The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(52)

And suddenly James turned, lunged, and slashed behind his legs. Simon felt the sting at the back of his knees. Horror streaked through him. If James succeeded in cutting the tendons at the back of his legs, he would be crippled, unable to stand and defend himself. But in lunging, James had exposed his chest. The other man drew back to slash at his legs again. Simon pivoted. Put the whole force of his arm behind the blow. And ran James through the chest. Simon felt the jar as his blade hit and grated against bone. His shoulder burned just above his armpit. He saw James’s eyes widen in understanding of his own mortality, heard the scream of one of the witnesses, and smelled the acid stink of urine as the dead man lost control of his bladder.

His enemy sank to the ground.

Simon bent for a second, gulping great lungfuls of air. Then he placed his foot on the corpse’s chest and pulled his sword out. James’s eyes were still open, staring at nothing now.

“Jesus.” Christian drew a hand across his white mouth.

Simon wiped the blade of his sword. His hands shook slightly and he frowned, trying to control them. “Could you close his eyes?”

“My God. My God. My God.” The short man was nearly jumping up and down in his agitation. Suddenly, he leaned over and vomited, splattering his shoes.

“Can you close his eyes?” Simon asked again. He didn’t know why it bothered him so. James no longer cared that he stared blindly.

The little man was still heaving, but Spectacles passed his hand over James’s eyes.

The physician walked over and stared down impassively. “He’s dead. You’ve killed him.”

“Yes, I know.” Simon shrugged on his coat.

“Christ,” Christian whispered.

Simon motioned to Henry and turned to walk back. They no longer needed the lantern. The sun had risen, evaporating the mist and heralding a new day that Quincy James would never see. Simon’s hands still shook.

“HE’S OUT? HOW CAN HE BE OUT at this hour?” Lucy stared at Newton.

The sky had just lost the pinkness of dawn. Street sweepers were trundling their carts home across the cobblestones. At the house next door, a maid slammed the door and began vigorously scrubbing her employer’s steps. Lucy had arrived at Simon’s town house for their early morning ride in the park. She should’ve waited for him at Rosalind’s home, as they’d originally planned. But last night over supper, Rosalind had announced that she would rise unfashionably early to accompany the new cook to the fish market this morning. Cook had served them slightly off fish two nights in a row, and Rosalind thought she needed pointers on selecting a fresh snapper. Lucy had leapt at the chance to ride along and see Simon a little early.

But now she stood on the front stoop like a poor petitioner before the king. The king, in this case, being Newton the butler. He was splendidly arrayed in silver and black livery and an exquisite wig, despite the hour. He stared back at her down a nose that would have done any ancient Roman proud.

“I couldn’t say, miss.” Two spots of red burned in the butler’s otherwise cadaverous cheeks.

Lucy looked at them suspiciously. Her own face began to heat. Surely Simon wasn’t with another woman? No, of course not. They were to be married in less than a week. But Lucy felt shaken nonetheless. She hardly knew Simon; maybe she had misunderstood. Perhaps when he said dawn it had been a fashionable figure of speech, really meaning ten o’clock. Or maybe she’d confused the day—

A big black carriage rattled up, interrupting her thoughts. Lucy turned to look. The carriage bore Simon’s crest. A footman jumped down and set the steps. Henry and Mr. Fletcher descended. Lucy frowned. Why . . . ? Simon stepped down. Behind her, Newton exclaimed. Simon was in his shirtsleeves, despite the cold. One sleeve was streaked with blood, and he held a soaked rag to the upper arm. Spatters of red arced delicately across his chest. In strange contrast to the gore, he wore an immaculate white wig.

Lucy gasped; her lungs wouldn’t fill with air. How badly was he hurt? She stumbled down the steps. “What has happened?”

Simon stopped and stared at her, white-faced. He looked as if he didn’t recognize her. “Merde.”

At least he could talk. “Newton, send for a doctor!”

Lucy didn’t bother to see if the butler followed her orders. She was afraid if she took her eyes from Simon, he might collapse. She reached him on the street and held out a hand, hesitant to actually touch him lest she harm him further.

“Where are you hurt? Tell me.” Her voice shook.

He took her hand. “I’m fine—”

“You’re bleeding!”

“There’s no need of a doctor—”

“He killed James,” Mr. Fletcher suddenly said.

“What?” Lucy looked at the younger man.

He seemed dazed, as if he’d seen a tragedy. What had happened?

“Not out in the street for all the pious listening neighbors to gossip about, please,” Simon said. His words dragged as if he were weary to his soul. “We’ll hash it out, if we must hash it out, in the sitting room.” The fingers clutching her wrist were sticky with blood. “Come inside.”

“Your arm—”

“Will be fine as soon as I dose it with brandy—by mouth, preferably.” He marched her up the steps.

Behind them, Mr. Fletcher called, “I’m going home. Had enough. Sorry.”