The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(2)

“But—”

“Now!” Lucy didn’t bother giving Hedge a look. She rarely used a sharp tone of voice, making it all the more effective when she did employ it.

“Awww,” the manservant moaned, but he tossed the coat to her.

“Go fetch Doctor Fremont. Tell him it’s urgent, and he must come at once.” Lucy gazed sternly into her manservant’s beady eyes. “And, Mr. Hedge?”

“Yes’m?”

“Please run.”

Hedge dropped the basket and took off, moving surprisingly fast, his bad back forgotten.

Lucy bent and tucked Hedge’s coat around the man’s buttocks and legs. She held her hand under his nose and waited, barely breathing, until she felt the faint brush of air. He was indeed alive. She sat back on her heels and contemplated the situation. The man lay on the half-frozen mud and weeds of the ditch—both cold and hard. That couldn’t be good for him, considering his wounds. But as Hedge had noted, he was a big man, and she wasn’t sure she could move him by herself. She peeled back a corner of the wrap covering his back. The slit in his shoulder was crusted with dried gore, the bleeding already stopped to her admittedly inexperienced eyes. Bruises bloomed across his back and side. Lord only knew what the front of him looked like.

And then there was the head wound.

She shook her head. He lay so still and white. No wonder she’d mistaken him for dead. But all the same, Hedge could’ve already been on his way to Doctor Fremont in the time they’d taken to argue over the poor man.

Lucy checked again that he was breathing, her palm hovering above his lips. His breath was light but even. She smoothed the back of her hand over his cold cheek. Almost invisible stubble caught at her fingers. Who was he? Maiden Hill was not so big that a stranger could pass through it without notice. Yet she had heard no gossip about visitors on her rounds this afternoon. Somehow he’d appeared here in the lane without anyone noticing. Then, too, the man had been obviously beaten and robbed. Why? Was he merely a victim, or had he somehow brought this fate upon himself?

Lucy hugged herself on the last thought and prayed Hedge would hurry. The light was fading fast and with it what little warmth the day had held. A wounded man lying exposed to the elements for Lord knows how long . . . She bit her lip.

If Hedge didn’t return soon, there would be no need of a doctor.

“HE’S DEAD.”

The harsh words, spoken at Sir Rupert Fletcher’s side, were much too loud in the crowded ballroom. He glanced around to see who stood near enough to overhear, then stepped closer to the speaker, Quincy James.

Sir Rupert gripped the ebony cane in his right hand, trying not to let his irritation show. Or his surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said.” James smirked. “He’s dead.”

“You’ve killed him?”

“Not me. I sent my men to do it.”

Sir Rupert frowned, trying to comprehend this information. James had settled on a course of action by himself, and it had succeeded? “How many?” he abruptly asked. “Your men.”

The younger man shrugged. “Three. More than enough.”

“When?”

“Early this morning. I had a report just before I left.” James flashed a cocky grin that gave him boyish dimples. Seeing his light blue eyes, regular English features, and athletic form, most would think him a pleasant, even attractive, young man.

Most would be wrong.

“I trust the matter cannot be traced back to you.” Despite his efforts, an edge must’ve crept into Sir Rupert’s voice.

James lost the smile. “Dead men can’t tell tales.”

“Humph.” What an idiot. “Where did they do it?”

“Outside his town house.”

Sir Rupert swore softly. To waylay a peer of the realm outside his own home in broad daylight was the work of a half-wit. His bad leg was giving him the very devil tonight and now this nonsense from James. He leaned more heavily on the ebony cane as he tried to think.

“Don’t get worked up.” James smiled nervously. “N-n-no one saw them.”

The elder man arched an eyebrow. Lord save him from aristocrats who decided to think—let alone act—on their own. There’d been too many generations of leisure for the typical lordling to easily find his own prick to piss with, never mind something more complicated like planning an assassination.

James was blithely unaware of Sir Rupert’s thoughts. “Besides, they stripped the body and dumped it half a day’s ride outside London. Nobody’ll know him there. By the time it’s found, there won’t be much to recognize, will there? P-p-perfectly safe.” The younger man’s hand crawled up to poke a finger into his golden-yellow hair. He wore it unpowdered, probably as a vanity.

Sir Rupert took a sip of Madeira as he contemplated this latest development. The ballroom was a stifling crush, redolent of burning wax, heavy perfume, and body odor. The French doors leading into the garden had been thrown open to let in the cool night air, but they had little effect on the room’s heat. The punch had given out a half hour before, and there were several hours yet before the midnight buffet. Sir Rupert grimaced. He didn’t hold out much hope for the refreshments. Lord Harrington, his host, was notoriously stingy, even when entertaining the cream of society—and a few upstarts such as Sir Rupert.