The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(13)

“Although,” the viscount continued, “I must confess I’m a bit hazy on what exactly constitutes a fleshpot.”

Lucy’s gaze dropped to the table—the only safe thing to look at in the room at the moment. The old walnut dining table wasn’t long, but that made meals all the more intimate. Mama had chosen the striped burgundy and cream wallpaper before Lucy’d been born, and Papa’s collection of sailing ship prints graced the walls—

“I mean, flesh and pot, how did the two come together?” Lord Iddesleigh mused. “I trust we are not discussing chamber pots—”

Dangerous territory! Lucy smiled determinedly and interrupted the awful man. “Mrs. Hardy told me the other day that someone let Farmer Hope’s pigs out. They scattered for half a mile, and it took Farmer Hope and his boys a whole day to get them back.”

No one paid attention.

“Ha. From the Bible, fleshpot is.” Papa leaned forward, apparently having scored a point. “Exodus. Have read the Bible, haven’t you?”

Oh, dear. “Everyone thought it might be the Jones boys that let them out,” Lucy said loudly. “The pigs, I mean. You know how the Joneses are always up to mischief. But when Farmer Hope went round to the Jones place, what do you think? Both boys were in bed with fever.”

The men never took their gaze from each other.

“Not recently, I confess.” The viscount’s icy silver eyes sparkled innocently. “Too busy idling my life away, don’t you know. And fleshpot means . . . ?”

“Harrumph. Fleshpot.” Papa waved his fork, nearly spearing Mrs. Brodie as she brought in more potatoes. “Everyone knows what fleshpot means. Means fleshpot.”

Mrs. Brodie rolled her eyes and set the potatoes down hard at Papa’s elbow. Lord Iddesleigh’s lips twitched. He raised his glass to his mouth and watched Lucy over the rim as he drank.

She could feel her face warm. Must he look at her like that? It made her uncomfortable, and she was sure it couldn’t be polite. She grew even more warm when he set the glass down and licked his lips, his eyes still holding hers. Wretch!

Lucy looked away determinedly. “Papa, didn’t you once tell us an amusing story about a pig on your ship? How it got out and ran around the deck and none of the men could catch it?”

Her father was staring grimly at the viscount. “Aye, I’ve got a story to tell. Might be educational for some. About a frog and a snake.”

“But—”

“How interesting,” Lord Iddesleigh drawled. “Do tell us.” He leaned back in his chair, his hand still fiddling with the glass stem.

He wore David’s old clothes, none of which fit him, her brother being shorter and broader in the torso. The scarlet coat’s sleeves let his bony wrists stick out and at the same time the coat hung about his neck. He had gained some color in his face in the last days to replace the awful dead white he’d sported when she’d first found him, although his face seemed to be naturally pale. He should have looked ridiculous, yet he did not.

“Once there was a little frog and a great big snake,” Papa began. “The snake wanted to cross a stream. But snakes can’t swim.”

“Are you sure?” the viscount murmured. “Don’t some types of vipers take to the water to catch their prey?”

“This snake couldn’t swim,” Papa amended. “So he asked the frog, ‘Can you take me across?’”

Lucy had stopped even pretending to eat. She switched her gaze back and forth between the men. They were engaged in a conflict with multiple layers that she was powerless to influence. Her father leaned forward, red-faced under his white wig, obviously intent. The viscount was bare-headed, pale hair glinting in the candlelight. On the surface he was relaxed and at ease, maybe even a little bored, but below that surface she knew he was just as focused as the older man.

“And the frog says, ‘I’m not a fool. Snakes eat frogs. You’ll gobble me down, sure as I’m sitting here.’” Papa paused to take a drink.

The room was silent, save for the snap of the fire.

He set down his glass. “But that snake, he was a sly one, he was. He said to the little frog, ‘Never fear, I’d drown if I ate you crossing that big stream.’ So the frog thinks things over and decides the snake is right; he’s safe while he’s in the water.”

Lord Iddesleigh sipped his wine, his eyes watchful and amused. Betsy began clearing the dishes, her fat, red hands quick and light.

“The snake creeps on the little frog’s back, and they start into the stream, and halfway across, do you know what happens?” Papa glared at their guest.

The viscount slowly shook his head.

“That snake sinks his fangs into the frog.” Papa slapped the table to emphasize his point. “And the frog, with his last breath, calls, ‘Why did you do that? We’ll both die now.’ And the snake says—”

“Because it’s the nature of snakes to eat frogs.” Lord Iddesleigh’s voice mingled with her father’s.

Both men stared at each other for a moment. Every muscle in Lucy’s body tightened.

The viscount broke the tension. “Sorry. That story made the rounds several years ago. I just couldn’t resist.” He drained his glass and set it carefully by his plate. “Perhaps it’s in my nature to spoil another man’s tale.”