The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(40)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Of course.”

“I can’t remember where I stopped.” He frowned over the ugly stump. “It’s been so long now.”

“I remember.” She settled her bottom more firmly on the stool. “Angelica had stolen the Serpent Prince’s skin and threatened to destroy it, but she relented and spared his life in the end.”

“Ah, yes.” He made a careful V-shaped cut in the top of the stump. “The Serpent Prince said to Angelica, ‘Fair maid, since you hold my skin, you hold my very life in your hands. You have but to name it and I will grant you a wish.’”

Lucy frowned. “He doesn’t sound very bright. Why does he not simply ask for his skin back without telling her what power she has over him?”

He shot a glance at her from under lowered brows. “Perhaps he was enthralled by her beauty?”

She snorted. “Not unless he was extremely dim.”

“Your romantic soul overwhelms me. Now will you let me continue?”

She clamped her mouth shut and nodded mutely.

“Good. It occurred to Angelica that here was a very lucky thing. Perhaps she could meet the prince of the land at last. So she said to the Serpent Prince, ‘There is a royal ball being held tonight. Can you take me to the ramparts of the castle so that I may see the prince and his entourage pass by?’ Well, the Serpent Prince looked at her out of his gleaming silver eyes and said, ‘I can do better than that, I assure you.’”

“But, wait,” Lucy interrupted. “Isn’t the Serpent Prince the hero of the story?”

“A snake-man?” Simon inserted the pointed end of the stick into the notch he’d made in the stump and began wrapping both with a narrow strip of cloth. “Whatever gave you the idea that he would make a good hero?”

“Well, he is all of silver, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he is also quite nude, and usually the hero of the story has something more to his name.”

“But—”

He frowned censoriously at her. “Do you wish me to continue?”

“Yes,” she said meekly.

“Very well. The Serpent Prince waved one pale hand, and suddenly Angelica’s drab brown rags had turned to a shimmering dress of copper. In her hair were copper and ruby jewels and on her feet, embroidered copper slippers. Angelica twirled in a circle, delighted at her transformation, and she exclaimed, ‘Wait until Prince Rutherford sees me!’”

“Rutherford?” Lucy arched an eyebrow.

He stared at her sternly.

“Sorry.”

“Prince Rutherford, he of the curling golden hair. But the Serpent Prince did not reply, and only then did Angelica notice that he had sunk to his knees beside the brazier and that the blue-flamed fire within burned lower. For in giving the goat girl her wish, he had depleted his own power.”

“Silly man.”

He looked up and smiled at her and then seemed to notice the dark sky for the first time. “Good Lord, is it as late as that? Why didn’t you tell me? You need to return to Rosalind’s town house at once.”

She sighed. For a London sophisticate, her fiancé had become lamentably stodgy lately. “All right.” Lucy stood and dusted off her skirt. “When will I see you next?”

“I’ll come for breakfast.” He sounded distracted.

Disappointment shot through her. “No, Rosalind says we must leave early to go to the glover’s, and we’ll be away for luncheon as well. She’s made arrangements to introduce me to some of her friends.”

Simon frowned. “Do you ride?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I haven’t a mount.”

“I have several horses. I’ll come by Rosalind’s town house before breakfast, and then we’ll ride in the park. We’ll be back in time for Rosalind to take you to the glover’s.”

“I’d like that.” She looked at him.

He stared back. “God, and I can’t even kiss you. Go on, then.”

“Good night.” Lucy smiled as she walked back up the aisle.

Behind her she could hear Simon cursing.

“MAY I JOIN YOU?” SIMON COCKED a brow at the cardplayers that night.

Quincy James, seated with his back to him, swung around and stared. A tic started under his right eye. He wore a deep red velvet coat and breeches, and his waistcoat was an eggshell white, embroidered in red to match the coat. Taken with his clubbed guinea-colored hair, he was a pretty sight. Simon felt his lips curve into a satisfied smile.

“’Course.” A gentleman in an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig nodded.

He had the dissipated face of a gambler who’d spent a lifetime at the tables. Simon hadn’t been introduced to him, but he’d seen him before. Lord Kyle. The other three men at the table were strangers. Two were in their middling years, nearly identical in white-powdered wigs and with faces flushed from drink. The last was only a youth, his cheeks still spotty. A pigeon in a den of foxes. His mother ought to have kept him safe at home.

But that wasn’t Simon’s problem.

He pulled out the empty chair next to James and sat. Poor bastard. There wasn’t a thing James could do to stop him. Objecting to a gentleman joining an open game simply wasn’t done. Simon had him. He allowed himself a moment of congratulation. After spending the better part of a week haunting the Devil’s Playground, fending off the advances of infant demimondaines, drinking ghastly champagne, and boring himself stiff moving from gambling table to gambling table, James had finally appeared. He’d begun to worry that the trail had gone cold; Simon had put off hunting while he tended to his marriage arrangements, but now he had James.

He felt an urge to hurry this along, have it over with so that he could get to his bed and maybe be able to greet Lucy for their ride in the morning with a semblance of wakefulness. But that wouldn’t do. His cautious prey had finally ventured forth from hiding, and he must move slowly. Deliberately. It was crucial that all of the pieces be in place, that there was no possibility of escape, before he sprung his trap. Mustn’t let the quarry slip through an overlooked hole in the net at this juncture.

Lord Kyle flipped cards at each player to see who would deal. The man to Simon’s right caught the first jack and gathered the cards to deal. James snatched each card as it was dealt him, nervously tapping the table’s edges. Simon waited until all five were dealt—they played five-card loo—before picking them up. He glanced down. His hand wasn’t bad, but that didn’t really matter. He anted and made the opening lead—an eight of hearts. James dithered and then flung down a ten. The game went around the table, and the pigeon picked up the trick. The youth led again with a three of spades.