The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(8)

She merely nodded this time. She’d picked up a pencil and had begun sketching in her book, although he couldn’t see the page, so he didn’t know if she was illustrating his story or not.

“Angelica toiled every day, from the first light of dawn until the sun had long set, and all she had for company were the goats. The king’s castle was built on top of a cliff, and the goat girl lived at the foot of the cliff in a little stick hut. If she looked far, far up, past the sheer rocks, past the shining white stone of the castle walls to the very turrets, sometimes she could just catch a glimpse of the castle folk in their jewels and fine robes. And once in a very great while, she would see the prince.”

“The Serpent Prince?”

“No.”

She cocked her head, her eyes still on her drawing. “Then why is the fairy tale called The Serpent Prince if he isn’t the Serpent Prince?”

“He comes later. Are you always this impatient?” he asked sternly.

She glanced up at him then as her lips slowly curved into a smile. Simon was struck dumb, all thought having fled from his mind. Her fine, jeweled eyes crinkled at the corners, and a single dimple appeared on the smooth surface of her left cheek. She positively glowed. Miss Craddock-Hayes really was an angel. Simon felt a strong, almost violent, urge to thumb away that dimple. To lift her face and taste her smile.

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want this.

“I’m sorry,” he heard her say. “I won’t interrupt again.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m afraid my head hurts. No doubt from having it bashed in the other day.” Simon stopped babbling as something occurred to him. “When, exactly, was I found?”

“Two days ago.” She rose and gathered her book and pens. “I’ll leave you to rest. I can write the letter to your valet in the meantime and post it. Unless you would like to read it first?”

“No, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Simon sank into the pillows, his ringless hand lax on the coverlet. He kept his voice casual. “Where are my clothes?”

She paused, halfway out, and shot him an enigmatic look over her shoulder. “You didn’t have any when I found you.” She closed the door quietly.

Simon blinked. Usually he didn’t lose his clothes until at least the second meeting with a lady.

“THE VICAR’S HERE TO SEE YOU, MISS.” Mrs. Brodie poked her head into the sitting room the next morning.

Lucy sat on the blue damask settee, darning one of Papa’s socks. She sighed and glanced at the ceiling, wondering if the viscount had heard her visitor below his window. She didn’t even know if he was awake yet; she hadn’t seen him this morning. Something about his amused gray eyes, so alert and alive, had flustered her yesterday. She was unaccustomed to being flustered, and the experience wasn’t pleasant. Hence her cowardly avoidance of the wounded man since leaving him to write his letter.

She laid aside her mending now. “Thank you, Mrs. Brodie.”

The housekeeper gave her a wink before hurrying back to the kitchen, and Lucy rose to greet Eustace. “Good morning.”

Eustace Penweeble, the vicar of Maiden Hill’s little church, nodded his head at her as he had every Tuesday, barring holidays and bad weather, for the past three years. He smiled shyly, running his big, square hands around the brim of the tricorne he was holding. “It’s a beautiful day. Would you care to come with me as I make my rounds?”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Good. Good,” he replied.

A lock of brown hair escaped from his queue and fell over his forehead, making him look like an immense little boy. He must have forgotten the powdered, bobbed wig of his station again. Just as well. Lucy privately thought he looked better without it. She smiled at him fondly, gathered her waiting wrap, and preceded Eustace out the door.

The day was indeed beautiful. The sun was so bright it nearly blinded her as she stood on the granite front step. The ancient orange brick of Craddock-Hayes House looked mellow, the light reflecting off the mullioned windows in front. Old oak trees lined the gravel drive. They’d already lost their leaves, but their crooked branches made interesting shapes against the crisp, blue sky. Eustace’s trap waited near the door, Hedge at the horse’s head.

“May I assist you in?” Eustace asked politely as if she might actually turn him down.

Lucy placed her hand in his.

Hedge rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Every blamed Tuesday. Why not a Thursday or Friday, for Jaysus’ sake?”

Eustace frowned.

“Thank you.” Lucy’s voice overrode the manservant’s, drawing Eustace’s eyes away from him. She made a production out of settling herself.

The vicar got in next to her and took the reins. Hedge retreated to the house, shaking his head.

“I thought we’d drive around to the church, if that meets with your approval.” Eustace chirruped to the horse. “The sexton has alerted me that there may be a leak in the roof over the vestry. You can give me your opinion.”

Lucy just refrained from murmuring an automatic how delightful. She smiled instead. They bowled out of the Craddock-Hayes drive and into the lane where she’d found the viscount. The road looked innocent enough in the light of day, the empty trees no longer menacing. They topped a rise. Dry stone walls rolled over the chalk hills in the distance.