For a moment the captain was speechless. He frowned thunderously, but Simon knew when he had scored a point.
“Ha. Well. Ha.” The older gentleman rocked back on his heels and glanced at the coach. “Just what I’d expect from city toffs. Ha. Have to tell Mrs. Brodie, then.”
He turned in time to nearly collide with Hedge. The manservant had come outside and was stopped dead in his tracks, gaping at Simon’s liveried coachman and footmen.
“Gor. Would you look at that,” Hedge said with the first hint of reverence Simon had ever heard in his voice. “Now that’s the way a man oughter be dressed, silver braid and purple coats. ’Course, gold braid would be even better. But still, 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. A direct hit.”
She smiled then at his antics but turned her golden eyes to Christian. “Who is your guest?”
“He is but the poor son of a baronet and red-haired to boot. Hardly worth your divine notice.”
“For shame.” She sent him a chiding glance—oddly effective—and held out her hand to Christian. “I like ginger hair. And what is your name, poor son of a baronet?”
“Christian Fletcher, Miss . . . ?” The younger man smiled charmingly and bowed.
“Craddock-Hayes.” She curtsied. “I see you’ve already met my father.”
“Indeed.” Christian raised her hand to his lips, and Simon was forced to resist the urge to throttle him.
“You’re a friend of Lord Iddesleigh?” she asked.
“I—”
But Simon had had enough of her attention elsewhere. “Christian is everything I hold dear in a fellow man.” For once he didn’t know if he spoke the truth or lied.
“Really?” Her face was solemn again.
Damn her for taking him so seriously; no one else did, not even himself.
She sat gracefully on the settee and began to pour the tea. “Have you known Lord Iddesleigh long, Mr. Fletcher?”
The younger man smiled as he accepted his teacup. “Only a few months.”
“Then you do not know why he was attacked?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”