The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(94)

Matilda lowered herself into one of the armchairs before his desk. “Think on it all you want, but you must at least bestir yourself enough to go look for Christian.”

“Christian?” He looked up. “Why?”

“You haven’t seen him in the last two days, have you?” She sighed. “He’s been almost as dour as you, moping about the house, snapping at his sisters. And the other day he came home with his lip bloodied—”

“What?” Sir Rupert stood, fumbling for his cane.

“Yes.” His wife’s eyes widened in exasperation. “Hadn’t you noticed? He said he’d stumbled and fallen, but it was quite obvious he’d been in some type of fisticuffs. Not at all what I expect from our son.”

“Why wasn’t I told?”

“If you would bother to talk to me . . .” Matilda’s gaze sharpened. “What is it? What are you keeping from me?”

“Iddesleigh.” Sir Rupert took two steps to the door and stopped. “Where is Christian now?”

“I don’t know. He never came home last night. That is why I’ve waited up for you.” Matilda had stood, clasping her hands before her. “Rupert, what—?”

He swung on her. “Iddesleigh did indeed mean to call me out.”

“Call out—”

“Christian knew. God, Matilda.” He thrust his hands into his hair. “He might’ve challenged Iddesleigh to prevent him dueling me.”

His wife stared at him. The blood slowly left her face, leaving it pasty and crumpled, showing every one of her years. “You must find him.” Her lips hardly moved. “You must find him and stop him. Lord Iddesleigh will kill him.”

He stared for a moment, frozen by the horrible truth.

“Dear husband.” Matilda held out her hands like a supplicant. “I know you have done things. That there are dark actions in your past. I’ve never questioned you before, never wanted to know just what you did. But, Rupert, don’t let our boy die for your sins.”

Her words were a spur, galvanizing him into action. He limped to the door, his cane knocking loudly against the marble in the hall. Behind him, his wife had begun to sob, but he heard her nonetheless. “Don’t let Christian die for you.”

A CAT—OR MAYBE A RAT—RAN ACROSS the path of his horse as Simon rode up the street. Not yet dawn, the blackest part of the night, this was the dominion of Hecate, goddess of crossroads and barking dogs. It was that strange place in between night and day when the living felt not quite safe. The only sound in the deserted street was the muffled clop of his gelding’s hoofs. The corner drabs had already taken to their sad beds, the street mongers were not yet up. He could’ve been riding through a necropolis. A frozen necropolis, snowflakes weeping silently from the sky.

He’d ridden more than half the night away, meandering from the white town houses of Grosvenor Square to the stews of Whitechapel. Strangely, he’d not been accosted, prime pickings though he most obviously was—an aristocrat stinking of drink and not aware of his surroundings. A pity that. He could’ve used the distraction of a nasty robbery, and it might’ve solved all his troubles. But instead, here he was alive just before dawn with a duel to fight.

De Raaf’s town house was up ahead. Somewhere. Or at least he thought so. He was so exhausted, weary unto death. Sleep no longer comforted him, no longer brought him a measure of peace. He hadn’t slept since Lucy had left him two days before. Perhaps he’d never sleep again. Or sleep forever, after this dawn. Simon smirked at his own small wit. The horse turned in to a mews, and he straightened a bit in the saddle, looking for the back of de Raaf’s town house. As he neared, a shape separated itself from the black shadows by a gate.

“Iddesleigh,” de Raaf murmured, his low voice startling the gelding.

Simon gentled the horse. “De Raaf. Where’s your mount?”

“’Round here.” The big man opened the gate and ducked inside.

Simon waited, noticing for the first time the bite of the winter’s wind. He glanced up. The moon was down, but it would’ve been covered with clouds had it still hung in the sky. The coming day would be bleak. Just as well.

De Raaf returned, leading his ugly bay. A soft bag was strapped to the back of the beast behind the saddle. “You’re not wearing a wig. You look naked without one.”

“No?” Simon ran his hand over his short hair before he remembered. The wig had fallen off in a lane during the night, and he’d not bothered to retrieve it. No doubt it now decorated the head of some urchin. He shrugged. “No matter.”

De Raaf eyed him in the dark before mounting his horse. “I can’t think your new bride will approve of you trying to get your gut perforated on Christmas morn of all days. Does she know what you intend to do?”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “How does your own lady feel about you attending a duel on Christmas?”

The big man winced. “No doubt Anna would hate it. I hope to be home before she wakes and finds me gone.”

“Ah.” Simon turned his horse’s head.

De Raaf nudged his horse into a walk beside him. They rode abreast back to the lane.

“You didn’t answer my question.” The big man broke the silence, his breath steaming in the light from a window they passed.