The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(51)

“Lord Iddesleigh?” one of the men hailed him. It wasn’t James, so it must be a second.

“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.