The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(89)

Mrs. Brodie’s eyes widened. “I’ll make tea, shall I?” She turned and hurried into the house.

Papa merely harrumphed. “Come home in a tiff, have you? Smart gel. Keeps a man on his toes when he doesn’t know what a gel will do next. No doubt good for him. You can stay a couple of days and go home after Christmas.”

Lucy sighed. She was tired to her bones, tired to her soul. “I’m not going back to him. I’ve left Simon for good.”

“What? What?” Her father looked alarmed for the first time. “Now see—”

“Jaysus, don’t anybody sleep around here?” Hedge came around the corner, his nightshirt escaping from his breeches, gray hair poking out from a greasy tricorne. He caught sight of Lucy and stopped dead. “Is she back already? Thought we just got her packed off the place.”

“I’m pleased to see you, too, Mr. Hedge,” Lucy said. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation inside, Papa?”

“That’s right,” Hedge muttered. “I’ve been here nearly thirty years—the best years of my life, too—and does anyone care? No, they do not. I’m still not to be trusted.”

“See to the horses, Hedge,” Papa ordered as they went inside.

Lucy heard Hedge groan. “Four big beasties. My back’s not good . . .” Then the door closed behind them.

Papa led the way into his study, a room that she wasn’t used to entering. Papa’s study was his own domain; even Mrs. Brodie wasn’t allowed to clean it. Not, at least, without a lot of fussing first. Papa’s great oak desk was placed at an angle to the fire, too close really, as was attested by the blackened wood on the leg nearest the hearth. The surface of the desk was obscured by piles of colorful maps. They were held in place by a brass sexton, a broken compass, and a short length of rope. To the side of the desk was an enormous globe of the world on its own stand.

“Now, then,” her father started.

Mrs. Brodie bustled in with a tray of tea and buns.

Papa cleared his throat. “Best see if there’s some of your good steak and kidney pie left from dinner, Mrs. Brodie, if you will.”

“I’m not hungry,” Lucy began.

“Looking pale, poppet. Steak and kidney pie do you good, eh?” He nodded at the housekeeper.

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Brodie hurried out.

“Now, then,” Papa began again. “What’s happened that you’ve come running home to your father?”

Lucy felt her cheeks heat. Put like that, her actions sounded childish. “Simon and I have had a difference of opinion.” She looked down as she carefully pulled her gloves off, one finger at a time. Her hands were shaking. “He is doing something that I cannot agree with.”

Papa slammed his hand down on his desk, making her and the papers lying there jump. “Cad! Hasn’t been married more than a few weeks and already messing with ladies of low repute. Ha! When I get my hands on that bounder, that scoundrel, that . . . that rake, I’ll see him horsewhipped—”

“No, oh, no.” Lucy felt a bubble of hysterical laughter well up inside her. “That’s not it at all.”

The door opened and Mrs. Brodie came in again. She looked sharply at the two of them. She must’ve heard their voices in the hall, but she didn’t say anything. She set her tray on a table at Lucy’s elbow and nodded. “Have a bite of that, Miss Lucy. It’ll make you feel better. I’ll have the fire laid in your old bedroom, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, the housekeeper bustled out.

Lucy looked at the tray. There was a slice of cold meat pie, a bowl of stewed fruit, a bit of cheese, and some of Mrs. Brodie’s fresh bread. Her stomach rumbled. She’d declined supper at an inn on the way home, and she hadn’t known she was hungry until now. She picked up a fork.

“Then what is it?”

“Hmm?” Mouth full of tender pie, Lucy didn’t want to think about Simon, his danger, or their failed marriage. If she could just go to bed . . .

But Papa was stubborn when he wanted to be. “Why’d you leave the man if he wasn’t carrying on with soiled doves?”

“Duels.” Lucy swallowed. “Simon has killed four men already. In duels. He calls them out and then kills them, and I can’t take it anymore, Papa. He’s destroying himself slowly, even if he survives the encounters. He won’t listen to me, won’t stop, so I left him.” She looked down at her pie, oozing brown gravy, and suddenly felt nauseous.

“What for?”

“What?”

Papa scowled. “Why’s he killing these fellows? Don’t like your husband, never have and, make no bones about it, probably never will. But he doesn’t strike me as a loony. Popinjay, yes; loony, no.”

Lucy almost smiled. “He’s killing the men responsible for his brother, Ethan’s, death, and I know what you’re going to say, Papa, but however noble the reason, it’s still murder and a sin in the Bible. My conscience can’t abide it, and I don’t think Simon’s can either in the end.”

“Ha,” her father grumbled. “Glad to know I’m so easily read by my daughter.”

Lucy bit her lip. This wasn’t how she’d imagined coming home. Her head was beginning to pound, and apparently her father wanted an argument. “I didn’t mean—”