The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(66)

“SBLOOD,” Garrick bawled, “do you think me easier played on than a PIPE?” Spittle glittered in the stage lights.

Simon winced. He much preferred reading Shakespeare to attending it. This was assuming he had to consume the bard at all. He glanced at Lucy. She was enthralled, his angel, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted as she watched the play. Behind her, the crimson velvet curtains lining the box framed her head, making a foil for her pale profile and her dark hair. She was almost unbearably beautiful.

He looked away. “What are you talking about?”

Christian scowled. “You know. The duels. Why are you killing these men?”

Simon arched an eyebrow. “Why do you think?”

The younger man shook his head. “At first I thought it was honor of some kind, that they had insulted a lady close to you.” His gaze skittered to Rosalind and away. “I’d heard rumors . . . Well, they were repeated everywhere a couple of years ago, before your brother died.”

Simon waited.

“And then I thought perhaps you wanted a reputation. The glory of having dueled and killed.”

Simon repressed a snort. Glory. God, what a thought.

“But after James”—Christian looked at him, puzzled—“you fought with such ferocity, such viciousness. It had to be personal. What did the man do to you?”

“He killed my brother.”

Christian’s jaw dropped open. “Ethan?”

“Hush.” Simon glanced at Rosalind. Although she was obviously less interested in the play than Lucy, her eyes were still on the stage. He turned back to Christian. “Yes.”

“How . . . ?”

“I’m not going to discuss this here.” He frowned impatiently. Why should he bother explaining himself at all?

“But you’re looking for another one.”

Simon rested his chin in his open hand, half covering his mouth. “How do you know?”

Christian shifted impatiently in his velvet and gilt chair.

Simon glanced at the stage. Hamlet was creeping up on his kneeling uncle. The Danish prince raised his sword, babbled verse, and then sheathed it again, another opportunity for vengeance lost. Simon sighed. He’d always found this particular play tedious. Why didn’t the prince just kill his uncle and have done?

“I’m not stupid, you know. I’ve followed you.”

“What?” Simon’s attention swung back to the man sitting beside him.

“The last couple of days,” Christian said. “To the Devil’s Playground and to other sordid places. You go in, don’t drink, roam around the room, question the staff—”

Simon interrupted this laundry list of activities. “Why are you following me?”

Christian ignored him. “You’re looking for a big man, a titled aristocrat. Someone who gambles, but not as compulsively as James, otherwise you would’ve found him already.”

“Why are you following me?” Simon grit his teeth.

“How could all these men, men of standing and good family, have killed your brother?”

Simon leaned forward until his face was inches from Christian’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucy glance around. He didn’t care. “Why are you following me?”

Christian blinked rapidly. “I’m your friend. I—”

“Are you?” His words seemed to hang in the air, almost echoing.

On stage, Hamlet drove his sword through Polonius. The actress playing Gertrude cried shrilly, “O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!” In the next box someone shrieked with laughter.

“Are you my true friend, Christian Fletcher?” Simon whispered. “Do you guard my back with a loyal eagle eye?”

Christian looked down and then up again, his mouth grim. “Yes. I am your friend.”

“Will you second me when I do find him?”

“Yes. You know I will.”

“I’m grateful.”

“But how can you keep doing it?” The younger man’s eyes were intent. He leaned forward, drawing Lucy’s gaze again. “How can you keep killing men?”

“It doesn’t matter how I’m able.” Simon looked away. James’s open eyes, staring into nothing. “The only thing that matters is that it’s done. That my brother is avenged. Do you understand?”

“I . . . yes.”

Simon nodded and leaned back. He smiled for Lucy. “Enjoying the play, my lady?”

“Very much, my lord.” She wasn’t fooled. Her gaze darted between him and Christian. Then she sighed and looked back to the stage.

Simon scanned the audience. Across from them, a lady in embroidered scarlet turned her lorgnette on him, posing self-consciously. He looked away. Below, a broad-shouldered gentleman pushed his way through the crowd, elbowing a wench. The woman shrieked and shoved back. The man turned and Simon leaned forward to catch sight of his profile. Another man rose to join the argument, and the first man turned aside.

Simon relaxed. Not Walker.

He’d spent the past few days since he’d received the threatening letter searching everywhere for the last man in the group that had killed Ethan. Christian may have followed him to the gaming halls at night, but the younger man hadn’t seen Simon during the day at the coffeehouses, at horse auctions, or roaming the tailor shops and other establishments for gentlemen. Walker was nowhere to be seen. And yet, he hadn’t gone to ground at his estate in Yorkshire either. Simon had paid ears in that vicinity, and there’d been no reports of Lord Walker. He could, of course, have fled to another county or even overseas, but Simon didn’t think so. Walker’s family was still in his town house.