The Serpent Prince (25 page)

Lucy smiled. “Almost done.”

The three of them sat in the large drawing room at the front of Simon’s town house—her town house as well, now that they were wed. She must start thinking of it that way. But truthfully, Lucy still considered the house and servants Simon’s. Perhaps if she stayed—

She sighed. What nonsense. Of course she would stay. She was married to Simon; the time for doubts had long since passed. No matter what he did, she was his wife. And if he didn’t duel anymore, there was no reason why they couldn’t grow ever closer. Just this morning, Simon had made urgent love to her, had even told her he loved her. What more could a woman ask from her husband? She should’ve felt safe and warm. Why, then, did she still have this feeling of impending loss? Why hadn’t she said she loved him as well? Three simple words that he must’ve been expecting, yet she’d been unable to form them.

Lucy shook her head and concentrated on the sketch. Simon had insisted this room be remade for her, despite her protests. Though she had to admit now that it really was lovely. With Rosalind’s help, she’d chosen the colors of a ripe peach: delicate yellows, sunny pinks, and rich reds. The result was lively and soothing at the same time. And in addition, the room had the best light in the house. That alone would’ve made it Lucy’s favorite. She looked at her subject matter. Pocket was dressed in turquoise silk that provided a beautiful contrast for her flaxen locks, but she sat stiffly hunched as if frozen in mid-wiggle.

Lucy hastily made a few more strokes with her pencil. “Done.”

“Huzzah!” Pocket exploded off the chair she’d been posed on. “Let me see.”

Lucy turned her sketchbook.

The little girl tilted her head first one way and then another, then scrunched her nose. “Is that what my chin looks like?”

Lucy examined her sketch. “Yes.”

“Theodora.”

Brought up short by her mother’s warning tone, Pocket bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Aunt Lucy.”

“You’re most welcome,” Lucy replied. “Would you like to see if Cook is finished with her mincemeat pies yet? They’re for Christmas dinner, but she might have one for you to sample.”

“Yes, please.” Pocket paused only long enough to seek her mother’s approving nod before darting out of the room.

Lucy began to put away her pencils.

“It’s very kind of you to indulge her so,” Rosalind said.

“Not at all. I enjoy it.” Lucy glanced up. “You and Pocket will be coming to dine with us on Christmas morning, won’t you? I’m sorry my invitation is so late. I forgot Christmas is only a few days away until Cook started baking pies.”

Rosalind smiled. “That’s quite all right. You are newly married, after all. We will be delighted to join you.”

“Good.” Lucy watched her hands placing the pencils in a jar. “I’m wondering if I can ask you something personal. Very personal.”

There was a pause.

Then Rosalind sighed. “Ethan’s death?”

Lucy looked up. “Yes. How did you know?”

“It consumes Simon.” Rosalind shrugged. “Sooner or later I expected you to ask about it.”

“Do you know he’s been fighting duels over Ethan’s death?” Her hands were trembling. “He’s killed two men that I’m aware of.”

Rosalind gazed out the window. “I’d heard rumors. The gentlemen never like to tell us of their affairs, do they? Even when it involves us. I’m not surprised.”

“Didn’t you ever think to stop him?” Lucy grimaced at her own lack of tact. “Forgive me.”

“No, it’s a natural question. You’re aware that he’s dueling partly for my honor?”

Lucy nodded.

“I tried after Ethan’s death when I first heard the gossip about duels to talk to him about it. Simon laughed and changed the subject. But the thing is”—Rosalind leaned forward—“it really isn’t about me. It’s not even about Ethan, God rest his soul.”

Lucy stared. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, how can I explain?” Rosalind got up to pace. “When Ethan was killed, it cut off any way for the brothers to come to terms with each other. For Simon to understand and forgive Ethan.”

“Forgive him? For what?”

“I’m expressing myself badly.” Rosalind stopped and frowned.

Outside, a cart rumbled by and someone shouted. Lucy waited. She knew somehow that Rosalind held the key to Simon’s single-minded quest for revenge.

“You must comprehend,” her sister-in-law said slowly. “Ethan was always the good brother. The one everyone liked, the perfect English gentleman. Simon almost by default took the only other role. That of the wastrel, the ne’er-do-well.”

“I’ve never thought him a wastrel,” Lucy said softly.

“He isn’t, really.” Rosalind looked at her. “I think some of it was merely youth, some of it reaction to his brother and how their parents saw the both of them.”

“How did their parents see them?”

“When the brothers were very young, their parents seemed to decide that one was good and the other bad. The viscountess was especially rigid in her thinking.”

How awful to be branded the bad brother at so young an age. “But”—Lucy shook her head—“I still don’t understand how that affects Simon now.”

Rosalind closed her eyes. “When Ethan let himself be murdered, Simon was forced to assume both roles. Both the good and the bad brother.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. Was what Rosalind said possible?

“Just listen.” Rosalind held out her hands. “I think Simon felt guilty that Ethan had died defending Simon’s name in a way. Remember the rumors were that Simon was my lover.”

“Yes,” Lucy said slowly.

“Simon had to avenge him. Yet, at the same time, he must feel terrible anger at Ethan for dying in such a way, for leaving me and Theodora to his care, for being the good brother and martyring himself.” She stared down at her open palms. “I know I do.”

Lucy looked away. This was a revelation. Everything she’d heard about Ethan pointed to how good he’d been. It had never occurred to her that Rosalind might feel anger toward her late husband. And if she did . . .

“It took me many months to let Ethan go,” Rosalind said quietly, almost to herself. “To forgive him for dueling a man he knew was the better swordsman. It’s only been recently that . . .”

Lucy looked up. “What?”

Her sister-in-law blushed. “I . . . I have been driving with a gentleman.”

“Forgive me, but Simon said your reputation was—”

“Ruined.” Rosalind’s complexion was quite rosy now. “Yes, in the
ton
it was. My gentleman is a solicitor at the law house that helped settle Ethan’s estate. I hope you don’t think the less of me?”

“No. No, of course not.” Lucy caught Rosalind’s hand. “I’m happy for you.”

The fair woman smiled. “Thank you.”

“I only wish,” Lucy whispered, “that Simon could find such peace.”

“He’s found you. At one time I wasn’t sure he would ever let himself marry.”

“Yes, but I can’t talk to him. He doesn’t listen, won’t admit what he’s doing is murder. I . . .” Lucy looked blindly away, her eyes full of tears. “I don’t know what to do.”

She felt Rosalind’s hand on her shoulder. “Maybe there isn’t anything you can do. Perhaps this is something only he can defeat.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Lucy began, but Pocket charged back into the room at that moment, and she had to turn away to hide her eyes from the little girl.

The question hung there, unanswered.

If Simon couldn’t defeat his demons, if he didn’t stop killing other men, he would destroy himself. Maybe Rosalind was right; maybe there truly wasn’t anything she could do to stop his deadly path. But she had to at least try.

Surely there was someone else who felt as she did, someone who didn’t want this duel with Sir Rupert. She’d go to Christian if she could, but from his reaction at the Lord Walker duel, he would not have sympathy for her cause. Few would have the same feelings as a wife. Lucy straightened. A
wife.
Sir Rupert was married. If she could win his wife to her side, perhaps between the two of them they could stop—

“Aunt Lucy,” Pocket cried, “won’t you come taste Cook’s pies? They’re ever so good.”

Lucy blinked and focused on the little girl tugging at her hand. “I’m afraid I can’t right now, dear. I must go see a lady.”

He moved to the next rose, a
Centifolia muscosa
—common moss rose—its leaves glossy green with health, its perfume almost cloyingly sweet. The petals in her flowers spilled over themselves, lush and billowy, shamelessly revealing the green sepals at their center. If roses were women, the moss rose would be a tart.

Sir Rupert was a leftover. Or perhaps the last of a series of labors. Whichever way one looked at it, he had to be dealt with. Clipped and cleaned up. Simon owed it to Ethan to finish the job. And to Lucy, to make sure she was safe from his past and his enemies. But Sir Rupert was also a cripple; there was no getting away from that fact. Simon hesitated, studying the next rose, a York and Lancaster, which bore both pink and white flowers on the same plant. He balked at dueling a man with such uneven odds. It would be a killing, pure and simple. The older man wouldn’t have a chance, and Lucy didn’t want him dueling. She would probably leave him, his stern angel, if she found out he was even contemplating issuing another challenge. He didn’t want to lose her. Couldn’t imagine never waking again with her. His fingers shook at even the thought.

Four dead, wasn’t that enough?
Is it enough, Ethan?

He turned over a healthy-looking leaf on the York and Lancaster and found a swarm of aphids, busily sucking the life from the plant.

The door to the conservatory crashed open.

“Sir, you’re not allowed—” Newton’s voice, outraged and fearful, admonished the intruder.

Simon turned to confront whoever disturbed his peace.

Christian charged down the aisle, his face pale and set.

Newton dithered. “Mr. Fletcher, please—”

“That’s all right—” Simon started.

Christian punched him in the jaw.

He staggered back, falling against the table, his vision blurred.
What?

Pots crashed to the floor, the shards skittering in the walkway. He straightened and brought his fists up to defend himself as his eyes cleared, but the other man was simply standing there, his chest heaving.

“What the
bloody
hell,” Simon began.

“Duel me,” Christian spat.

“What?” Simon blinked. Belatedly his jaw began to throb with pain. He noticed that the moss rose was in pieces on the floor, two of the main stems broken. Christian’s boot crushed a bloom underfoot, the perfume rising from the dead rose like a eulogy.

Newton hurried out of the room.

“Duel me.” Christian raised his right fist in threat. “Do I have to hit you again?” His expression was without humor, his eyes wide and dry.

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Simon felt along his jaw. He couldn’t talk if it was broken, could he? “Why would I want to duel you?”

“You don’t. You want to duel my father. But he’s old and his leg is bad. He can hardly walk. Even you might feel a twinge of guilt at running through a cripple.”

“Your father killed my brother.” Simon let his hand fall.

“So you have to duel him.” Christian nodded. “I know. I’ve seen you kill two men now, remember? I’ve watched you enact your sense of family—of honor, though you refuse to use that word—over the last few weeks. Do you really expect any less from me? Duel me as my father’s surrogate.”

Simon sighed. “I don’t—”

Christian hit him in the face again.

Simon fell on his arse. “Shit! Stop that.” He must look a complete idiot, sitting in mud in his own greenhouse. Pain bloomed across his cheekbone. Now the entire left side of his face felt on fire.

“I’ll keep doing it,” the younger man said from above him, “until you agree. I’ve seen you badger two men into dueling. I’ve learned well.”

“For God’s—”

“Your mother was a dockside whore, your father a bastard!” Christian shouted, red-faced.

“Christ.” Was the boy mad? “My fight is with your father, not you.”

“I’ll seduce your wife—”

Lucy!
a primitive part of his brain screamed. He shook it away. The boy was playing his own game. “I don’t want to duel you.”

“And if she won’t submit, I’ll kidnap and rape her. I’ll—”

No.
Simon surged to his feet, backing Christian against a bench. “Stay away from her.”

The younger man flinched but kept talking. “I’ll parade her naked through the streets of London.”

Dimly, Simon saw Newton coming down the aisle, Lucy’s ghost-white face behind him. “Shut up.”

“I’ll brand her a slut. I’ll—”

Simon backhanded him, throwing him against another table. “Shut your mouth!”

The table quaked under Christian’s weight. More pots exploded on the floor. Simon flexed his hand. His knuckles stung.

The younger man shook his head. “I’ll sell her for tuppence a pop to any man who’ll have her.”

“Shut your bloody mouth, goddamn it!”

“Simon.” Lucy’s voice, quavering.

“Shut it for me,” Christian whispered, his teeth red with blood. “Duel me.”

Simon took a slow breath, fighting down his demons. “No.”

“You love her, don’t you? Would do anything for her.” Christian leaned close enough that blood-flecked spittle struck him in the face. “Well, I love my father. There is no other way for us.”

God.
“Christian—”

“Duel me or I’ll make sure you’ll have to.” The boy looked him straight in the eye.

Simon stared at him. Then his gaze traveled over the other man’s head to Lucy’s face. Straight, severe brows, mahogany hair pulled back in a simple knot, lips compressed in a line. Her beautiful topaz eyes were wide, pleading. Absently he noted that she still wore her cloak from an outing. Newton must’ve just caught her as she returned home.

Impossible to chance her safety.

“Very well. The morning after tomorrow. That will give you and me enough time to find seconds.” His eyes flicked back to Fletcher. “Now get out.”

Christian turned and left.