The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(98)

Who . . . ?

She moved into the greenhouse almost without volition. The glass crunched beneath her boots, scraping against the brick walk. Terra-cotta pots were in drifts on the tables, broken and crushed, as if a great, angry wave had tossed them there. Lucy stumbled down the aisle, the bits of glass sliding beneath her shoes. Upturned roses in various states of bloom were scattered everywhere. One ball of roots hung from a windowpane overhead. Pink and red blooms bled petals on the floor, their familiar perfume curiously absent. Lucy touched a flower and felt it melt and shrivel beneath the warmth of her hand. It was frozen. The bitter winter air had been let in to savage the sheltered blooms. Dead. All the roses were dead.

Dear God.

Lucy reached what had been the dome in the middle of the conservatory and stopped. Only a skeleton, bits of glass skin still clinging here and there, remained. The marble fountain was chipped and cracked as if a giant hammer had been taken to it. A frozen plume of ice stood in the fountain, stilled in mid-splash. More ice spilled from a crack in the fountain and widened into a frozen lake around it. Beneath the ice, shards of glass glittered, horribly beautiful.

Lucy swayed in shock. A gust of wind moaned through the conservatory and blew out all but one of her candles. Simon must have done this. He’d destroyed his fairyland conservatory. Why? She sank to her knees, huddled on the cold floor, her one remaining flame cradled in her numb palms. She’d seen how tenderly Simon had cared for his plants. Remembered the look of pride when she’d first discovered the dome and fountain. For him to have smashed all this . . .

He must have lost hope. All hope.

She’d left him, even though she’d promised not to on her mother’s memory. He loved her and she’d left him. A sob tore at her throat. Without hope, how could he survive the duel? Would he even try to win? If she knew where he would duel, she might stop him. But she had no idea where this duel would take place. He’d warned her that he would hide the dueling rendezvous from her and he had. She couldn’t stop him, she realized achingly. He was going to duel; he might be there already, preparing to fight in the cold and dark, and she couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t save him.

There was nothing for her to do.

Lucy looked around the ruined conservatory, but there was no answer here. Dear God, he would die. She would lose him without ever having the chance to tell him how much he meant to her. How much she loved him. Simon. Alone in the dark, destroyed greenhouse she wept, her body shaking with sobs and the cold, and she finally acknowledged what she had kept hidden deep in her heart. She loved her husband.

She loved Simon.

Her last candle flickered and went out. She drew a breath and wrapped her arms about herself, bent as if broken. She lifted her face to the gray sky as silent, ghostly snowflakes dropped and melted on her lips and eyelids.

Above her, the dawn broke on London.

DAWN WAS BREAKING ON LONDON. The expressions on the faces of the men around Simon were no longer in shadow. Daylight filtered across the dueling green. He could see the desperation in Christian’s eyes as he darted forward, his teeth clenched and bared, his red hair matted with sweat at the temples. Christian grabbed the sword in Simon’s shoulder and wrenched at it. Simon gasped as the blade sawed at his flesh. Scarlet drops fell to the snow at his feet. He leveled his own sword and swung blindly. Violently. Christian ducked to the side, almost losing the hilt of his sword. Simon slashed again, felt the blade connect. A spray of blood decorated the snow, then was trampled underfoot, mixing with Simon’s scarlet drops until all was a muddy mess.

“Goddamn,” Christian moaned.

His breath blew in Simon’s face, foul with fear. His face was white and scarlet, the wash of blood on his left cheek only a shade darker than the freckles underneath. So young. Simon felt an absurd urge to apologize. He shivered; his blood-soaked shirt was freezing. It had begun to snow again. He looked at the sky over Christian’s head and thought, ridiculously, I shouldn’t have to die on a gray day.

Christian sobbed hoarsely.

“Stop!”

The shout came from behind him. Simon ignored it, bringing his sword up one last time.

But then de Raaf was there, his own sword drawn. “Stop, Simon.” The big man interposed his blade between them.

“What are you doing?” Simon panted. He was dizzy and only just kept from reeling.

“For the love of God, stop!”

“Listen to the man,” de Raaf growled.

Christian froze. “Father.”

Sir Rupert limped slowly through the snow, his face nearly as white as his son’s. “Don’t kill, him, Iddesleigh. I concede. Don’t kill my boy.”

“Concede what?” Was this a trick? Simon glanced at Christian’s horrified face. Not on the son’s part, at least.

Sir Rupert was silent, using his breath to laboriously walk closer.

“Jesus. Let’s get this skewer out of you.” De Raaf placed a fist on Simon’s shoulder and tugged Christian’s sword out with one swift motion.

Simon couldn’t keep a moan from escaping his lips. His vision darkened for a second. He blinked fiercely. Now wasn’t the time to faint. He was vaguely aware that blood was pouring from the wound on his shoulder.

“Christ,” de Raaf muttered. “You look like a butchered pig.” He opened the bag he’d brought with him and took out a handful of linens, wadding and shoving them into the wound.