The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(11)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

No one paid attention.

“Ha. From the Bible, fleshpot is.” Papa leaned forward, apparently having scored a point. “Exodus. Have read the Bible, haven’t you?”

Oh, dear. “Everyone thought it might be the Jones boys that let them out,” Lucy said loudly. “The pigs, I mean. You know how the Joneses are always up to mischief. But when Farmer Hope went round to the Jones place, what do you think? Both boys were in bed with fever.”

The men never took their gaze from each other.

“Not recently, I confess.” The viscount’s icy silver eyes sparkled innocently. “Too busy idling my life away, don’t you know. And fleshpot means . . . ?”

“Harrumph. Fleshpot.” Papa waved his fork, nearly spearing Mrs. Brodie as she brought in more potatoes. “Everyone knows what fleshpot means. Means fleshpot.”

Mrs. Brodie rolled her eyes and set the potatoes down hard at Papa’s elbow. Lord Iddesleigh’s lips twitched. He raised his glass to his mouth and watched Lucy over the rim as he drank.

She could feel her face warm. Must he look at her like that? It made her uncomfortable, and she was sure it couldn’t be polite. She grew even more warm when he set the glass down and licked his lips, his eyes still holding hers. Wretch!

Lucy looked away determinedly. “Papa, didn’t you once tell us an amusing story about a pig on your ship? How it got out and ran around the deck and none of the men could catch it?”

Her father was staring grimly at the viscount. “Aye, I’ve got a story to tell. Might be educational for some. About a frog and a snake.”

“But—”

“How interesting,” Lord Iddesleigh drawled. “Do tell us.” He leaned back in his chair, his hand still fiddling with the glass stem.

He wore David’s old clothes, none of which fit him, her brother being shorter and broader in the torso. The scarlet coat’s sleeves let his bony wrists stick out and at the same time the coat hung about his neck. He had gained some color in his face in the last days to replace the awful dead white he’d sported when she’d first found him, although his face seemed to be naturally pale. He should have looked ridiculous, yet he did not.

“Once there was a little frog and a great big snake,” Papa began. “The snake wanted to cross a stream. But snakes can’t swim.”

“Are you sure?” the viscount murmured. “Don’t some types of vipers take to the water to catch their prey?”

“This snake couldn’t swim,” Papa amended. “So he asked the frog, ‘Can you take me across?’”

Lucy had stopped even pretending to eat. She switched her gaze back and forth between the men. They were engaged in a conflict with multiple layers that she was powerless to influence. Her father leaned forward, red-faced under his white wig, obviously intent. The viscount was bare-headed, pale hair glinting in the candlelight. On the surface he was relaxed and at ease, maybe even a little bored, but below that surface she knew he was just as focused as the older man.

“And the frog says, ‘I’m not a fool. Snakes eat frogs. You’ll gobble me down, sure as I’m sitting here.’” Papa paused to take a drink.

The room was silent, save for the snap of the fire.

He set down his glass. “But that snake, he was a sly one, he was. He said to the little frog, ‘Never fear, I’d drown if I ate you crossing that big stream.’ So the frog thinks things over and decides the snake is right; he’s safe while he’s in the water.”

Lord Iddesleigh sipped his wine, his eyes watchful and amused. Betsy began clearing the dishes, her fat, red hands quick and light.

“The snake creeps on the little frog’s back, and they start into the stream, and halfway across, do you know what happens?” Papa glared at their guest.

The viscount slowly shook his head.

“That snake sinks his fangs into the frog.” Papa slapped the table to emphasize his point. “And the frog, with his last breath, calls, ‘Why did you do that? We’ll both die now.’ And the snake says—”

“Because it’s the nature of snakes to eat frogs.” Lord Iddesleigh’s voice mingled with her father’s.

Both men stared at each other for a moment. Every muscle in Lucy’s body tightened.

The viscount broke the tension. “Sorry. That story made the rounds several years ago. I just couldn’t resist.” He drained his glass and set it carefully by his plate. “Perhaps it’s in my nature to spoil another man’s tale.”

Lucy let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Well. I know Mrs. Brodie has made apple tart for dessert, and she has a lovely cheddar cheese to go with it. Would you care for some, Lord Iddesleigh?”

He looked at her and smiled, his wide mouth curving sensuously. “You tempt me, Miss Craddock-Hayes.”

Papa slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes.

Lucy jumped.

“But as a lad, I was warned many times against temptation,” the viscount said. “And although, sadly, I’ve spent a lifetime disregarding the warnings, tonight I think I shall be prudent. If you will excuse me, Miss Craddock-Hayes. Captain Craddock-Hayes.” He bowed and left the room before Lucy could speak.

“Impudent young bounder,” Papa growled, pushing his chair back from the table suddenly. “Did you see the insolent look he gave me as he left? Damn his eyes. And fleshpots. Ha, London fleshpots. I don’t like that man, poppet, viscount or no viscount.”

“I know that, Papa.” Lucy closed her eyes and wearily laid her head in her hands. She felt the beginnings of a migraine.

“The entire house knows that,” Mrs. Brodie proclaimed, banging back into the room.

CAPTAIN CRADDOCK-HAYES HAD IT RIGHT, the old bombastic bore, Simon reflected later that evening. Any man—especially a shrewd, eagle-eyed father—would do well to guard an angel as fine as Miss Lucinda Craddock-Hayes against the devils in the world.

Such as himself.

Simon leaned against the window frame in his borrowed bedroom, watching the night outside. She was in the dark garden, apparently strolling in the cold after that delicious but socially disastrous supper. He followed her movements by the pale oval of her face, the rest of her lost to the shadows. It was hard to tell why she fascinated him so, this rural maiden. Perhaps it was simply the draw of dark to light, the devil wanting to despoil the angel, but he thought not. There was something about her, something grave and intelligent and harrowing to his soul. She tempted him with the perfume of heaven, with the hope of redemption, impossible as that hope was. He should leave her alone, his angel entombed in the country. She slumbered innocently, doing good works and managing with a steady hand her father’s house. No doubt she had a suitable gentleman who called upon her; he’d seen the trap and horse pull away the other day. Someone who would respect her position and not test the iron that he sensed lay underneath her facade. A gentleman entirely unlike himself.