The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(88)

Half an hour later, he exited a shop with a rectangular paper-wrapped parcel in his hand and a larger, bulkier one under his arm. The larger parcel was for his niece. He’d noticed a toy shop on the street and remembered he ought to have something for Pocket on Christmas. His mouth twitched as he thought of what his sister-in-law would think of his present for her daughter. He remounted the horse, carefully juggling the parcels. No doubt Lucy would still be angry, but at least she would know that he was sincerely sorry that he’d caused her distress. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to think about the next days. If he survived the duel, it would finally be over. He’d be able to sleep in peace.

He could love Lucy in peace.

Maybe he would agree to her idea of travel. They could go to Maiden Hill for their first Christmas together and visit with the captain. He had no need to see the old coot again so soon, but Lucy might be missing her father by now. After the New Year they could tour Kent, then journey north to his lands in Northumberland, assuming the weather wasn’t too bad. He hadn’t been to the manor there in ages. It probably needed refurbishing, and Lucy could help him with that.

He looked up. His town house was ahead. For a moment he was disoriented. Had he ridden this far and not even noticed? Then he saw the carriage. His carriage. Footmen carried trunks down the front steps. Others were heaving them onto the back of the carriage, swearing from the weight. The coachman already sat on the box. Lucy appeared at the front door, mantled and hooded like a religious penitent.

He dismounted the horse ungracefully, hurriedly, panic welling in his chest. The rectangular package fell to the cobblestones and he left it.

She was descending the stairs.

“Lucy.” He caught her by the shoulders. “Lucy.”

Her face was cold and white beneath the hood. “Let me go, Simon.”

“What are you doing?” he hissed, knowing he looked a fool. Knowing the servants, Newton, passing strangers, and the neighbors watched. He didn’t give a damn.

“I’m going to Papa.”

A ridiculous spurt of hope. “Wait and I’ll—”

“I’m leaving.” Her cold lips barely moved as she mouthed the words.

Horror fisted around his vitals. “No.”

For the first time she met his eyes. Hers were red-rimmed but dry. “I have to leave, Simon.”

“No.” He was a little boy denied a sweet. He felt like falling down and screaming.

“Let me go.”

“I can’t let you go.” He half laughed here in the too-bright, cold London sun before his own house. “I’ll die if I do.”

She closed her eyes. “No, you won’t. I can’t stay and watch you tear yourself apart.”

“Lucy.”

“Let me go, Simon. Please.” She opened her eyes, and he saw infinite pain in her gaze.

Had he done this to his angel? Oh, God. He unclasped his hands.

She brushed past him and walked down the steps, the wind playing with the hem of her mantle. He watched her climb into the carriage. The footman shut the door. Then the coachman slapped the reins, the horses stepped out, and the carriage pulled away. Lucy didn’t look back. Simon watched until the carriage was lost in the bustle of the street. And still he stared.

“My lord?” Newton spoke beside him, probably not for the first time.

“What?”

“It’s cold, my lord.”

So it was.

“Perhaps you’d like to go in,” his butler said.

Simon flexed his hand, surprised that his fingertips were numb. He looked around. Someone had taken away his horse, but the rectangular package still lay on the cobblestones.

“Best come inside, my lord.”

“Yes.” Simon started down the steps.

“This way, my lord,” Newton called as if Simon were a senile old man in danger of toddling into traffic.

Simon ignored him and picked up the package. The paper was torn at the corner. Perhaps he could have it rewrapped, this time in pretty paper. Lucy would like pretty paper. Except Lucy wouldn’t ever see it. She’d left him.

“My lord,” Newton still called.

“Yes, all right.” Simon went inside, the package in his hand.

What else was there to do?

Chapter Eighteen

“Who’s there?” Papa called from the doorway, his nightcap pulled down almost to his ears. He wore an old coat over his nightshirt and buckle shoes on his feet, wiry ankles poking out. “It’s past nine o’clock. Decent folk are all in their beds by now, y’know.”

He held a lantern high to throw light into the gravel drive before the Craddock-Hayes house. Behind him, Mrs. Brodie in mobcap and shawl peered over his shoulder.

Lucy opened the carriage door. “It’s me, Papa.”

He squinted, trying to see her in the gloom. “Lucy? What’s Iddesleigh thinking to travel this late at night? Eh? Must’ve gone mad. There’s highwaymen about, or doesn’t he know that?”

Lucy descended the carriage steps with the help of a footman. “He isn’t with me.”

“Mad,” her father repeated. “The man’s mad to let you travel alone, footmen or no. And at night. Bounder!”

She felt a contrary urge to defend Simon. “He didn’t have a say in it. I’ve left him.”