The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(17)

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?”

Chapter Four

Sometimes I think I know you. The words seemed engraved on Simon’s brain. Simple words. Frank words. Words that scared the hell out of him. Simon shifted in his armchair. He was in his room, resting before a small fire in the grate and wondering where Miss Craddock-Hayes was. She’d not been at luncheon, and the captain had spoken—when he’d spoken—only in monosyllables. Damn her. Didn’t she know such simplicity was embarrassingly gauche? Didn’t she know she was supposed to bat her eyelashes and say meaningless things to a gentleman? To flirt and banter and always, always hide her true thoughts? Not say aloud words that had the potential to rip at a man’s soul.

Sometimes I think I know you. What an appalling thought, if she could truly know him. He was a man who had spent the last months ruthlessly hunting Ethan’s killers. He sought them out one by one, challenged them to duels, and then slaughtered them with a sword. What would an angel make of such a man? She would cringe in horror if she really knew him, back away and flee screaming.

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.