The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(18)

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.