Princes Trilogy: The Leopard Prince Part 36

FALL 2007.

Chapter One.

MAIDEN HILL, ENGLAND.

NOVEMBER 1760.

The dead man at Lucinda Craddock-Hayes's feet looked like a fallen G.o.d. Apollo, or more likely Mars, the bringer of war, taken human form and struck down from the heavens to be found by a maiden on her way home. Except that G.o.ds rarely bleed.

Or die, for that matter."Mr. Hedge," Lucy called over her shoulder. She glanced around the lonely lane leading from the town of Maiden Hill to the Craddock-Hayes house. It appeared the same as before she'd made her find: deserted, except for herself; her manservant, puffing a ways behind her; and the corpse lying in the ditch. The sky hung low and wintry gray. The light had already begun to leak away, though it was not yet five o'clock. Leafless trees lined the road, silent and chill.

Lucy s.h.i.+vered and drew her wrap more closely about her shoulders. The dead man lay sprawled facedown, naked and battered. The long lines of his back were marred by a ma.s.s of blood on his right shoulder. Below were lean hips, muscular, hairy legs, and curiously elegant, bony feet. She blinked and returned her gaze to his face. Even in death he was handsome. His head, turned to the side, revealed a patrician profile: long nose, high bony cheeks, and a wide mouth. An eyebrow, winging over his closed eye, was bisected by a scar. Closely cropped pale hair grew flat to his skull, except where it was matted by blood. His left hand was flung above his head and on the index finger was an impression where a ring had once been. His killers must've stolen it along with everything else. Around the body the mud was scuffed, the imprint of a boot heel stamped deep beside the dead man's hip. Other than that, there was no sign of whoever had dumped him here like so much offal.

Lucy felt silly tears p.r.i.c.k at her eyes. Something about the way that he'd been left, naked and degraded by his murderers, seemed a terrible insult to the man. It was so unbearably sad. Ninny, she chided herself. She became conscious of a muttering drawing steadily closer. Hastily, she swiped at the moisture on her cheeks.

"First she visits the Joneses and all the little Joneses, snotty-nosed b.u.g.g.e.rs. Then we march up the hill to old woman Hardy-nasty biddy; don't know why she hasn't been put to bed with a shovel yet. And is that all? No, that's not all by half. Then, then she must needs call round the vicarage. And me carting great jars of jelly all the while."

Lucy suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. Hedge, her manservant, wore a greasy tricorne smashed down over a shock of gray hair. His dusty coat and waistcoat were equally disreputable, and he'd chosen to highlight his bowlegs with scarlet-clocked stockings, no doubt Papa's castoffs.

He halted beside her. "Oh, gah, not a deader!"

In his surprise, the little man had forgotten to stoop, but when Lucy turned to him, she saw his wiry body decay before her eyes. His back suddenly curved, the shoulder bearing the awful weight of her now empty basket fell, and his head hung to the side listlessly. As the pice de rsistance, Hedge took out a checkered cloth and laboriously wiped his forehead.

Lucy ignored all this. She'd seen the act hundreds, if not thousands, of times in her life. "I don't know that I would have described him as a deader, but he is indeed a corpse."

"Well, best not stand here gawping. Let the dead rest in peace, I always say." Hedge made to sidle past her.

She placed herself in his path. "We can't just leave him here."

"Why not? He was here before you trotted past. Wouldn't never have seen him neither, if we'd've taken the shortcut through the common like I said."

"Nevertheless, we did find him. Can you help me carry him?"

Hedge staggered back in patent disbelief. "Carry him? A great big bloke like that? Not unless you want me crippled for sure. My back's bad as it is, has been for twenty years. I don't complain, but still."

"Very well," Lucy conceded. "We'll have to get a cart."

"Why don't we just leave him be?" the little man protested. "Someone'll find him in a bit."

"Mr. Hedge . . ."

"He's stabbed through the shoulder and all over b.l.o.o.d.y. It's not nice, that." Hedge screwed up his face until it resembled a rotten pumpkin.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to be stabbed, through the shoulder or not, so I don't think we can hold that against him," Lucy chided.

"But he's begun to go off!" Hedge waved the handkerchief in front of his nose.

Lucy didn't mention that there hadn't been any smell until he'd arrived. "I'll wait while you go fetch Bob Smith and his cart."

The manservant's bushy gray eyebrows drew together in imminent opposition.

"Unless you would prefer to stay here with the body?"

Hedge's brow cleared. "No, mum. You knows best, I'm sure. I'll just trot on over to the smithy-"

The corpse groaned.

Lucy looked down in surprise.

Beside her, Hedge jumped back and stated the obvious for both of them.

"Jaysus Almighty Christ! That man ain't dead!"

Dear Lord. And she'd been standing here all this while, bickering with Hedge. Lucy swept off her wrap and threw it across the man's back. "Hand me your coat."

"But-"

"Now!" Lucy didn't bother giving Hedge a look.

She rarely used a sharp tone of voice, making it all the more effective when she did employ it.

"Awww," the manservant moaned, but he tossed the coat to her.

"Go fetch Doctor Fremont. Tell him it's urgent and that he must come at once." Lucy gazed sternly into her manservant's beady eyes. "And Mr. Hedge?"

"Yes'm?"

"Please run."

Hedge dropped the basket and took off, moving surprisingly fast, his bad back forgotten.

Lucy bent and tucked Hedge's coat around the man's b.u.t.tocks and legs. She held her hand under his nose and waited, barely breathing, until she felt the faint brush of air. He was indeed alive. She sat back on her heels and contemplated the situation. The man lay in the ditch on half-frozen mud and in the weeds, which were cold and hard. That couldn't be good for him, considering his wounds. But as Hedge had noted, he was a big man and she wasn't sure she could move him by herself. She peeled back a corner of the wrap covering his back. The slit in his shoulder was crusted with dried gore, the bleeding already stopped to her admittedly inexperienced eyes. Bruises bloomed across his back and side. Lord only knew what the front of him looked like.

And then there was the head wound.

She shook her head. He lay so still and white. No wonder she'd mistaken him for dead. But all the same, Hedge could've already been on his way to Doctor Fremont in the time they'd taken to argue over the poor man.

Lucy checked again that he was breathing, her palm hovering above his lips. His breath was light, but even. She smoothed the back of her hand over his cold cheek. Almost invisible stubble caught at her fingers. Who was he? Maiden Hill was not so big that a stranger could pa.s.s through it without notice. Yet she had heard no gossip about visitors on her rounds this afternoon. Somehow he'd appeared here in the lane without anyone noticing. And the man had obviously been beaten and robbed. Why? Was he merely a victim or had he somehow brought this fate upon himself?

Lucy hugged herself on the last thought and prayed Hedge would hurry. The light was fading fast and was taking with it what little warmth the day had held. A wounded man lying exposed to the elements for Lord knows how long . . . She bit her lip.

If Hedge didn't return soon, there would be no need of a doctor.

THE ANGEL WAS SITTING by his bed when Simon Iddesleigh, sixth Viscount Iddesleigh, opened his eyes.

He would've thought it a terrible dream-one of an endless succession that haunted him nightly-or worse, that he'd not survived the beating and had made that final infinite plunge out of this world and into the flaming next. But he was almost certain h.e.l.l did not smell of lavender and starch, did not feel like worn linen and down pillows, did not sound with the chirping of sparrows and the rustle of gauze curtains.And, of course, there were no angels in h.e.l.l.

Simon watched her. His angel was all in gray, as befit a religious. She wrote in a great book, eyes intent, level black brows knit. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from a high forehead and gathered in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her lips pursed slightly as her hand moved across the page. Probably noting his sins. The scratch of the pen on the page was what had woken him.

When men spoke of angels, especially those of the female s.e.x, usually they were employing a flowery fillip of speech. They thought of fair-haired creatures with pink cheeks-both kinds-and red, wet lips. Insipid Italian putti with vacant blue eyes and billowy, soft flesh. That was not the type of angel Simon contemplated. No, his angel was the biblical kind-Old Testament, not New. The not-quite-human, stern-andjudgmental kind. The type that was more apt to hurl men into eternal d.a.m.nation with a flick of a dispa.s.sionate finger than to float on feathery pigeon wings. She wasn't likely to overlook a few flaws here and there in a fellow's character. Simon sighed.

He had more than just a few flaws.

The angel must have heard his sigh. She turned her unearthly topaz eyes on him. "Are you awake?"

He felt her gaze as palpably as if she'd laid a hand on his shoulder, and frankly the feeling bothered him.

Not that he let his unease show. "That depends on one's definition of awake," he croaked. "I am not sleeping, but yet I have been more alert. I don't suppose you have such a thing as coffee to hasten the awakening process?" He s.h.i.+fted to sit up, finding it more difficult than it should have been. The coverlet slipped to his abdomen.

The angel's gaze followed the coverlet down and frowned at his bare torso. Already he was in her bad graces.

"I'm afraid we don't have any coffee," she murmured to his navel, "but there is tea."

"Naturally. There always is," Simon said. "Could I trouble you to help me sit up? One finds oneself at a distressing disadvantage flat on one's back, not to mention the position makes it very hard to drink tea without it spilling into the ears."

She looked at him doubtfully. "Perhaps I should get Hedge or my father."

"I promise not to bite, truly." Simon placed a hand over his heart. "And I hardly ever spit."

Her lips twitched.

Simon stilled. "You're not really an angel after all, are you?"

One ebony brow arched ever so slightly. Such a disdainful look for a country miss; her expression would've fit a d.u.c.h.ess. "My name is Lucinda Craddock-Hayes. What is yours?"

"Simon Matthew Raphael Iddesleigh, viscount of, I'm afraid." He sketched a bow that came off rather well in his opinion, considering he was prostrate.

The lady was unimpressed. "You're the Viscount Iddesleigh?"

"Sadly."

"You're not from around here."

"Here would be . . .?"

"The town of Maiden Hill in Kent."

"Ah." Kent? Why Kent? Simon craned his neck to try and see out the window, but the gauzy white curtain obscured it.

She followed his gaze. "You're in my brother's bedroom."

"Kind of him," Simon muttered. "No, I can't say I've ever been to the lovely town of Maiden Hill, although I'm sure it's quite scenic and the church a famous touring highlight."

Her full, red lips twitched again bewitchingly. "How did you know?"

"They always are in the nicest towns." He looked down-ostensibly to adjust the coverlet, in reality to avoid the strange temptation of those lips. Coward. "I spend most of my wasted time in London. My own neglected estate lies in Northumberland. Ever been there?"

She shook her head. Her lovely topaz eyes watched him with a disconcertingly level stare-almost like a man. Except Simon had never felt stirred by a man's glance.

He tsked. "Very rural. Hence the appellative neglected. One wonders what one's ancestors were thinking, precisely, when they built the old pile of masonry so far out of the way of anything. Nothing but mist and sheep nearby. Still, been in the family for ages, might as well keep it."

"How good of you," the lady murmured. "But it does make me wonder," she continued, "why we found you only a half mile from here if you've never been in the area before?"

Quick, wasn't she? And not at all sidetracked by his blather. Intelligent women were such a bother.

"Haven't the foggiest." Simon opened his eyes wide. "Perhaps I had the good fortune to be attacked by industrious thieves. Not content to leave me lie where I fell, they spirited me off here so I might see more of the world."

"Humph. I doubt they meant for you to see anything ever again," she said quietly.

"Mmm. And wouldn't that've been a shame?" he asked, feigning innocence. "For then I wouldn't have met you." The lady raised a brow and opened her mouth again, no doubt to practice her inquisition skills on him, but Simon beat her to it. "You did say there was tea about? I know I spoke of it disparagingly before, but really, I wouldn't mind a drop or two."

His angel actually flushed-a pale rose wash coloring her white cheeks. Ah, a weakness. "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you sit up."

She placed cool little hands on his arms-an unsettlingly erotic touch-and between them they managed to get him upright; although, by the time they did so Simon was panting. His shoulder felt as if little devils-or maybe saints, in his case-were poking red-hot irons into it. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again there was a cup of tea under his nose. He reached for it, then stopped and stared at his own bare right hand. His signet ring was missing. They'd stolen his ring.

She mistook the reason for his hesitation. "The tea is fresh, I a.s.sure you."

"Most kind." His voice was embarra.s.singly weak. His hand shook as he grasped the cup, the familiar clink of his ring against the porcelain absent. He hadn't taken it off since Ethan's death. "d.a.m.n."

"Don't worry. I'll hold it for you." Her tone was soft, low and intimate, though she probably didn't know it. He could rest on that voice, float away on it and let his cares cease.

Dangerous woman.

Simon swallowed the lukewarm tea. "Would you mind terribly writing me a letter?"

"Of course not." She set the cup down and withdrew safely to her chair. "To whom would you like to write?"

"My valet, I think. Bound to be teased if I alert any of my acquaintances."

"And we certainly wouldn't want that." There was laughter in her voice.

He looked at her sharply, but her eyes were wide and innocent. "I'm glad you understand the problem," he said dryly. Actually, he was more worried that his enemies would learn that he was still alive. "My valet can bring down miscellaneous things like clean clothes, a horse, and money."