The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(37)

Simon felt a strange pang as he realized he was the odd man out. They turned in unison to the earl.

Who sputtered, “Despicable, lying, caddish—”

The boy whirled by again. De Raaf frantically waved his arm. “Ahhh, damn!”

The lad disappeared into the kitchen without ever turning his head.

“Good thing you’ve given up the sacred brew.” Simon smirked.

A crash came from the brawl in the corner. Heads swiveled. The country squire had the dandy, sans wig, on his back against a table. Two chairs lay broken nearby.

Pye frowned. “Isn’t that Arlington?”

“Yes,” Simon replied. “Hard to recognize him without that atrocious wig, isn’t it? Can’t think why he chose pink. No doubt that’s the reason the rural chap is pummeling him. Probably overcome with loathing for the wig.”

“They were arguing over swine breeding.” De Raaf shook his head. “He’s always been a bit unreasonable about farrowing pens. Runs in the family.”

“Do you think we should help him?” Pye asked.

“No.” De Raaf looked around for the boy, an evil gleam in his eye. “Arlington could benefit from a beating. Might knock some sense into him.”

“Doubt it.” Simon raised his mug again, but then lowered it as he saw a slight, scruffy character hesitating in the doorway.

The man scanned the room and spotted him. He started toward them.

“Dammit!” de Raaf exclaimed beside him. “They’re ignoring me on purpose.”

“Do you want me to get you a coffee?” Pye asked.

“No. I’m going to do it myself or die trying.”

The man stopped before Simon. “Took me most of the day, Guv, but I’ve found him.” He proffered a dirty scrap of paper.

“Thanks.” Simon gave the man a gold coin.

“Ta.” The little man tugged a forelock and disappeared.

Simon opened the paper and read: The Devil’s Playground after eleven. He crumpled the note and stuffed it in a pocket. And only then realized the other two men were watching him. He raised his brows.

“What’s that?” De Raaf rumbled. “Found another one to duel?”

Simon blinked, taken aback. He thought he had kept his dueling secret from de Raaf and Pye. He’d not wanted their interference or their moralizing.

“Surprised we know?” De Raaf leaned back, endangering the wooden chair he sat in. “It wasn’t that hard to ferret out how you’ve been spending the last couple of months, especially after that sword fight with Hartwell.”

What was the big man’s point? “Not your business.”

“It is when you’re risking your life with each duel,” Pye answered for them both.

Simon stared hard.

Neither man blinked.

Damn them. He looked away. “They killed Ethan.”

“John Peller killed your brother.” De Raaf tapped a big finger on the table in emphasis. “And he’s already dead. You ran him through more than two years ago. Why start again now?”

“Peller was part of a conspiracy.” Simon looked away. “A bloody conspiracy from hell. I only found out several months ago, whilst going through some of Ethan’s papers.”

De Raaf sat back and folded his arms.

“I discovered that fact right before I challenged Hartwell.” Simon fingered his index finger. “There were four of them in the conspiracy. Two are left now, and they’re all culpable. What would you do if it were your brother?”

“Probably the same as you’re doing.”

“There you are.”

De Raaf grimaced. “The chances you’ll be killed increase with every duel you fight.”

“I’ve won both duels so far.” Simon looked away. “What makes you think I can’t win the next?”

“Even the best swordsman can slip or be distracted for a moment.” De Raaf looked irritable. “One moment, that’s all it takes. Those are your words.”

Simon shrugged.

Pye leaned forward, his voice lowering. “At least let us go with you, be your seconds.”

“No. I already have someone else in mind.”

“That lad you’ve been partnering with at Angelo’s?” de Raaf cut in.

Simon nodded. “Christian Fletcher.”

Pye’s gaze sharpened. “How well do you know him? Can you trust him?”

“Christian?” Simon laughed. “Young, I concede, but quite good with a blade. Almost as good as I, in fact. He’s beaten me in practice once or twice.”

“But would he guard your back in a crisis?” De Raaf shook his head. “Would he even know to look for tricks?”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Dammit—”

“Besides”—Simon looked from one to the other—“the both of you are in a state of connubial bliss. Think you that I would want to present either of your wives with a dead husband before your first anniversary?”

“Simon—” de Raaf began.

“No. Leave it at that.”

“Goddamn you.” The big man stood, his chair nearly toppling over. “You had better not be dead the next time I see you.” He banged his way out of the coffeehouse.