The Serpent Prince (15 page)

“Yes,” she said meekly.

“Very well. The Serpent Prince waved one pale hand, and suddenly Angelica’s drab brown rags had turned to a shimmering dress of copper. In her hair were copper and ruby jewels and on her feet, embroidered copper slippers. Angelica twirled in a circle, delighted at her transformation, and she exclaimed, ‘Wait until Prince Rutherford sees me!’”

“Rutherford?” Lucy arched an eyebrow.

He stared at her sternly.

“Sorry.”

“Prince Rutherford, he of the curling golden hair. But the Serpent Prince did not reply, and only then did Angelica notice that he had sunk to his knees beside the brazier and that the blue-flamed fire within burned lower. For in giving the goat girl her wish, he had depleted his own power.”

“Silly man.”

He looked up and smiled at her and then seemed to notice the dark sky for the first time. “Good Lord, is it as late as that? Why didn’t you tell me? You need to return to Rosalind’s town house at once.”

She sighed. For a London sophisticate, her fiancé had become lamentably stodgy lately. “All right.” Lucy stood and dusted off her skirt. “When will I see you next?”

“I’ll come for breakfast.” He sounded distracted.

Disappointment shot through her. “No, Rosalind says we must leave early to go to the glover’s, and we’ll be away for luncheon as well. She’s made arrangements to introduce me to some of her friends.”

Simon frowned. “Do you ride?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I haven’t a mount.”

“I have several horses. I’ll come by Rosalind’s town house before breakfast, and then we’ll ride in the park. We’ll be back in time for Rosalind to take you to the glover’s.”

“I’d like that.” She looked at him.

He stared back. “God, and I can’t even kiss you. Go on, then.”

“Good night.” Lucy smiled as she walked back up the aisle.

Behind her she could hear Simon cursing.

“’Course.” A gentleman in an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig nodded.

He had the dissipated face of a gambler who’d spent a lifetime at the tables. Simon hadn’t been introduced to him, but he’d seen him before. Lord Kyle. The other three men at the table were strangers. Two were in their middling years, nearly identical in white-powdered wigs and with faces flushed from drink. The last was only a youth, his cheeks still spotty. A pigeon in a den of foxes. His mother ought to have kept him safe at home.

But that wasn’t Simon’s problem.

He pulled out the empty chair next to James and sat. Poor bastard. There wasn’t a thing James could do to stop him. Objecting to a gentleman joining an open game simply wasn’t done. Simon had him. He allowed himself a moment of congratulation. After spending the better part of a week haunting the Devil’s Playground, fending off the advances of infant demimondaines, drinking ghastly champagne, and boring himself stiff moving from gambling table to gambling table, James had finally appeared. He’d begun to worry that the trail had gone cold; Simon had put off hunting while he tended to his marriage arrangements, but now he had James.

He felt an urge to hurry this along, have it over with so that he could get to his bed and maybe be able to greet Lucy for their ride in the morning with a semblance of wakefulness. But that wouldn’t do. His cautious prey had finally ventured forth from hiding, and he must move slowly. Deliberately. It was crucial that all of the pieces be in place, that there was no possibility of escape, before he sprung his trap. Mustn’t let the quarry slip through an overlooked hole in the net at this juncture.

Lord Kyle flipped cards at each player to see who would deal. The man to Simon’s right caught the first jack and gathered the cards to deal. James snatched each card as it was dealt him, nervously tapping the table’s edges. Simon waited until all five were dealt—they played five-card loo—before picking them up. He glanced down. His hand wasn’t bad, but that didn’t really matter. He anted and made the opening lead—an eight of hearts. James dithered and then flung down a ten. The game went around the table, and the pigeon picked up the trick. The youth led again with a three of spades.

A footman entered, holding a tray of drinks. They played in the secluded back room at the Devil’s Playground. The room was dim, the walls and door quilted in black velvet to muffle the revels in the main parlor. The men who played here were serious, gambled high, and rarely spoke beyond the demands of the game. This wasn’t a social occasion for these gentlemen. This was life or death by cards. Only the other night, Simon had watched a baron lose first all the money he’d had on him, then his one unentailed estate, and then his daughters’ dowries. The next morning the man was dead, shot by his own hand.

James grabbed a glass from the waiter’s tray, drained it, and reached for another. He caught Simon’s gaze. Simon smiled. James’s eyes widened. He gulped from the second glass and set it by his elbow, glaring at him defiantly. The play went on. Simon looed and had to ante. James smirked. He played the Pam—the jack of clubs, the high card in five-card loo—and took another trick.

The candles guttered, and the footman returned to trim them.

Quincy James was winning now, the pile of coins to the side of his glass growing. He relaxed in his chair, and his blue eyes blinked sleepily. The youth was down to a couple of coppers and was looking desperate. He wouldn’t last another round if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, someone would stand him the next hand, and that way lay debtor’s prison. Christian Fletcher slipped into the room. Simon didn’t look up, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christian find a chair at the side of the room, too far away to see the cards. He felt something inside him relax at the sight of the younger man. Now he had an ally at his back.

James won a trick. His lips twisted in a triumphant sneer as he gathered the pot.

Simon shot out his arm and caught the other man’s hand.

“What—?” James tried to twist away.

Simon slammed his arm to the table. A jack of clubs fell from the lace at James’s wrist. The other players around the table froze.

“The Pam.” Lord Kyle’s voice sounded rusty from disuse. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, James?”

“That’s not m-m-mine.”

Simon leaned back in his chair and rubbed his right index finger lazily. “It fell from your cuff.”

“You!” James jumped up, his chair toppling behind him. He looked like he would strike Simon, but then thought better of it.

Simon raised an eyebrow.

“You s-s-set me up, slipped me the bloody P-p-pam!”

“I’ve been losing.” Simon sighed. “You insult me, James.”

“No!”

Simon continued, unperturbed. “I trust swords at dawn—”

“No! Jesus, no!”

“Meet with your approval?”

“God!” James clutched his own hair, the beautiful locks coming out of his ribbon. “This isn’t right. I d-d-didn’t have the bloody Pam.”

Lord Kyle gathered the cards. “Another hand, gentlemen?”

“My God,” the boy whispered. He’d gone pale and looked like he might cast up his accounts.

“You can’t d-d-do this!” James screamed.

Simon got to his feet. “Tomorrow, then. Better get some sleep, what?”

Lord Kyle nodded, his attention already on the next game. “Good night, Iddesleigh.”

“I-I’m done as well. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?” The pigeon nearly ran from the room.

“Nooo! I’m innocent!” James started sobbing.

Simon winced and walked from the room.

Christian caught up with him in the main parlor. “Did you . . . ?”

“Shut up,” Simon hissed. “Not here, idiot.”

Thankfully, the younger man kept quiet until they reached the street. Simon signaled to his coachman.

Christian whispered, “Did you . . . ?”

“Yes.” God, he was weary. “Do you want a ride?”

Christian blinked. “Thanks.”

They got in and the carriage pulled away.

“You’d better find his seconds tonight and arrange the duel.” Simon was overcome by a ghastly lethargy. His eyes were full of grit, and his hands were shaking. The morning wasn’t that far away. He’d either kill a man or die himself when it came.

“What?” Christian asked.

“Quincy James’s seconds. You need to find out who they are, arrange the meeting place and time. All that. The same as the last times.” He yawned. “You are going to act as my second, aren’t you?”

“I—”

Simon closed his eyes. If he lost Christian, he didn’t know what he’d do. “If you aren’t, I’ve got four hours to find another.”

“No. I mean, yes,” the young man blurted. “I’ll be your second. Of course I’ll be your second, Simon.”

“Good.”

There was a silence in the carriage, and Simon fell into a doze.

Christian’s voice woke him. “You went there to find James, didn’t you?”

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Yes.”

“Is it a woman?” His companion sounded genuinely puzzled. “Has he caused you an insult?”

Simon almost laughed. He’d forgotten that there were men who dueled for such silly things. “Nothing so inconsequential.”

“But why?” Christian’s voice was urgent. “Why do it that way?”

Jesus! He didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. Had he ever in his life been this naive? He gathered his wits to try to explain the blackness that lived in men’s souls.

“Because gambling’s his weakness. Because he couldn’t help himself once I’d joined the game. Because he can’t possibly turn me down or worm his way out. Because he’s the man he is and I’m the man I am.” Simon finally looked at his terribly young friend and gentled his voice. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

Christian’s brow was furrowed as if he was working out a difficult mathematical problem. “I didn’t realize . . . This is the first time I’ve been with you when you challenged your opponent. It seems so unfair. Not at all honorable.” Christian’s eyes suddenly widened as if he’d just realized the insult.

Simon started laughing and found he couldn’t stop. Tears gathered in his eyes from the mirth.
Oh God, what a world!

Finally, he gasped, “Whatever gave you the idea I was honorable?”

“Yes.” His own breath billowed forth and then dissipated into the icy morning air.

The man walked toward them. He was of middling years and wore spectacles and a tatty wig. A coat and breeches, several years behind the fashion and obviously well worn, completed his dissolute appearance. Behind him, a shorter man hesitated beside another man who must be the doctor, as evidenced by the bobbed wig of his profession and the black bag he carried.

The first man spoke again. “Mr. James offers his sincere apology for any insult he may have inflicted upon you. Will you accept this apology and avoid a duel?”

Coward. Had James sent his seconds and stayed away? “No, I will not.”

“D-d-d-damn you, Iddesleigh.”

So he was here. “Good morning, James.” Simon smiled thinly.

The reply was another curse, no more original than the first.

Simon nodded to Christian. The younger man and James’s seconds went to mark off the dueling space. Quincy James paced back and forth over the frost-killed earth, either to warm his limbs or from nervousness. He wore the same deep red coat he’d had on the night before, wrinkled and stained now. His hair looked greasy, as if he’d been sweating. As Simon watched, the other man dug his fingers through the locks, scratching. Filthy habit. Did he have lice? James must be tired from the late night, but then again, he was an inveterate gambler, used to staying up to all hours. And he was younger. Simon considered him. He’d never seen James duel, but the word at Angelo’s academy was that his opponent was an expert swordsman. He wasn’t surprised. Despite James’s tics and stutters, the man had the grace of an athlete. He was also the same height. Their reaches would be equal.

“May I see your sword?” The spectacled man was back. He held out his hand.

The other second came over. This one was a shorter, younger man in a bottle-green coat who peered around constantly in a nervous manner. Dueling was, of course, against the law. But the law in this case was rarely enforced. Simon unsheathed his weapon and handed it over to Spectacles. Several paces away, Christian retrieved James’s sword. He and James’s seconds dutifully measured both blades and inspected them before handing them back.

“Open your shirt,” Spectacles said.

Simon arched an eyebrow. The fellow was obviously a stickler for proper form. “Do you really think I’m wearing armor under my shirt?”

“Please, my lord.”

Simon sighed and shrugged out of his silver-blue coat and waistcoat, pulled his neckcloth off, and unbuttoned the top half of his lace-edged shirt. Henry hurried over to catch the items as they fell.

James loosened his shirt for Christian. “Damn, it’s as cold as a Mayfair whore.”

Simon pulled apart the edges of his shirt. Goose bumps chased over his bared chest.

The second nodded. “Thank you.” His face was wooden, a man without apparent humor.

“You’re welcome.” Simon smiled mockingly. “Can we get on with it, then? I haven’t broken my fast yet.”

“And you w-w-won’t either.” James advanced, sword held ready.

Simon felt his smile disappear. “Brave words for a murderer.”

He sensed Christian’s swift look. Did the boy know? He’d never told him about Ethan—about the real reason for these duels. Simon raised his blade and faced his opponent. The mist curled about their legs.

“Allez!”
Christian cried.

Simon lunged, James parried, and the swords sang their deadly song. Simon felt his face stretch into a mirthless grin. He stabbed into an opening, but James deflected the blow at the last minute. And then he was on the defensive, retreating even as he parried slash after slash. The muscles in his calves burned under the strain. James was swift and strong, an opponent to take seriously, but he was also desperate, attacking recklessly. The blood pounded in Simon’s veins like liquid fire, making his nerves spark. He never felt so alive and paradoxically so close to death as when he dueled.

“Ah!”

James darted under his guard, aiming a blow at Simon’s chest. He deflected the sword at the last minute. His weapon slid, screeching, against his opponent’s until they were hilt to hilt, breathing into each other’s faces. James pressed against him with all his strength. Simon felt his upper arm bulge. He stood braced, refusing to give ground. He could see the red veins in the other man’s eyes and smell his foul breath, reeking of terror.

“Blood,” one of the seconds called, and only then did he feel the burn at his arm.

“Do you quit?” Christian asked.

“Hell, no.” Simon bunched his shoulders and threw James back, lunging after him. Something dark and animal within him howled,
Now! Kill him now!
He must be careful. If he only wounded his enemy, James would have the right to stop the duel, and then he’d have to go through all this nonsense again.

“There is no need,” one of the seconds was shouting. “Gentlemen, throw down your swords. Honor is appeased!”

“Bugger honor!” Simon attacked, slashing and stabbing, his right shoulder sending needles of pain down his arm.

The blades clanged as the men stamped across the green. He could feel warmth trickling down his back and had no idea whether it was sweat or blood. James’s eyes widened. He was defending desperately, his face red and gleaming. His waistcoat was stained dark beneath the armpits. Simon feinted high.

And suddenly James turned, lunged, and slashed
behind
his legs. Simon felt the sting at the back of his knees. Horror streaked through him. If James succeeded in cutting the tendons at the back of his legs, he would be crippled, unable to stand and defend himself. But in lunging, James had exposed his chest. The other man drew back to slash at his legs again. Simon pivoted. Put the whole force of his arm behind the blow. And ran James through the chest. Simon felt the jar as his blade hit and grated against bone. His shoulder burned just above his armpit. He saw James’s eyes widen in understanding of his own mortality, heard the scream of one of the witnesses, and smelled the acid stink of urine as the dead man lost control of his bladder.

His enemy sank to the ground.

Simon bent for a second, gulping great lungfuls of air. Then he placed his foot on the corpse’s chest and pulled his sword out. James’s eyes were still open, staring at nothing now.

“Jesus.” Christian drew a hand across his white mouth.

Simon wiped the blade of his sword. His hands shook slightly and he frowned, trying to control them. “Could you close his eyes?”

“My God. My God. My God.” The short man was nearly jumping up and down in his agitation. Suddenly, he leaned over and vomited, splattering his shoes.

“Can you close his eyes?” Simon asked again. He didn’t know why it bothered him so. James no longer cared that he stared blindly.

The little man was still heaving, but Spectacles passed his hand over James’s eyes.

The physician walked over and stared down impassively. “He’s dead. You’ve killed him.”

“Yes, I know.” Simon shrugged on his coat.

“Christ,” Christian whispered.

Simon motioned to Henry and turned to walk back. They no longer needed the lantern. The sun had risen, evaporating the mist and heralding a new day that Quincy James would never see. Simon’s hands still shook.