The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(49)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Sorry.” The word was so garbled, she wouldn’t have known what he’d said if he hadn’t been repeating it all along.

“Shh.” She stroked his damp side and smiled secretly. “Go to sleep, my love.”

“WHY DID YOU SUMMON ME HERE?” Sir Rupert glanced uneasily around the park. It was very early morning and cold as the devil’s heart. No one else was in sight, but that didn’t mean Walker hadn’t been followed or that some fashionable lordling might not be out riding. He pulled the brim of his hat lower to be on the safe side.

“We can’t wait for him to make the next move.” Lord Walker’s breath steamed as he talked.

He sat his mount like a man who’d been bred to the saddle, as indeed he had. Six generations of Walkers had led the hunt in his home county. The Walker stable was renowned for the hunters that came out of it. He’d probably sat a horse before he could toddle on leading-strings.

Sir Rupert shifted on his gelding. He hadn’t learned to ride until he was a young man and it showed. Add to that his crippled leg and he was damned uncomfortable. “What do you propose?”

“Kill him before he kills us.”

Sir Rupert winced and looked around again. Fool. Anyone listening would have blackmail material at the very least. On the other hand, if Walker could solve this problem for him . . . “We’ve tried that twice and failed.”

“So we try it again. Third time’s the charm.” Walker blinked at him with bovine eyes. “I’m not waiting like a cockerel to have its neck wrung for the supper pot.”

Sir Rupert sighed. It was a delicate balance. As far as he knew, Simon Iddesleigh still wasn’t aware of his part in the conspiracy. Iddesleigh most likely thought Walker was the last man involved. And if Iddesleigh could be kept from finding out, if he could bring his revenge to its inevitable bloody conclusion with Walker, well, all and good. Walker wasn’t such a very important piece of Sir Rupert’s life, after all. He certainly wouldn’t be missed. And with Walker gone, there would be no one else alive to connect him to the conspiracy that had led to Ethan Iddesleigh’s death. It was a seductive thought. He’d be able to rest, and God knew he was ready for it.

But if Walker talked before Iddesleigh got to him—or, worse, when Iddesleigh found him—all would be lost. Because, of course, Iddesleigh was really after Sir Rupert, even if he didn’t know it. Hence, Sir Rupert’s indulgence of Walker’s melodrama and this meeting in the park at dawn. The other man must think they were together in this.

His hand drifted toward his waistcoat pocket where the Iddesleigh signet ring still lay. He should’ve gotten rid of it by now. He had in fact nearly thrown it into the Thames on two occasions. But each time something stopped him. It was illogical, but he fancied that the ring gave him power over Iddesleigh.

“He married yesterday.”

“What?” Sir Rupert focused on the conversation.

“Simon Iddesleigh,” Walker said patiently, as if he weren’t the slow one. “Married some chit from the country. No money, no name. Maybe the man is insane.”

“I think not. Iddesleigh is many things, but insane is not one of them.” He squashed an urge to massage his thigh.

“So you say.” Walker shrugged and took out his snuffbox. “Any case, she might do.”

Sir Rupert stared bemusedly as the other man inhaled a pinch of snuff and sneezed violently.

Walker flapped his handkerchief and then blew loudly. “To kill.” He sniffed and wiped his nose before pocketing the handkerchief.

“Are you mad?” He nearly laughed in the other’s face. “Remember, it was the death of his brother that set Simon Iddesleigh off in the first place. Killing his new wife isn’t likely to stop him, now, is it?”

“Yes, but if we threaten her, tell him if he doesn’t cease, we’ll kill her.” Walker shrugged again. “I think he’ll stop. Worth a try at any rate.”

“Really.” Sir Rupert felt his lip curl. “I think it would be like lighting a powder keg. He’ll find you even faster.”

“But not you, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

Lord Walker flicked a speck of snuff from the lace at his wrist. “Not you. Made sure to stay out of this, haven’t you, Fletcher?”

“My anonymity has served our case well.” Sir Rupert met the younger man’s gaze steadily.

“Has it?” Walker’s heavy-lidded eyes stared back.

Sir Rupert had always found Walker’s eyes stupidly beastlike, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? It was so easy to discount the intelligence of a big, slow-moving animal. Sweat chilled on his back.

Walker’s gaze dropped. “That’s what I plan to do at any rate—and I expect you to back me, should I need it.”

“Naturally,” Sir Rupert said evenly. “We’re partners.”

“Good.” Walker grinned, ruddy cheeks bunching. “Have the bastard over a barrel in no time. Must go now. Left a little dove all cozy in her nest. Wouldn’t want her to fly before I got back.” He winked lewdly and nudged his horse into a trot.

Sir Rupert watched the mist swallow the other man before turning his own gelding toward home and his family. His leg was giving him the very hell, and he’d pay for this ride by having to put it up for the rest of the day. Walker or Iddesleigh. It didn’t much matter at this point.

As long as one of them died.

Chapter Twelve

A soft snoring was the first thing Lucy heard when she woke the day after her wedding. Eyes closed, dreams still drifting in her mind, she wondered who was breathing so sonorously. Then she felt the weight of a hand on her breast and came fully awake. But she didn’t open her eyes.

Warm. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this deliciously warm in her life, certainly not in winter. Her legs were tangled with masculine, hairy ones, even her toes, which never seemed to totally thaw between October and March, were toasty. It was like having her own private hearth, with the added bonus that this hearth came with smooth skin, snuggled all along her right side. The warm air rising from the covers had a subtle smell. She recognized her own scent mingled with a foreign one she realized must be his. How very primitive. Their body odor had mated.

Lucy sighed and opened her eyes.

The sun was peeking through a crack in the curtains. Was it as late as that? Hard on the heels of that thought was another. Had Simon locked the door? In town, Lucy had become accustomed to a maid drawing the curtains in the morning and stirring the fire. Would the servants have expected Simon to return to his own room last night? She turned her head to frown at the door.