The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(77)

“Where have you been?” The question was out before she could stop it. She winced. Maybe she didn’t want to hear where he’d been.

“Do you care?” He set a candelabra on a table and shrugged off his coat. The blue silk was gray in places, and she saw at least one tear.

She tamped down her anger. It wouldn’t help right now. “Yes, I care.” And it was true. No matter what, she loved him and cared about him and what he did.

He didn’t reply but sat down on a chair by the fire and removed his boots. He stood again and took off his wig, placing it on a stand. Rubbing both hands vigorously over his head, he made the short hair stand on end.

“I was about.” He stripped off his waistcoat, throwing it on a chair. “Went ’round the Agrarians’. Looked at a bookstore.”

“You didn’t go hunting for Mr. Fletcher’s father?” That had been her fear all this time. That he was off making the arrangements for another duel.

He glanced at her, then stripped off his shirt. “No. I like to take a day of rest between my slaughters.”

“It’s not funny,” she whispered.

“No, it’s not.” In only his breeches, he poured out a basin of water and washed.

She watched him from the bed. Her heart ached. How could this man, moving so wearily yet gracefully, have killed another human this morning? How could she be married to him? How could she still care for him?

“Can you explain it to me?” she asked softly.

He hesitated, one arm raised. Then he washed under his arm and along that side as he spoke. “They were a group of investors: Peller, Hartwell, James, Walker, and Ethan, my brother.” He dipped the cloth he used in the basin, wrung it out, and rubbed his neck. “And apparently Christian’s father as well. Sir Rupert Fletcher.” His eyes met hers as if he expected an objection.

She made none.

He continued. “They bought a shipment of Indian tea together. Not just one, but several shiploads. Hell, a bloody fleet, as if they were merchant princes. The price of tea was rising, and they stood to make a fortune each. Easily. Quickly.” He moved the cloth across his chest in circles, wiping away blood and sweat and dirt.

She watched him and listened and made no sound, fearful of interrupting this story. But inside she was quaking. She felt pulled to the man washing himself so mundanely, despite the blood, and at the same time, was repelled by the stranger who had killed a man just this morning.

Simon splashed water on his face. “The only risk was the ships sinking at sea or wrecking in a storm, but that’s a risk any investor takes. They probably thought about it a minute and discounted it. After all, there was so much money to be made.” He looked at the basin of scummy water, emptied it into a slops jar, and refilled it.

“But Ethan, always correct Ethan, talked them into taking out insurance against the ships and the arrival of the tea. It was expensive, but he said it was the smart thing to do. The responsible thing to do.” He ducked his head into the basin and sluiced the water over his hair.

She waited until he’d palmed the water from his hair and straightened. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged and picked up a cloth and toweled his clean hair. “The weather was fine, the ships fit, and, I suppose, the crew competent. The first ship arrived in port without problem.”

“And?”

He spent some time carefully folding the towel before laying it beside the basin. “The price of tea had fallen in the meantime. Not just fallen, but plummeted. It was one of those quirks of the market that they couldn’t have foreseen. There was a sudden glut of tea. Their tea wasn’t worth the cost of unloading the crates from the ship.” He walked into the next room, his dressing room.

“So the investors lost their money?” she called.

“They would’ve.” He returned with a razor. “But then they remembered the insurance. The insurance that Ethan had made them take out. So ridiculous at the time and their only hope now. If they sank the ships, they could recoup their loss.”

She frowned. “But Ethan . . .”

He nodded and pointed the razor at her. “But Ethan was the most honorable man I ever knew. The most honest. The most sure of himself and his morals. He refused. Damn the loss of money, damn their anger, damn the possibility of ruin, he would not take part in a fraud.” He soaped his face.

Lucy thought about Ethan’s honesty—how naive he must have been and how hard for a man like Simon to live up to. Simon’s voice was flat. Perhaps to someone else he would sound unemotional, but she was the woman who cared for him, and she heard the pain under the words. And the anger.

Simon set the edge of the razor against his throat and made the first stroke. “They determined that they must get rid of Ethan. Without him, they could wreck the ships and recover; with him, all was lost. But it’s not so easy to kill a viscount, is it? So they spread bloody, bloody rumors that were impossible to disprove, impossible to fight.” He wiped the lather from his razor onto a cloth.

“Rumors about him?” Lucy whispered.

“No.” He stared down at the razor in his hand as if he’d forgotten what it was. “About Rosalind.”

“What?”

“About Rosalind’s virtue. About Pocket’s birth.”

“But Pocket looks just like you . . .” She trailed away, the implication hitting her. Oh, dear Lord.