The Serpent Prince (29 page)

De Raaf’s town house was up ahead. Somewhere. Or at least he thought so. He was so exhausted, weary unto death. Sleep no longer comforted him, no longer brought him a measure of peace. He hadn’t slept since Lucy had left him two days before. Perhaps he’d never sleep again. Or sleep forever, after this dawn. Simon smirked at his own small wit. The horse turned in to a mews, and he straightened a bit in the saddle, looking for the back of de Raaf’s town house. As he neared, a shape separated itself from the black shadows by a gate.

“Iddesleigh,” de Raaf murmured, his low voice startling the gelding.

Simon gentled the horse. “De Raaf. Where’s your mount?”

“’Round here.” The big man opened the gate and ducked inside.

Simon waited, noticing for the first time the bite of the winter’s wind. He glanced up. The moon was down, but it would’ve been covered with clouds had it still hung in the sky. The coming day would be bleak. Just as well.

De Raaf returned, leading his ugly bay. A soft bag was strapped to the back of the beast behind the saddle. “You’re not wearing a wig. You look naked without one.”

“No?” Simon ran his hand over his short hair before he remembered. The wig had fallen off in a lane during the night, and he’d not bothered to retrieve it. No doubt it now decorated the head of some urchin. He shrugged. “No matter.”

De Raaf eyed him in the dark before mounting his horse. “I can’t think your new bride will approve of you trying to get your gut perforated on Christmas morn of all days. Does she know what you intend to do?”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “How does your own lady feel about you attending a duel on Christmas?”

The big man winced. “No doubt Anna would hate it. I hope to be home before she wakes and finds me gone.”

“Ah.” Simon turned his horse’s head.

De Raaf nudged his horse into a walk beside him. They rode abreast back to the lane.

“You didn’t answer my question.” The big man broke the silence, his breath steaming in the light from a window they passed.

“Lucy’s feelings are moot.” Something inside Simon tore at the thought of his angel. He flexed his jaw before admitting, “She’s left me.”

“What did you do?”

Simon scowled. “How do you know it was my fault?”

De Raaf simply lifted one eyebrow.

“She disapproves of dueling,” Simon said. “No, that’s not right. She disapproves of killing. Of murder.”

The other man snorted. “Can’t see why.”

It was Simon’s turn to give a speaking look.

“Then why are you dueling, man?” de Raaf barked impatiently. “Christ, it isn’t worth losing your wife over.”

“He threatened her.” The memory still made his hands clench. Friend or no, Christian had threatened to rape Lucy. He could not be allowed to get away with that offense.

De Raaf grunted. “Then let me handle Fletcher. You won’t even have to get involved.”

Simon glanced at him sideways. “Thank you, but Lucy is my wife.”

The big man sighed. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Simon squeezed the gelding into a trot, forestalling any further conversation.

They wound their way through more dingy streets. The wind whistled its remorse around corners. A cart passed, rumbling on the cobblestones. Simon finally saw movement on the sidewalk. Silent shapes, still infrequent, that slunk or scurried or loped. The denizens of the day had begun their rounds, careful in the dark that still concealed the dangers of night. Simon looked at the sky again. It had barely lightened to a nasty gray-brown. The snow lay in a thin, white layer on the street, covering filth and foul odors, giving it the illusion of purity. Soon the horses would stir it into muddy slush and the illusion would be gone.

“Damn, it’s cold,” de Raaf huffed from behind.

Simon didn’t bother replying. They entered the path into the green. Here, the landscape was quiet. No human had disturbed the pristine snow yet.

“Are his seconds here?” De Raaf broke the quiet.

“They must be.”

“You don’t have to do this. Whatever—”

“Stop.” Simon glanced at the other man. “Be still, Edward. It’s past the time for that.”

De Raaf grunted, frowning.

Simon hesitated. “If I’m killed, you’ll look after Lucy, won’t you?”

“Christ—” De Raaf bit off whatever he was going to say and glared. “’Course.”

“Thank you. She’s with her father in Kent. You’ll find her direction and a letter on my desk. I’d appreciate it if you could deliver the letter to her.”

“What the hell is she doing in Kent?”

“Repairing her life, I hope.” Simon’s mouth quirked sadly. Lucy. Would she mourn for him? Would she wear the dingy weeds of a widow and weep sweet salt tears? Or would she forget him soon and find consolation in the arms of the country vicar? He found to his surprise that he could still feel jealousy.

Lucy, my Lucy.

Two lanterns flickered against dim figures ahead. They were actors in an inevitable drama. The boy, who until a few days ago he’d regarded as a friend, the men who would watch him kill or be killed, the doctor who would pronounce a man dead.

Simon checked his sword, then nudged his horse into a trot. “We’re here.”

“No, my lady. His lordship left not half an hour ago.”

Lucy nodded, trying not to show her disappointment. She had come so close to seeing him before he did this thing. She would’ve liked to wish him luck at least. “I’ll wait for him in the study.”

She laid the blue leather-bound book she carried on the hall table next to a rather battered brown paper package and gave it a small pat.

“My lady.” Newton bowed. “May I wish you merry Christmas?”

“Oh, thank you.” She’d set out late from Kent, despite Papa’s protests, and made the last leg of the journey through the dark of night, thankful for the hired footmen clutching the back of the carriage. In all the whirl, she’d almost forgotten what day it was. “A merry Christmas to you as well, Mr. Newton.”

Newton bowed again and glided away in his Turkish slippers. Lucy picked up a candelabra from the hall table and entered Simon’s study. As she crossed to a chair before the fireplace, the candle flames lit two small prints in the corner that she hadn’t noticed before. Curious, she wandered over to inspect them.

The first was a botanist’s rendition of a rose, full-blown and pink, its petals spread shamelessly wide. Underneath the rose was its dissection, showing the various parts, all properly labeled, as if to bring decorum to the sprawl of the flower above.

The second print was medieval, probably one of a series that would have illustrated the Bible. It depicted the story of Cain and Abel. Lucy held the candelabra up to study the horrible little etching. Cain’s eyes were wide, his muscles bulging bestially as he struggled with his brother. Abel’s face was calm, unalarmed as his brother killed him.

She shivered and turned away. It was horrible to have to wait for him like this. She’d never known before what he was doing. But now . . . She’d vowed to herself that she would not argue with him, even if she hated what he was about to do, even if he killed a friend, even if she was in terror for his very life. When he returned, she would welcome him as a loving wife should. She would get him a glass of wine, she would rub his shoulders, and she would make it clear that she was staying with him forever. Whether he dueled or not.

Lucy shook herself. Best not to think of the duel at all. She set her candelabra on the desk and went to one of the elegant rosewood bookcases to look at the titles. Perhaps she could distract herself with reading. She scanned the spines: horticulture, agriculture, roses, and more roses, with a single treatise, probably valuable, on fencing. She selected a large volume on roses and placed it on the edge of the desk. She was about to open it, perhaps learn enough to be able to discuss the flower with her husband, when she glanced at the blotting paper before the desk chair. There was a letter on it. Lucy angled her head.

Her name was scrawled across the top.

She stared for a moment, her neck still crooked; then Lucy straightened and walked around the desk. She hesitated a second longer before snatching up the letter, ripping it open and reading:

My Dearest Angel,

So I go to my grave an unrepentant sinner, I’m afraid. There is no use in mourning one such as I, dearest. I hope you can resume your life in Maiden Hill, perhaps marry that handsome vicar. De Raaf has my business papers and will look after you as long as you need him.

—Your Husband, Simon

She laughed, horribly, through the tears blurring her vision. How like Simon to make salacious jokes even while writing a farewell love letter. For that was what the note was: a good-bye in case he died. Had he written letters like this before all of his duels? There was no way of telling; he would’ve destroyed them on his return.

Oh, God, she wished she’d never entered the room.

Lucy dropped the letter back on the desk and hurried out the door, snatching up the candelabra on her way out. Somehow reading Simon’s words as if he were already dead made the waiting far worse. It was just another duel, she tried to reassure herself. How many had he fought now? Three? Five? She’d lost count and he must have, too. He’d won each before. He’d returned to her bloodied but alive.
Alive.
Any argument, any problem they had, could be resolved if he just returned to her alive. Lucy looked up and found that her feet had taken her to Simon’s conservatory. She placed her palm against the wooden door, so solid and comforting, and pushed. Perhaps if she strolled the greenhouse with its rows of pots—

The door swung open and she froze. Broken glass glittered everywhere.

Simon’s conservatory had been destroyed.

The second peered at his chest, presumably to confirm that he wasn’t wearing chain mail under his shirt.

“Let’s get on with it.” Simon swung his arms, trying to keep warm. There was no point in donning his waistcoat and coat again. He’d be sweating soon enough, even in shirtsleeves.

Twenty feet away, he could see de Raaf. The big man grunted and gave Christian back his sword. The younger man nodded and walked toward Simon. Simon studied him. Christian’s face was white and set, his ginger hair like a dark flame. The boy was tall and handsome. No lines marred his cheeks. Only months ago at Angelo’s academy, Christian had walked toward him as he did now. Simon’s regular sparring partner had reneged, and Angelo had sent him Christian to practice against instead. On that occasion, the young man’s face had betrayed nervousness, curiosity, and a little awe. Now his face was expressionless. He’d learned well in just a few months.

“Ready?” Christian’s voice was without inflection.

The thin-wristed second approached to give Simon back his sword. “Ought we to wait until it’s brighter? The sun isn’t even up.”

“No.” Simon took his sword and pointed with the tip. “Put the lanterns to either side of us.”

He watched as de Raaf and the other seconds followed his directions.

Simon flexed his knees and raised his left hand behind his head. He caught de Raaf’s eye. “Remember Lucy.”

De Raaf nodded grimly.

Simon turned to face his opponent. “Ready.”

“Allez!”

Christian sprang like a fox—healthy, young, and feral. Simon brought his sword up just in time, swearing under his breath. He parried the blow and retreated, his rear foot sliding in the crust of snow. He stabbed under the other man’s guard, almost catching him in the side, but Christian was too fast. Steel rang as his sword was deflected. Simon’s breath rasped loudly in his own ears. The air bit his lungs with cold on each inhale. He grunted and parried another attack. Strong and swift, Christian moved like an athlete of old. Simon grinned.

“You find this amusing?” the younger man panted.

“No.” Simon coughed as the cold air seemed to drive too deeply into his lungs and fell back again under a flurry of slashes. “I merely admire your form.” His wrist ached and the muscle on his upper arm was beginning to burn, but it was important to make a good show.

Christian looked at him suspiciously.

“Really. You’ve improved enormously.” Simon smiled and darted at an opening.

Christian leaned back. The tip of Simon’s sword grazed his left cheek, leaving a scarlet line behind. Simon’s smile widened. He hadn’t thought he would make contact.

“Blood!” Christian’s second called.

De Raaf didn’t even bother. Both duelists ignored the shout.

“Bastard,” the younger man said.

Simon shrugged. “Something to remember me by.”

Christian struck at his flank.

Simon pivoted, his feet slipping again in the icy snow. “Would you have hurt Lucy?”

Christian sidestepped, his arm still moving easily despite the blood painting half his face. “Would you have killed my father?”

“Maybe.”

The younger man ignored his answer and feinted, drawing Simon’s blade down. Fire slashed across his brow.

“Damn!” Simon jerked his head back. The blood was already running into his right eye, blinding it. He blinked, his eye stinging. He heard de Raaf swearing in a low, steady monotone.

“Something to remember
me
by.” Christian repeated his words without smiling.

“I won’t have long.”

Christian stared, then lunged forward violently. Simon blocked the blow. For a second they were locked together, Christian bearing down, Simon holding him off with the strength of his shoulder. Then, slowly—
incredibly
—Simon’s arm gave. The sword point slid, screeching, toward him. De Raaf shouted hoarsely. The sword point stabbed into Simon, high on his right chest. He gasped and felt the steel scrape against his collarbone, felt the jar as the point hit his shoulder blade and stopped. He brought his own sword up between their sweating, surging bodies and saw Christian’s eyes widen as he understood the peril. The younger man jumped back, the hilt of his sword slipping out of his grasping hand. Simon cursed as the buried sword tip pulled like a damned viper, but remained steadfastly planted in his flesh.

It wasn’t time yet.

Simon ignored the agony in his shoulder and slashed at Christian, keeping the man away from the bobbing hilt. Sweet heaven, he must look like a puppet with a stick jutting from his shoulder. What an ignoble way to die. His opponent stared at him, out of reach but unarmed. The sword in his chest sagged, dragging on his muscle. Simon tried to reach the hilt. He could just grasp it but hadn’t the leverage to pull it from his own body. Blood soaked his shirt, growing colder with each passing minute. Christian’s second was standing shocked in the bloody, churned snow. Christian himself seemed nonplussed. Simon understood the other man’s dilemma. To win the duel, Christian must pull his sword from Simon’s shoulder. But in order to reach his sword, he must first face Simon’s sword unarmed. And yet what could Simon do with the damn thing sticking out in front of him? He couldn’t pull it out, and he couldn’t really fight with it weaving and bobbing before him.

Impasse.

De Raaf had grown silent, but now he spoke. “It’s over.”

“No,” Simon hissed. He kept his eyes on the younger man. “Take it.”

Christian eyed him warily—as well he should.

Meanwhile, de Raaf still pleaded. “He was your friend. You can end this, Fletcher.”

Christian shook his head. Blood from the cut on his cheek already stained his collar. Simon wiped the gore from his eye and smiled. He would die today; he knew it. What point in living without Lucy? But he would have an honorable death. He would make the boy work for his kill. Despite the blood soaking his shirt, despite the fire eating at his shoulder, despite the weariness weighing down his soul, he would have a real fight. A real death.

“Take it,” he repeated softly.