondered if they’d ever worked a day in their lives.

“What do you know?” James was facing the bigger man now. “You haven’t done anything to help so far. I was the one who seconded Peller.”

“And more fool you. Should never have put Peller up to killing Ethan Iddesleigh. I advised against it.” Walker took out his snuffbox again.

James looked close to weeping. “You d-d-did not!”

The big man was unperturbed as he ritually measured out the snuff on his hand. “Did. Thought we should do it more covertly.”

“You liked the plan from the beginning, damn your eyes!”

“No.” Walker sneezed. He shook his head slowly as he again withdrew his handkerchief from a waistcoat pocket. “Thought it foolish. Too bad you didn’t listen to me.”

“You ass!” James lunged at Walker.

The bigger man stepped aside, and James stumbled past comically. His face reddened, and he turned to Walker again.

“Gentlemen!” Sir Rupert rapped his cane against the desk to draw their attention. “Please. We are wandering from the point. What do we do with Iddesleigh?”

“Are we certain he is alive?” Walker insisted. The man was slow but dogged.

“Yes.” Sir Rupert continued rubbing his aching leg. He would have to put it up after this conference, and it would be no good to him for the remainder of the day. “He’s in Maiden Hill, a small village in Kent.”

James frowned. “How do you know this?”

“That doesn’t matter.” He didn’t want them looking too closely there. “What’s important is that Iddesleigh is well enough to send for his valet. Once he’s recovered sufficiently, no doubt he’ll return to London. And we all know what he’ll do then.”

Sir Rupert looked from James, who was scratching at his scalp so hard that he must be drawing blood underneath the sunny blond hair, to Walker, who was staring thoughtfully back.

It was the bigger man who stated the obvious conclusion. “Then we had best make sure Iddesleigh doesn’t return, hadn’t we?”

Pray she never truly saw into his soul.

He became aware of some type of commotion going on downstairs. He could hear Captain Craddock-Hayes’s rumbling voice, Mrs. Brodie’s higher tones, and underneath, the constant mutter of that odd manservant Hedge. Simon levered himself out of his armchair and limped to the stairs. He was paying for his foray into the cold garden last night in pursuit of the angel. The muscles in his back had rebelled at being used too soon and had stiffened overnight. As a result, he moved like an old man—a recently beaten and stabbed old man.

Simon neared the first floor, and the voices became distinct.

“. . . carriage half the size of a whaler. Ostentatious, that’s what it is, plain ostentation.”

The captain’s baritone.

“Will they be wanting tea do you think, sir? I’ll need to see to my scones. I’ve made just enough to go around.”

Mrs. Brodie.

And finally, “. . . have a bad back, I do. Four horses, and great big beasts they are, too. I’m not getting any younger. May just kill me, it might. And does anyone care? No, ’course they don’t care. Just another pair of arms, I am to them.”

Hedge, naturally.

Simon smiled as he finished descending the stairs and walked to the front door where the others were gathered. Funny how the rhythm and tone of this house had so easily seeped into his bones.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” he said. “What’s all the fuss about?”

“Fuss? Ha. Great big vehicle. Wonder it could turn into the drive at all. Why anyone has need of such a thing, I don’t know. When I was a young man . . .”

Simon caught sight of the carriage out the open front door, and the captain’s complaint faded. It was his traveling coach, all right, with the Iddesleigh coat of arms in gilt on the doors. But instead of Henry, his valet of five years, another, younger man climbed down from inside, folding himself nearly double to clear the carriage door frame. He was old enough to have reached his full height—thank God, otherwise he would have ended a giant—but his body had not yet filled the impressive frame it had produced. Thus, his hands were overlarge, and raw-knuckled to boot; his feet like a puppy’s, too big for the thin shanks above; and his shoulders wide but bony.

Christian straightened, his orangey-red hair blazing in the afternoon sun, and grinned when he caught sight of Simon. “Rumor has it you’re either close to death or dead already.”

“Rumor, as always, manages to exaggerate the matter.” Simon sauntered down the steps. “Have you come to attend my funeral or were you merely passing by?”

“I thought it only right to see if you really were dead. After all, you might’ve left me your sword and scabbard.”

“Unlikely.” Simon grinned. “I believe my will has you down for an enamel piss-pot. I’m told it’s an antique.”

Henry emerged from behind the young aristocrat. In an exquisite white wig with two tails, violet and silver coat, and silver-clocked black stockings, Henry was far and away better dressed than Christian, who wore dull brown. But then Henry always was more superbly turned out than almost any other man near him, servant or aristocrat. Simon sometimes found himself hard-pressed to not fall in the shadow of his own valet. Add to that the fact that Henry had the face of a dissolute Eros—all golden hair and full, red lips—and the man became an absolute menace where the fairer sex was concerned. It was a wonder, really, why Simon kept him around.

“Then I’m most glad in this case that rumor was exaggerated.” Christian took Simon’s hand in both of his, almost embracing him, watching his face with concern. “You really are well?”

Simon felt unaccountably embarrassed. He wasn’t used to others worrying over his welfare. “Well enough.”

“And who is this, may I ask?” The captain had caught up to him.

Simon half turned to the older man. “May I introduce Christian Fletcher, sir? A friend and fencing partner. Christian, this is my host, Captain Craddock-Hayes. He has shown me every hospitality, selflessly turning over his son’s unused bedroom, his housekeeper’s excellent food, and his daughter’s exquisite company.”

“Captain. An honor to meet you, sir.” Christian bowed.

The captain, who had been eyeing Simon as if there might be a double meaning to
company,
switched his gimlet gaze to Christian. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a room as well, young man.”

Christian looked startled. He glanced at Simon as if for help before replying, “No, not at all. I was thinking of staying at the inn we passed in town.” Christian gestured vaguely over his shoulder, presumably in the direction of the inn.

“Ha.” The captain was momentarily stymied. Then he rounded on Simon. “But your servants, Lord Iddesleigh, they’ll be staying at my house, whether we have the room or not?”

“Of course, Captain Craddock-Hayes,” Simon said cheerfully. “I had thought of putting them up at the inn as well, but I knew your fine sense of hospitality would be insulted at the idea. So, rather than engage in one of those awkward tugs-of-war over propriety, I conceded the battle before it was ever fought and had my men come here.” He ended this blatant pack of lies with a little bow.

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.