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

“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?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Lucy answered automatically. “Would you mind moving to the side so the men can carry him past?”

Papa shuffled obediently nearer the wall.

The laborers panted as they wrestled the wounded stranger inside. He lay so terribly still, his face pale as death. Lucy bit her lip and tried not to let her anxiety show. She didn’t know him, didn’t even know the color of his eyes; and yet it was vitally important that he live. He’d been placed on a door to make it easier to carry him, but it was obvious that his weight and height still made the maneuver difficult. One of the men swore.

“Won’t have such language in my house.” The captain glared at the offender.

The man flushed and mumbled an apology.

Papa nodded. “What kind of a father would I be if I allowed any sort of gypsy or layabout into my home? With an unmarried gel in residence? Eh? A damned rotten one, that’s what.”

“Yes, Papa.” Lucy held her breath as the men negotiated the stairs.

“That’s why the blighter must be taken somewhere else—Fremont’s house. He’s the doctor. Or the poorhouse. Maybe the vicarage—Penweeble can have a chance to show some Christian kindness. Ha.”

“You’re quite right, but he’s already here,” Lucy said soothingly. “It would be a shame to have to move him again.”

One of the men on the stairs gave her a wild-eyed look.

Lucy smiled back reassuringly.

“Probably won’t live long in any case.” Papa scowled. “No point ruining good sheets.”

“I’ll make sure the sheets survive.” Lucy started up the stairs.

“And what about my supper?” her father grumbled behind her. “Eh? Is anyone seeing to that while they rush about making room for scoundrels?”

Lucy leaned over the rail. “We’ll have supper on the table just as soon as I can see him settled.”

Papa grunted. “Fine thing when the master of the house waits on the comfort of ruffians.”

“You’re being most understanding.” Lucy smiled at her father.

“Humph.”

She turned to go up the stairs.

“Poppet?”

Lucy stuck her head back over the rail.

Her father was frowning up at her, bushy white eyebrows drawn together over the bridge of his bulbous red nose. “Be careful with that fellow.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Humph,” her father muttered again behind her.

But Lucy hurried up the stairs and into the blue bedroom. The men had already transferred the stranger to the bed. They tramped back out of the room as Lucy entered, leaving a trail of mud.

“You shouldn’t be in here, Miss Lucy.” Mrs. Brodie gasped and pulled the sheet over the man’s chest. “Not with him like this.”

“I saw him in far less just an hour ago, Mrs. Brodie, I assure you. At least now he’s bandaged.”

Mrs. Brodie snorted. “Not the important parts.”

“Well, maybe not,” Lucy conceded. “But I hardly think he poses any risk, the condition he’s in.”

“Aye, poor gentleman.” Mrs. Brodie patted the sheet covering the man’s chest. “He’s lucky that you found him when you did. He’d’ve been frozen by morn for sure, left out there on the road. Who could’ve done such a wicked thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nobody from Maiden Hill, I’m thinking.” The housekeeper shook her head. “Must be riffraff down from London.”