The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(3)

A narrow space had been cleared in the middle of the room for the dancers. They swirled in a rainbow of colors. Lasses in embroidered gowns and powdered hair. Gentlemen turned out in wigs and their uncomfortable best. He didn’t envy the young people the pretty movements. They must be dripping sweat under their silks and lace. Lord Harrington would be gratified at the massive turnout so early in the season—or rather, Lady Harrington would. That lady had five unmarried daughters, and she marshaled her forces like an experienced campaigner readying for battle. Four of her daughters were on the floor, each on the arm of an eligible gentleman.

Not that he could stand in judgment with three daughters under the age of four and twenty himself. All of them out of the schoolroom, all of them in need of suitable husbands. In fact . . . Matilda caught his eye from some twenty paces away where she stood with Sarah. She arched a brow and looked meaningfully at young Quincy James, who was still standing beside him.

Sir Rupert shook his head slightly—he’d rather let one of his daughters marry a rabid dog. Their communication was well developed after nearly three decades of marriage. His lady wife turned smoothly away to chat animatedly with another matron without ever revealing that she had exchanged information with her husband. Later tonight she might quiz him about James and ask why the young man wasn’t up to snuff, but she wouldn’t dream of badgering her husband right now.

If only his other partners were so circumspect.

“I don’t know why you’re worried.” James apparently couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “He never knew about you. Nobody knew about you.”

“And I prefer to keep it that way,” Sir Rupert said mildly. “For all of our sakes.”

“I wager you would. You left m-m-me and Walker and the other two for him to hunt in your stead.”

“He would’ve found you and the others in any case.”

“There’s s-s-some who would still like to know about you.” James scratched at his scalp so violently he nearly dislodged his queue.

“But it would not be in your best interest to betray me,” Sir Rupert said flatly. He bowed to a passing acquaintance.

“I’m not saying I would let it out.”

“Good. You profited as much as I from the business.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then all’s well that ends well.”

“Easy for y-y-you to s-s-say.” James’s stutter was growing more frequent, a sign the man was agitated. “You didn’t see Hartwell’s body. He was skewered through the throat. Must’ve bled to death. His seconds said the duel lasted only two minutes—two minutes, mind you. A-a-awful.”

“You’re a better swordsman than Hartwell ever was,” Sir Rupert said.

He smiled as his eldest, Julia, started a minuet. She was wearing a gown in a becoming shade of blue. Had he seen it before? He thought not. It must be new. Hopefully it hadn’t beggared him. Her partner was an earl past his fortieth year. A mite old, but still, an earl . . .

“P-p-peller was an excellent swordsman, too, and he was k-k-killed first.” James’s hysterical voice interrupted Sir Rupert’s thoughts.

He was too loud. Sir Rupert tried to calm him. “James—”

“Challenged at night and d-d-dead before breakfast the next morn!”

“I don’t think—”

“He lost three f-f-fingers trying to defend himself after the s-s-sword was wrenched from his hand. I had to search the g-g-grass for them afterward. G-g-god!”

Nearby heads swiveled their way. The younger man’s tone was growing louder.

Time to part.

“It’s over.” Sir Rupert turned his head to meet James’s gaze, holding and quelling him.

There was a tic under the other man’s right eye. He inhaled to begin speaking.

Sir Rupert got there first, his voice mild. “He’s dead. You’ve just told me.”

“B-b-but—”

“Therefore, we have nothing further to worry about.” Sir Rupert bowed and limped away. He badly needed another glass of Madeira.

“I’ LL NOT HAVE HIM IN MY HOUSE,” Captain Craddock-Hayes pronounced, arms crossed over his barrel chest, feet braced as if on a rolling deck. His bewigged head was held high, sea-blue eyes pinned on a distant horizon.

He stood in the entrance hall to Craddock-Hayes house. Usually the hall was quite large enough for their needs. Right now, though, the hall seemed to have shrunk in proportion to the amount of people it held, Lucy thought ruefully, and the captain was right in the center of it.

“Yes, Papa.” She dodged around him and waved the men carrying her stranger farther in. “Upstairs in my brother’s bedroom, I think. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Brodie?”

“Of course, miss.” The Craddock-Hayes housekeeper nodded. The frill of her mobcap, framing red cheeks, bobbed in time with the movement. “The bed’s already made, and I can have the fire started in a tick.”

“Good.” Lucy smiled in approval. “Thank you, Mrs. Brodie.”

The housekeeper hurried up the stairs, her ample bottom swaying with each step.

“Don’t even know who the blighter is,” her father continued. “Might be some tramp or murderer. Hedge said he was stabbed in the back. I ask you, what sort of a chap gets himself stabbed? Eh? Eh?”