The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(87)

She sobbed. He pulled her against his chest, and she felt his heartbeat, so strong under her cheek. “Please, Simon.”

“I need to finish this.” His lips were on her forehead, murmuring against her skin.

“Please, Simon,” she repeated like a prayer. She closed her eyes, felt the tears burn her face. “Please.” She clutched his coat, smelled wool and his scent—the scent of her husband. She wanted to say something to persuade him, but she didn’t have the words. “I’ll lose you. We’ll lose each other.”

“I can’t change who I am, Lucy,” she heard him whisper. “Even for you.”

He let her go and walked away.

“I NEED YOU,” SIMON SAID TO EDWARD DE RAAF an hour later in the Agrarians’ coffeehouse. He was surprised at how rusty his voice sounded, as if he’d been imbibing vinegar. Or sorrow. Don’t think of Lucy. He had to concentrate on what needed to be done.

De Raaf must’ve been surprised, too. Or maybe it was the words. He hesitated, then waved at the empty chair next to him. “Sit down. Have some coffee.”

Simon felt bile rise in his throat. “I don’t want any coffee.”

The other man ignored him. He gestured to a boy who, strangely, looked up and nodded. De Raaf turned back to him and frowned. “I said sit down.”

Simon sat.

The coffeehouse was nearly empty. Too late for the morning crowd, too early for the afternoon drinkers. The only other patron was an elderly man by the door in a dusty, full-bottom wig. He was mumbling to himself as he nursed a cup. The boy slammed down two mugs, snatched de Raaf’s first, and whirled away before they could even thank him.

Simon stared at the steam drifting from the cup. He felt oddly cold, although the room was warm. “I don’t want any coffee.”

“Drink it,” de Raaf growled. “Do you good. You look as if someone’s kicked you in the bollocks, then told you your favorite rose died while you were still on the ground writhing.”

Simon winced at the image. “Christian Fletcher has challenged me to a duel.”

“Humph. You’re probably shaking in your red-heeled shoes.” De Raaf’s eyes narrowed. “What have you done to the boy?”

“Nothing. His father was in the conspiracy to kill Ethan.”

De Raaf raised his black eyebrows. “And he helped?”

“No.”

De Raaf looked at him.

Simon’s lips twisted as he fingered his mug. “He fights for his father.”

“You would kill an innocent man?” de Raaf asked mildly.

Christian was innocent of his father’s crime. Simon took a sip of coffee and swore as it burned his tongue. “He’s threatened Lucy.”

“Ah.”

“Will you second me?”

“Hmm.” The other man set his own mug down and leaned back in his chair, making it squeak with his weight. “I knew this day would come.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “When you could get a lad to bring you coffee?”

De Raaf pretended not to hear. “When you would come crawling to me for help—”

Simon snorted. “I’m hardly crawling.”

“Desperate. Your wig unpowdered and full of nits—”

“My wig is not—”

De Raaf raised his voice to talk over him. “Unable to find any other to help you.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Pleading, begging, Oh, Edward, help me, do.”

“Jesus,” Simon muttered.

“This is indeed a wonderful day.” The other man lifted his cup again.

Simon’s mouth curved in a reluctant smile. He took a careful sip of his coffee. Hot acid.

De Raaf grinned at him, waiting.

Simon sighed. “Are you going to second me?”

“’Course. Be happy to.”

“I can see that. The duel isn’t until the morning after tomorrow. You have a full day, but you should get started. You’ll need to go ’round Fletcher’s house. Find out who his seconds are and—”

“I know.”

“Get a reputable physician, one who doesn’t let blood at the drop of a hat—”

“I am aware of how to second a duel,” de Raaf interrupted with dignity.

“Good.” Simon drained the coffee cup. The black liquid burned all the way down. “Try to remember your sword, will you?”

De Raaf looked insulted.

He stood.

“Simon.”

He turned back around and raised his brows.

De Raaf looked at him, all trace of humor gone from his face. “If you need me for anything else?”

Simon looked at the big, scarred man for a moment and felt his throat swell. He swallowed before replying. “Thanks.”

He strode from the coffeehouse before he started blubbering. The old man in the full-bottomed wig was snoring, facedown on the table, when he passed him. The bright afternoon sun hit Simon as he walked out. Despite the sunlight, the air was so cold his cheeks burned. He swung up on his gelding and guided him into the busy street. I must tell Lucy—

Simon cut the thought short. He didn’t want to think about Lucy, didn’t want to remember the fear and hurt and rage on her face when he’d left her in the greenhouse, but it was near impossible. Thinking of Lucy was ingrained in his bones now. He turned down a street lined with various small shops. She hated that he was dueling. Perhaps if he had something to give her tonight. He’d never given her a wedding present . . .