Free The Serpent Prince by Elizabeth Hoyt

it’s a lot finer than some dress their staff.”
    “Staff?” The captain looked outraged. “You’re not staff. You’re the odd-jobs man. Now help them with the boxes. Good God, staff. ” And with that he stomped into the house, still muttering.
    Hedge headed in the opposite direction, also muttering.
    “I don’t think he likes me,” Christian whispered.
    “The captain?” Simon started to the house with the younger man. “No, no. The man positively adores you. That’s just his way, really. Did you see the puckish twinkle in his eye?”
    Christian half smiled, as if uncertain whether to take Simon’s words at face value or not. Simon felt a momentary pang. To be so young in the world, like a new-hatched chick, its feathers still wet from the shell, surrounded by larger, less benign fowl and the threat of the foxes lurking just out of sight.
    But then Simon frowned at a thought. “Where did you hear these rumors of my imminent demise?”
    “There was talk about it at the Harrington’s ball the other evening and again the next afternoon at my coffeehouse. But I didn’t take it very seriously until I heard it at Angelo’s.” Christian shrugged. “And, of course, you didn’t show for our regular match.”
    Simon nodded. Dominico Angelo Malevolti Tremamondo—known simply as Angelo to his patrons—was the fashionable fencing master of the moment. Many aristocratic gentlemen attended the Italian’s lessons or came to his school of arms in Soho simply to practice and exercise. Simon had actually met Christian at the master’s establishment several months ago. The younger man had openly admired Simon’s technique. Somehow the admiration had turned into a weekly fencing match with Simon giving his acolyte pointers on form.
    “What did happen to you?” They entered the hall, dark after the sun outside. Christian’s strides were long and quick as he talked, and it was an effort for Simon to pace him without showing weakness. “Henry didn’t seem to know.”
    “Stabbed.” The captain was already in the sitting room and must have overheard the question as they entered. “The viscount was stabbed in the back. Hit the shoulder blade. Farther to the left and the knife would’ve pierced a lung.”
    “Then I guess he was lucky.” Christian stood as if uncertain how to proceed.
    “Damn right, he was lucky.” The captain made no move to welcome the other men. “Ever see a man die from a lung wound? Eh? Can’t breathe. Suffocates in his own blood. Nasty way to end.”
    Simon sat down on a settee and leisurely crossed his legs, ignoring the pain in his back. “Your description fascinates me strangely, Captain.”
    “Ha.” The captain settled in an armchair, a grim smile on his face. “What fascinates me is why you were attacked in the first place. Eh? Jealous husband? Insulted someone?”
    Christian, left standing by himself, looked around and found a wooden chair by the settee. He lowered himself, only to freeze as the chair creaked ominously.
    “I’ve insulted many, many men over the course of my lifetime, I’m sure.” Simon smiled back at the captain. He mustn’t underestimate the older man’s perception. “As for jealous husbands, well, discretion forbids I say anything.”
    “Ha! Discretion—”
    But the captain was interrupted by the entrance of his daughter, followed by Mrs. Brodie carrying a tea tray.
    Simon and Christian stood. The captain made it to his legs and almost immediately sat back down again.
    “My dearest lady,” Simon said, bending over her hand. “I am overwhelmed by the radiance of your presence.” He straightened and tried to tell if she’d been avoiding him today, but her eyes were veiled, and he could not discern her thoughts. He felt a surge of frustration.
    The angel’s lips curved. “You had better be careful, Lord Iddesleigh. One day my head may be quite turned by your flowery compliments.”
    Simon clapped his hand to his chest and staggered back. “A hit.