The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(19)

“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?”