The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(84)

“I’ve never thought him a wastrel,” Lucy said softly.

“He isn’t, really.” Rosalind looked at her. “I think some of it was merely youth, some of it reaction to his brother and how their parents saw the both of them.”

“How did their parents see them?”

“When the brothers were very young, their parents seemed to decide that one was good and the other bad. The viscountess was especially rigid in her thinking.”

How awful to be branded the bad brother at so young an age. “But”—Lucy shook her head—“I still don’t understand how that affects Simon now.”

Rosalind closed her eyes. “When Ethan let himself be murdered, Simon was forced to assume both roles. Both the good and the bad brother.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. Was what Rosalind said possible?

“Just listen.” Rosalind held out her hands. “I think Simon felt guilty that Ethan had died defending Simon’s name in a way. Remember the rumors were that Simon was my lover.”

“Yes,” Lucy said slowly.

“Simon had to avenge him. Yet, at the same time, he must feel terrible anger at Ethan for dying in such a way, for leaving me and Theodora to his care, for being the good brother and martyring himself.” She stared down at her open palms. “I know I do.”

Lucy looked away. This was a revelation. Everything she’d heard about Ethan pointed to how good he’d been. It had never occurred to her that Rosalind might feel anger toward her late husband. And if she did . . .

“It took me many months to let Ethan go,” Rosalind said quietly, almost to herself. “To forgive him for dueling a man he knew was the better swordsman. It’s only been recently that . . .”

Lucy looked up. “What?”

Her sister-in-law blushed. “I . . . I have been driving with a gentleman.”

“Forgive me, but Simon said your reputation was—”

“Ruined.” Rosalind’s complexion was quite rosy now. “Yes, in the ton it was. My gentleman is a solicitor at the law house that helped settle Ethan’s estate. I hope you don’t think the less of me?”

“No. No, of course not.” Lucy caught Rosalind’s hand. “I’m happy for you.”

The fair woman smiled. “Thank you.”

“I only wish,” Lucy whispered, “that Simon could find such peace.”

“He’s found you. At one time I wasn’t sure he would ever let himself marry.”

“Yes, but I can’t talk to him. He doesn’t listen, won’t admit what he’s doing is murder. I . . .” Lucy looked blindly away, her eyes full of tears. “I don’t know what to do.”

She felt Rosalind’s hand on her shoulder. “Maybe there isn’t anything you can do. Perhaps this is something only he can defeat.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Lucy began, but Pocket charged back into the room at that moment, and she had to turn away to hide her eyes from the little girl.

The question hung there, unanswered.

If Simon couldn’t defeat his demons, if he didn’t stop killing other men, he would destroy himself. Maybe Rosalind was right; maybe there truly wasn’t anything she could do to stop his deadly path. But she had to at least try.

Surely there was someone else who felt as she did, someone who didn’t want this duel with Sir Rupert. She’d go to Christian if she could, but from his reaction at the Lord Walker duel, he would not have sympathy for her cause. Few would have the same feelings as a wife. Lucy straightened. A wife. Sir Rupert was married. If she could win his wife to her side, perhaps between the two of them they could stop—

“Aunt Lucy,” Pocket cried, “won’t you come taste Cook’s pies? They’re ever so good.”

Lucy blinked and focused on the little girl tugging at her hand. “I’m afraid I can’t right now, dear. I must go see a lady.”

Chapter Seventeen

Simon snipped off a dead leaf from a Rosa mundi. Around him the smells of the conservatory floated in the humid air—rotted leaves, earth, and the faint scent of mildew. But the perfume of the rose in front of him overpowered them all. She had four blooms on her, all different, the streaks of white swirling into the crimson on her petals. Rosa mundi was an old rose but a favorite nonetheless.

The leaf he’d snipped fell to the white-painted table, and he picked it up and threw it in a bucket. Sometimes a dead leaf carried parasites and, if forgotten by the horticulturist, would infect the healthy plants as well. He made it a habit to clean up as he went. Even the smallest of leftovers might later prove the doom of an entire table of plants.

He moved to the next rose, a Centifolia muscosa—common moss rose—its leaves glossy green with health, its perfume almost cloyingly sweet. The petals in her flowers spilled over themselves, lush and billowy, shamelessly revealing the green sepals at their center. If roses were women, the moss rose would be a tart.

Sir Rupert was a leftover. Or perhaps the last of a series of labors. Whichever way one looked at it, he had to be dealt with. Clipped and cleaned up. Simon owed it to Ethan to finish the job. And to Lucy, to make sure she was safe from his past and his enemies. But Sir Rupert was also a cripple; there was no getting away from that fact. Simon hesitated, studying the next rose, a York and Lancaster, which bore both pink and white flowers on the same plant. He balked at dueling a man with such uneven odds. It would be a killing, pure and simple. The older man wouldn’t have a chance, and Lucy didn’t want him dueling. She would probably leave him, his stern angel, if she found out he was even contemplating issuing another challenge. He didn’t want to lose her. Couldn’t imagine never waking again with her. His fingers shook at even the thought.