“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.”
“Ah.” Her eyes met Simon’s as she proffered his tea.
Simon smiled and deliberately stroked a finger across her hand as he accepted the cup. She blinked but didn’t drop her gaze. Brave little angel. “I wish I could assuage your curiosity, Miss Craddock-Hayes.”
“Harrumph!” The captain exploded on the settee beside his daughter.
Christian selected a scone from the tray and sat back. “Well, whoever attacked Simon must’ve known him.”
Simon stilled. “Why do you say that?”
The younger man shrugged. “It was three men, wasn’t it? That’s what I heard.”
“Yes?”
“So they knew you were—are—a master swordsman.” Christian sat back and munched on his scone, his face as open and innocent as it’d ever been.
“A master swordsman?” Miss Craddock-Hayes looked between Simon and Christian. “I had no idea.” Her eyes seemed to search his.
Damn. Simon smiled, hoping he gave nothing away. “Christian overstates—”
“Oh, come! I have never known you to be modest, Iddesleigh.” The younger man was all but laughing in his face. “I assure you, ma’am, bigger men quake in their boots when he walks by and none dare call him out. Why, only this fall—”
Good God. “Surely that tale isn’t for a lady’s ears,” Simon hissed.
Christian flushed, his eyes widening. “I only—”
“But I enjoy hearing things not meant for my delicate ears,” Miss Craddock-Hayes said softly. Her gaze challenged him until he could almost hear her seductive siren’s call: Tell me. Tell me. Tell me who you truly are. “Will you not let Mr. Fletcher continue?”
But the protective papa stirred, saving him from further folly. “I think not, poppet. Leave the poor fellow be.”
His angel flushed, but her gaze did not waver, and Simon knew if he stayed here much longer, he would drown in those topaz eyes and bless the gods for his fortune even as he went down for the third time.
“NUDE? ALTOGETHER NUDE?” Patricia McCullough leaned forward on the ancient settee, nearly upsetting the plate of lemon biscuits on her lap.
Her round face with its peaches-and-cream complexion, plump ruby lips, and golden curls gave her the look of a vapid shepherdess in a painting. A look that actually was at odds with her personality, which was more like that of a housewife intent on bargaining down the local butcher.
“Quite.” Lucy popped a biscuit into her mouth and smiled serenely at her childhood friend.
They sat in the little room at the back of the Craddock-Hayes house. The walls were a cheerful rose color with apple-green trim, invoking a flower garden in summer. The room wasn’t as big or as well furnished as the sitting room, but it’d been Mama’s favorite and was cozy for entertaining a dear friend like Patricia. And the windows overlooked the back garden, giving them a nice view of the gentlemen outside.
Patricia sat back now and knit her brows as she studied the viscount and his friend out the window. The younger man was in his shirtsleeves, despite the November chill. He held a sword in his hand and was lunging about with it, no doubt practicing fencing in a serious way, although the steps looked rather silly to Lucy. Lord Iddesleigh sat nearby, either giving helpful encouragement or, more likely, searing his friend with his criticism.
What was the story that Mr. Fletcher had so nearly blurted out yesterday? And why had the viscount been so determined that she not hear it? The obvious answer was some kind of scandalous love affair. That was the sort of thing usually deemed too sordid for a maiden’s ears. And yet, Lucy had the feeling that Lord Iddesleigh wouldn’t mind overmuch shocking her—and her father—with his bedroom exploits. This was something worse. Something he was ashamed of.
“Nothing like that ever happens to me,” Patricia said, bringing her back to the present.
“What?”
“Finding naked gentlemen beside the road whilst walking home.” She pensively bit into a biscuit. “I’m more likely to find one of the Joneses drunk in the ditch. Fully clothed.”
Lucy shuddered. “I should think it would be better that way.”
“Undoubtedly. Still, it does give one something to tell the grandchildren on a cold winter’s night.”
“This was the first time it happened to me.”