The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(41)

“I think so, too.” Lucy cocked her head. “And you needn’t tell me he’s not coming back, because I already had that discussion with Eustace.”

“You didn’t.” Patricia closed her eyes.

“I’m afraid so. Eustace brought him up.”

“Why didn’t you change the subject?”

“Because Eustace deserved to know.” Lucy sighed. “He deserves someone who can love him, and I just can’t.”

She felt slightly queasy. Maybe that last piece of candy hadn’t been a good idea. Or maybe the realization that she would spend the remaining years of her life never seeing Simon again had finally caught up with her.

“Well.” Patricia set her teacup down and brushed an invisible crumb from her skirt. “Eustace may deserve love, but so do you, my dear. So do you.”

SIMON STOOD ON THE STEPS to hell and scanned the crowd of revelers.

The Devil’s Playground was London’s newest fashionable gaming palace, which was open only for a fortnight. The chandeliers glittered, the paint on the Doric columns was barely dry, and the marble floor still held its polish. In another year, the chandeliers would be blackened with smoke and dust, the columns would show the smears of a thousand greasy shoulders, and the floor would be dull with accumulated grit. But tonight, tonight, the girls were gay and beautiful, and the gentlemen surging around the tables had nearly identical expressions of excitement. Every now and again a whoop of triumph or an overloud, near maniacal laugh rose above the general rumble of dozens of voices speaking at once. The air was a thick miasma of sweat, burning candle wax, spoiled perfume, and the odor men secrete when they’re on the verge of either winning a fortune or putting a pistol to their head before the night is over.

It had just gone eleven o’clock, and somewhere in this mass of humanity hid his prey. Simon sauntered down the steps into the main room. A passing footman offered a tray of watered-down wine. The libations were free. The more a man drank, the more apt he was to gamble and to stay gambling once started. Simon shook his head, and the footman turned away.

In the far right-hand corner, a golden-haired gentleman leaned over the table, his back to the room. Simon craned to look, but yellow silk obscured his view. A soft, feminine form bumped against his elbow.

“Pardon moi.” The demimondaine’s French accent was quite good. It almost sounded real.

He glanced down.

She had plump rosy cheeks, dewy skin, and blue eyes that promised things she shouldn’t have any knowledge of. She wore a green feather in her hair and smiled artfully. “I shall fetch some champagne in apology, yes?” She couldn’t be more than sixteen, and she looked like she belonged on a farm in Yorkshire, milking the cows.

“No, thank you,” he muttered.

Her expression revealed her disappointment, but then she’d been trained to show what men wanted. He moved away before she could reply and glanced back at the corner. The golden-haired man was no longer there.

He felt weary.

This was irony: only just past eleven o’clock and he wished he was in his bed, asleep and alone. When had he become an old man with a shoulder that ached if he stayed up too late? Ten years ago he would’ve barely begun the night. He would’ve taken the little harlot up on her offer and not even noticed her age. He would’ve gambled half his allowance away and not flinched. Of course, ten years ago he’d been twenty, finally set up in his own establishment, and a hell of a lot closer in age to the harlot than he was now. Ten years ago he hadn’t the sense to be afraid. Ten years ago he hadn’t felt fear or loneliness. Ten years ago he’d been immortal.

A gilt head to the left. It turned and he saw a wizened old face wearing a wig. Simon pushed through the crowd slowly, making his way to the back room. That was where the truly reckless gamblers congregated.

De Raaf and Pye seemed to think he had no fear, that he still thought and acted like that stripling lad ten years ago. But it was just the opposite, really. The fear was more intense with each duel, the knowledge that he could—probably would—die more real. And in a way, the fear drove him forward. What kind of a man would he be if he gave in to it and let his brother’s murderers live? No, every time he felt fear’s icy fingers trailing up his spine, every time he heard her siren call to just give up, let it be, he strengthened his resolve.

There.

Golden Hair ducked through black-velvet-lined doors. The man wore purple satin. Simon set his course, sure of the scent now.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Christian said from beside him.

He whipped around, his heart nearly stuttering out of his chest. Ghastly to be caught so flat-footed. The younger man could have slipped a stiletto between his ribs and he would never have known before he died. Another problem of age—the reflexes slowed. “How?”

“What?” The other man blinked red-tipped eyelashes.

Simon took a breath to control his voice. There was no point in taking out his temper on Christian. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“Oh. Well, I called ’round your place, asked Henry, and voila.” Christian spread his arms like a jester performing a trick.

“I see.” Simon knew he sounded irritated. It was becoming a habit with Christian to show up unexpectedly, rather like a case of the clap. He took a deep breath. Actually, now that he thought about it, he realized it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have the younger man as company. Made one feel less alone at least. And it was rather soothing to be idolized.