The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(73)

The butler, his back to her, started and whirled. “M-my lady, I hadn’t realized—”

She waved his apology aside and came straight to the point. “Do you know where he’s going?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Never mind,” she said impatiently. “I’ll simply follow him.”

Lucy cautiously opened the front door. Simon’s carriage was still sitting out front, the coachman almost asleep on the box. A stable hand was yawning as he returned to the mews.

And Simon was riding away.

Lucy closed the door, ignoring Newton’s hissed exclamations behind her, and ran down the steps, shivering in the morning chill. “Mr. Coachman.”

The coachman blinked as if he’d never seen his mistress with her hair undone, as indeed he hadn’t. “My lady?”

“Please follow Lord Iddesleigh without letting him know.”

“But, my lady—”

“Now.” Lucy didn’t wait for a footman to place the step but scrambled into the carriage. She stuck her head back out again. “And don’t lose him.”

The carriage lurched forward.

Lucy sat back and pulled a rug over herself. It was bitterly cold. Scandalous of her to be driving about London not fully dressed and her hair down, but she couldn’t let modesty keep her from confronting Simon. He hadn’t had any decent sleep for days, and he wasn’t that long recovered from the beating. How dare he continue to risk his life and not think she should know about it? Cut her off, in fact, from that part of himself. Did he think she was a doll to be taken out and played with and then packed away again when he had other matters to see to? Well, it was long past time that she discuss with him exactly what she considered came under the duties of a wife. Her husband’s health, for one thing. Not keeping secrets from her, for another. Lucy harrumphed and folded her arms across her chest.

The December sun had finally dawned, but the light was poor and didn’t seem to affect the cold at all. They turned in to the park, the cobblestones changing to gravel beneath the carriage’s wheels. A mist hung eerily about the ground, shrouding the trunks of trees. From the small carriage window, Lucy couldn’t see any movement and had to trust that the coachman was still following Simon.

They rolled to a halt.

A footman opened the door and peered in at her. “John Coachman says if he gets any closer, his lordship will see.”

“Thank you.”

With the man’s help, Lucy alighted and turned to where he pointed. About a hundred yards away, Simon and another man faced each other like figures in a pantomime. At this distance, she could only tell it was Simon from the way he moved. Her heart seemed to stop dead. Dear Lord, they were ready to begin. She wasn’t in time to persuade Simon to stop this terrible rite.

“Wait for me here,” she ordered the menservants, and walked toward the scene.

There were six men in all—four others stood apart from the duelists, but none looked in her direction or even seemed to notice her at all. They were too involved in this masculine game of death. Simon had removed his coat and waistcoat, as had his opponent, a man Lucy had never seen before. Their white shirtsleeves were almost ghostly in the gray morning mist. They must be cold, but neither man shivered. Instead Simon stood still, while the other man swooshed his sword about, perhaps in practice.

Lucy stopped maybe twenty yards away in the shelter of some bushes. Her bare feet were already frozen.

Simon’s adversary was a very big man, taller than him, with greater breadth of shoulder. His face was ruddy against his white wig. In contrast, Simon’s face was pale as death, the weariness she’d noticed at the house more pronounced in daylight, even at this distance. Both men stood still now. They bent their legs, raised their swords, and paused like a tableau.

Lucy opened her mouth.

Someone shouted. She flinched. Simon and the big man lunged together. Violence sang in the speed of their thrusts, in the awful sneers on their faces. The clatter of their swords rang in the still air. The big man advanced, his sword stabbing, but Simon sprang away, parrying the thrusts. How could he move that fast when he was so tired? Could he keep it up? Lucy wanted to run forward, to shout at the combatants, Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! But she knew that her mere appearance might be enough to startle Simon into dropping his guard and getting killed.

The big man grunted and attacked low. Simon stumbled back and repelled the other man’s blade with his own.

“Blood!” someone cried.

And only then did Lucy notice the stain on her husband’s middle. Oh, God. She didn’t realize she’d bitten her lip until she tasted copper. He still moved. Surely if he’d been run through he’d fall? But he backed instead, his arm continuing to work as the other man herded him. She felt bile rise in her throat. Dear Lord, please don’t let him die.

“Throw down your swords!” another man cried.

Lucy looked and realized one of the men was young Mr. Fletcher. The other three men shouted and gesticulated at the combatants, trying to end the duel, but Mr. Fletcher merely stood, an odd smile on his face. How many of these pointless battles had he attended? How many men had he witnessed her husband kill?

Lucy suddenly hated his fresh, open face.

The bloody stain at Simon’s middle spread. He looked like he wore a scarlet sash about his waist now. How much blood was he losing? The big man grinned and swung his sword with even greater speed and force. Simon was lagging. He turned away the other man’s blade again and again. Then he stumbled and almost lost his footing. Another stain appeared on his shirt, this one above the wrist of the hand that held his sword.