The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(95)

“Lucy’s feelings are moot.” Something inside Simon tore at the thought of his angel. He flexed his jaw before admitting, “She’s left me.”

“What did you do?”

Simon scowled. “How do you know it was my fault?”

De Raaf simply lifted one eyebrow.

“She disapproves of dueling,” Simon said. “No, that’s not right. She disapproves of killing. Of murder.”

The other man snorted. “Can’t see why.”

It was Simon’s turn to give a speaking look.

“Then why are you dueling, man?” de Raaf barked impatiently. “Christ, it isn’t worth losing your wife over.”

“He threatened her.” The memory still made his hands clench. Friend or no, Christian had threatened to rape Lucy. He could not be allowed to get away with that offense.

De Raaf grunted. “Then let me handle Fletcher. You won’t even have to get involved.”

Simon glanced at him sideways. “Thank you, but Lucy is my wife.”

The big man sighed. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Simon squeezed the gelding into a trot, forestalling any further conversation.

They wound their way through more dingy streets. The wind whistled its remorse around corners. A cart passed, rumbling on the cobblestones. Simon finally saw movement on the sidewalk. Silent shapes, still infrequent, that slunk or scurried or loped. The denizens of the day had begun their rounds, careful in the dark that still concealed the dangers of night. Simon looked at the sky again. It had barely lightened to a nasty gray-brown. The snow lay in a thin, white layer on the street, covering filth and foul odors, giving it the illusion of purity. Soon the horses would stir it into muddy slush and the illusion would be gone.

“Damn, it’s cold,” de Raaf huffed from behind.

Simon didn’t bother replying. They entered the path into the green. Here, the landscape was quiet. No human had disturbed the pristine snow yet.

“Are his seconds here?” De Raaf broke the quiet.

“They must be.”

“You don’t have to do this. Whatever—”

“Stop.” Simon glanced at the other man. “Be still, Edward. It’s past the time for that.”

De Raaf grunted, frowning.

Simon hesitated. “If I’m killed, you’ll look after Lucy, won’t you?”

“Christ—” De Raaf bit off whatever he was going to say and glared. “’Course.”

“Thank you. She’s with her father in Kent. You’ll find her direction and a letter on my desk. I’d appreciate it if you could deliver the letter to her.”

“What the hell is she doing in Kent?”

“Repairing her life, I hope.” Simon’s mouth quirked sadly. Lucy. Would she mourn for him? Would she wear the dingy weeds of a widow and weep sweet salt tears? Or would she forget him soon and find consolation in the arms of the country vicar? He found to his surprise that he could still feel jealousy.

Lucy, my Lucy.

Two lanterns flickered against dim figures ahead. They were actors in an inevitable drama. The boy, who until a few days ago he’d regarded as a friend, the men who would watch him kill or be killed, the doctor who would pronounce a man dead.

Simon checked his sword, then nudged his horse into a trot. “We’re here.”

“MY LADY.” NEWTON’S FACE RELAXED almost into a smile before he recovered and bowed, the tassel of his nightcap flopping over his eyes. “You’ve returned.”

“Naturally.” Lucy pulled back her hood and stepped over the threshold into her town house. Good Lord, did all the servants know her—their—business? Silly question. Of course they did. And, judging from Newton’s hastily covered surprise, they hadn’t expected her to come back to Simon. Lucy leveled her shoulders. Well. Best put that notion out of their heads. “Is he here?”

“No, my lady. His lordship left not half an hour ago.”

Lucy nodded, trying not to show her disappointment. She had come so close to seeing him before he did this thing. She would’ve liked to wish him luck at least. “I’ll wait for him in the study.”

She laid the blue leather-bound book she carried on the hall table next to a rather battered brown paper package and gave it a small pat.

“My lady.” Newton bowed. “May I wish you merry Christmas?”

“Oh, thank you.” She’d set out late from Kent, despite Papa’s protests, and made the last leg of the journey through the dark of night, thankful for the hired footmen clutching the back of the carriage. In all the whirl, she’d almost forgotten what day it was. “A merry Christmas to you as well, Mr. Newton.”

Newton bowed again and glided away in his Turkish slippers. Lucy picked up a candelabra from the hall table and entered Simon’s study. As she crossed to a chair before the fireplace, the candle flames lit two small prints in the corner that she hadn’t noticed before. Curious, she wandered over to inspect them.

The first was a botanist’s rendition of a rose, full-blown and pink, its petals spread shamelessly wide. Underneath the rose was its dissection, showing the various parts, all properly labeled, as if to bring decorum to the sprawl of the flower above.

The second print was medieval, probably one of a series that would have illustrated the Bible. It depicted the story of Cain and Abel. Lucy held the candelabra up to study the horrible little etching. Cain’s eyes were wide, his muscles bulging bestially as he struggled with his brother. Abel’s face was calm, unalarmed as his brother killed him.