The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(93)

Her friend continued, but Lucy wasn’t listening. Patricia was right. Sometime in the last few minutes, she had made her decision: She would return to Simon, and they would somehow fix this problem between them.

“And that reminds me,” Patricia said. She pulled a small box from her pocket and held it out.

“But I haven’t anything for you.” Lucy pulled off the lid. Inside was a lady’s handkerchief embroidered with her new initials. The letters were lopsided, it was true, but quite lovely anyway. “How thoughtful. Thank you, Patricia.”

“I hope you like it. I’m afraid I punctured my fingers as often as the cloth.” Her friend held out her right hand in evidence. “And you do, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Have a present for me.” Patricia withdrew her hand and inspected her fingernails.

Lucy looked at her, puzzled.

“I recently received an offer of matrimony, and since you had previously declined the gentleman in question and actually gone so far as to marry someone else—”

“Patricia!” Lucy jumped up to hug her friend, nearly knocking over the tea tray in the process. “You mean you’re engaged?”

“Indeed.”

“And to Eustace Penweeble?”

“Well—”

“What happened to old Mr. Benning and his ninety arable acres?”

“Yes, that is sad, isn’t it?” Patricia pinned a gold curl back into place. “And that grand manor. It really is a shame. But I’m afraid that Mr. Penweeble quite overwhelmed all my good sense. I think it must be his height. Or perhaps his shoulders.” She took a pensive sip of tea.

Lucy nearly giggled, only managing to control the impulse at the last moment. “But how did you get him to propose so fast? It took him three years with me.”

Patricia looked demure. “It might’ve been my fichu.”

“Your fichu?” Lucy glanced at the innocent bit of lace about Patricia’s neck.

“Yes. Mr. Penweeble had taken me for a drive and somehow”—Patricia’s eyes widened—“it came undone. Well, I couldn’t get it tucked back in properly. So I asked him.”

“Asked him what?”

“Why, to tuck it back in my bodice for me, naturally.”

“Patricia,” Lucy breathed.

“For some reason he felt compelled to propose to me after that.” Patricia smiled like a cat with a saucer of cream. “We’re to have an engagement party on Boxing Day. You’ll stay for that, won’t you?”

Lucy carefully set her teacup down. “I wish I could, dear. But I must get back to Simon. You’re right. I should spend Christmas with him.”

Now that she had made the decision, she felt an urge to be off at once. It was important somehow to return to Simon as soon as possible. Lucy stilled the impulse and folded her hands in her lap. Patricia was talking about her forthcoming marriage and she should listen. The drive to London took hours.

Surely a few minutes more would make no difference either way.

Chapter Nineteen

“What is going on?” his wife demanded before Sir Rupert had even crossed his own threshold.

He frowned, startled, as he handed the sleepy footman his hat and cloak. “What do you mean?” It couldn’t be much past five in the morning.

With Walker and James gone, his investments had become precarious. He’d spent the night, as he had the last several, working to ensure they wouldn’t topple. But what was Matilda doing up at this hour?

His wife’s eyes darted to the footman, trying hard not to appear as if he were listening. “May I speak to you in your study?”

“Of course.” He led the way to his sanctuary and immediately sank into the chair behind the desk. His leg ached terribly.

His wife closed the door softly behind her. “Where have you been? You’ve hardly spoken the last several days. You’ve secluded yourself in here. We don’t even see you at meals. That is what I am referring to.” She advanced toward him, back militarily erect, the green batiste of her gown shushing across the carpet. He noticed that the skin around her jawline had softened, sagging a bit, creating a plump pouch under her chin.

“I’m busy, my dear. Merely that.” He absently rubbed at his thigh.

She wasn’t fooled. “Don’t palm me off. I’m not one of your business cronies. I’m your wife. Lady Iddesleigh called on me two days ago.” She frowned as his curse interrupted her words, but continued. “She told me a fantastic story about you and the viscount. She said that he was intent on calling you out. Cut line and tell me the problem.”

Sir Rupert leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his rump. It was a good thing Matilda was a female; she would have been a frightening man. He hesitated, considering. He’d spent the time since Iddesleigh had threatened him in contemplation. Pondering how he could eliminate a viscount without being implicated. The problem was that the best way had already been used with Ethan Iddesleigh. That plan had been so simple, so elegant. Distribute rumors, force a man into calling a much better swordsman out . . . death had been inevitable, and it hadn’t been traced back to him personally. Other ways—hiring killers, for instance—were much more apt to be brought home to him. But if Iddesleigh persisted, the risk might have to be taken.