The Serpent Prince

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “No!” He threw the knife down and leaned straight-armed on the bench, head bowed. “No, I’m so sorry. I want to marry you, long to marry you, now more than ever, I assure you. I count the days until we are finally wed. I dream of holding you in my arms as my wedded wife and then must distract my mind or go mad waiting for the day. The problem is mine.”

  “What problem?” Lucy was relieved but honestly confused. “Tell me and we can work on it together.”

  He blew out a sigh, shook his head, and turned his face to her. “I don’t think so. This problem is all of my own making; dealing with it must be my own cross to bear. Thank God it will disappear in a week when we’re bound by the holy vows of matrimony.”

  “You’re deliberately talking in riddles.”

  “So militant,” he crooned. “I can picture you with a fiery sword in one hand, smiting recalcitrant Hebrews and unbelieving Samaritans. They’d cower before your stern frown and frightening eyebrows.” He laughed under his breath. “Let’s just say I’m having trouble being around you without touching you.”

  She smiled. “We’re engaged. You can touch me.”

  “No, actually, I can’t.” He straightened and picked up the paring knife again. “If I touch you, I’m not certain I’ll be able to stop.” He bent and peered at the rose as he made another deliberate cut in the stem. “In fact, I’m fairly certain I won’t stop. I’d be intoxicated by your scent and the feel of your white, white skin.”

  Lucy felt warmth in her cheeks. She doubted very much if her skin was so white right now. But he’d hardly touched her at all in Maiden Hill. Surely if he could restrain himself then, he could now. “I—”

  “No.” He took a breath and shook his head as if clearing it. “I’d have you on your back, your skirts tossed around your shoulders like a common cull before I could think, be in you before I could reflect, and once started, I sure as hell wouldn’t stop before we’d both reached heaven itself. Maybe not even then.”

  Lucy opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Heaven itself . . .

  He shut his eyes and groaned. “Jesus. I can’t believe I said that to you.”

  “Well.” She cleared her throat. His words had made her feel shaky and hot. “Well. That’s certainly flattering.”

  “Is it?” He glanced at her. He had spots of color high on his cheekbones. “I’m glad you’re taking your fiancé’s lack of control over his animal nature so well.”

  Oh dear. “Maybe I should go.” She made to rise.

  “No, stay with me, please. Just . . . just don’t come near me.”

  “All right.” She sat back straight and folded her hands in her lap.

  His mouth curled down at one corner. “I’ve missed you.”

  “And I, you.”

  They exchanged a smile before he hastily turned away again, but this time she knew the cause and was unperturbed. She watched him set aside the stem and pick up a pot that contained what looked like a small stump. The fountain laughed in the background, and the stars began to fill the sky above the dome.

  “You never finished telling me about that fairy tale,” she said. “The Serpent Prince. I won’t be able to finish the illustrations if you don’t tell me the rest.”

  “Have you been making illustrations?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can’t remember where I stopped.” He frowned over the ugly stump. “It’s been so long now.”

  “I remember.” She settled her bottom more firmly on the stool. “Angelica had stolen the Serpent Prince’s skin and threatened to destroy it, but she relented and spared his life in the end.”

  “Ah, yes.” He made a careful V-shaped cut in the top of the stump. “The Serpent Prince said to Angelica, ‘Fair maid, since you hold my skin, you hold my very life in your hands. You have but to name it and I will grant you a wish.’”

  Lucy frowned. “He doesn’t sound very bright. Why does he not simply ask for his skin back without telling her what power she has over him?”

  He shot a glance at her from under lowered brows. “Perhaps he was enthralled by her beauty?”

  She snorted. “Not unless he was extremely dim.”

  “Your romantic soul overwhelms me. Now will you let me continue?”

  She clamped her mouth shut and nodded mutely.

  “Good. It occurred to Angelica that here was a very lucky thing. Perhaps she could meet the prince of the land at last. So she said to the Serpent Prince, ‘There is a royal ball being held tonight. Can you take me to the ramparts of the castle so that I may see the prince and his entourage pass by?’ Well, the Serpent Prince looked at her out of his gleaming silver eyes and said, ‘I can do better than that, I assure you.’”

  “But, wait,” Lucy interrupted. “Isn’t the Serpent Prince the hero of the story?”

  “A snake-man?” Simon inserted the pointed end of the stick into the notch he’d made in the stump and began wrapping both with a narrow strip of cloth. “Whatever gave you the idea that he would make a good hero?”

  “Well, he is all of silver, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he is also quite nude, and usually the hero of the story has something more to his name.”

  “But—”

  He frowned censoriously at her. “Do you wish me to continue?”

  “Yes,” she said meekly.

  “Very well. The Serpent Prince waved one pale hand, and suddenly Angelica’s drab brown rags had turned to a shimmering dress of copper. In her hair were copper and ruby jewels and on her feet, embroidered copper slippers. Angelica twirled in a circle, delighted at her transformation, and she exclaimed, ‘Wait until Prince Rutherford sees me!’”

  “Rutherford?” Lucy arched an eyebrow.

  He stared at her sternly.

  “Sorry.”

  “Prince Rutherford, he of the curling golden hair. But the Serpent Prince did not reply, and only then did Angelica notice that he had sunk to his knees beside the brazier and that the blue-flamed fire within burned lower. For in giving the goat girl her wish, he had depleted his own power.”

  “Silly man.”

  He looked up and smiled at her and then seemed to notice the dark sky for the first time. “Good Lord, is it as late as that? Why didn’t you tell me? You need to return to Rosalind’s town house at once.”

  She sighed. For a London sophisticate, her fiancé had become lamentably stodgy lately. “All right.” Lucy stood and dusted off her skirt. “When will I see you next?”

  “I’ll come for breakfast.” He sounded distracted.

  Disappointment shot through her. “No, Rosalind says we must leave early to go to the glover’s, and we’ll be away for luncheon as well. She’s made arrangements to introduce me to some of her friends.”

  Simon frowned. “Do you ride?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But I haven’t a mount.”

  “I have several horses. I’ll come by Rosalind’s town house before breakfast, and then we’ll ride in the park. We’ll be back in time for Rosalind to take you to the glover’s.”

  “I’d like that.” She looked at him.

  He stared back. “God, and I can’t even kiss you. Go on, then.”

  “Good night.” Lucy smiled as she walked back up the aisle.

  Behind her she could hear Simon cursing.

  “MAY I JOIN YOU?” SIMON COCKED a brow at the cardplayers that night.

  Quincy James, seated with his back to him, swung around and stared. A tic started under his right eye. He wore a deep red velvet coat and breeches, and his waistcoat was an eggshell white, embroidered in red to match the coat. Taken with his clubbed guinea-colored hair, he was a pretty sight. Simon felt his lips curve into a satisfied smile.“’Course.” A gentleman in an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig nodded.

  He had the dissipated face of a gambler who’d spent a lifetime at the tables. Simon hadn’t been introduced to him, but he’d seen him before. Lord Kyle. The other three men at the table were strangers. Two were in their middling yea
rs, nearly identical in white-powdered wigs and with faces flushed from drink. The last was only a youth, his cheeks still spotty. A pigeon in a den of foxes. His mother ought to have kept him safe at home.

  But that wasn’t Simon’s problem.

  He pulled out the empty chair next to James and sat. Poor bastard. There wasn’t a thing James could do to stop him. Objecting to a gentleman joining an open game simply wasn’t done. Simon had him. He allowed himself a moment of congratulation. After spending the better part of a week haunting the Devil’s Playground, fending off the advances of infant demimondaines, drinking ghastly champagne, and boring himself stiff moving from gambling table to gambling table, James had finally appeared. He’d begun to worry that the trail had gone cold; Simon had put off hunting while he tended to his marriage arrangements, but now he had James.

  He felt an urge to hurry this along, have it over with so that he could get to his bed and maybe be able to greet Lucy for their ride in the morning with a semblance of wakefulness. But that wouldn’t do. His cautious prey had finally ventured forth from hiding, and he must move slowly. Deliberately. It was crucial that all of the pieces be in place, that there was no possibility of escape, before he sprung his trap. Mustn’t let the quarry slip through an overlooked hole in the net at this juncture.

  Lord Kyle flipped cards at each player to see who would deal. The man to Simon’s right caught the first jack and gathered the cards to deal. James snatched each card as it was dealt him, nervously tapping the table’s edges. Simon waited until all five were dealt—they played five-card loo—before picking them up. He glanced down. His hand wasn’t bad, but that didn’t really matter. He anted and made the opening lead—an eight of hearts. James dithered and then flung down a ten. The game went around the table, and the pigeon picked up the trick. The youth led again with a three of spades.

  A footman entered, holding a tray of drinks. They played in the secluded back room at the Devil’s Playground. The room was dim, the walls and door quilted in black velvet to muffle the revels in the main parlor. The men who played here were serious, gambled high, and rarely spoke beyond the demands of the game. This wasn’t a social occasion for these gentlemen. This was life or death by cards. Only the other night, Simon had watched a baron lose first all the money he’d had on him, then his one unentailed estate, and then his daughters’ dowries. The next morning the man was dead, shot by his own hand.

  James grabbed a glass from the waiter’s tray, drained it, and reached for another. He caught Simon’s gaze. Simon smiled. James’s eyes widened. He gulped from the second glass and set it by his elbow, glaring at him defiantly. The play went on. Simon looed and had to ante. James smirked. He played the Pam—the jack of clubs, the high card in five-card loo—and took another trick.

  The candles guttered, and the footman returned to trim them.

  Quincy James was winning now, the pile of coins to the side of his glass growing. He relaxed in his chair, and his blue eyes blinked sleepily. The youth was down to a couple of coppers and was looking desperate. He wouldn’t last another round if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, someone would stand him the next hand, and that way lay debtor’s prison. Christian Fletcher slipped into the room. Simon didn’t look up, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christian find a chair at the side of the room, too far away to see the cards. He felt something inside him relax at the sight of the younger man. Now he had an ally at his back.

  James won a trick. His lips twisted in a triumphant sneer as he gathered the pot.

  Simon shot out his arm and caught the other man’s hand.

  “What—?” James tried to twist away.

  Simon slammed his arm to the table. A jack of clubs fell from the lace at James’s wrist. The other players around the table froze.

  “The Pam.” Lord Kyle’s voice sounded rusty from disuse. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, James?”

  “That’s not m-m-mine.”

  Simon leaned back in his chair and rubbed his right index finger lazily. “It fell from your cuff.”

  “You!” James jumped up, his chair toppling behind him. He looked like he would strike Simon, but then thought better of it.

  Simon raised an eyebrow.

  “You s-s-set me up, slipped me the bloody P-p-pam!”

  “I’ve been losing.” Simon sighed. “You insult me, James.”

  “No!”

  Simon continued, unperturbed. “I trust swords at dawn—”

  “No! Jesus, no!”

  “Meet with your approval?”

  “God!” James clutched his own hair, the beautiful locks coming out of his ribbon. “This isn’t right. I d-d-didn’t have the bloody Pam.”

  Lord Kyle gathered the cards. “Another hand, gentlemen?”

  “My God,” the boy whispered. He’d gone pale and looked like he might cast up his accounts.

  “You can’t d-d-do this!” James screamed.

  Simon got to his feet. “Tomorrow, then. Better get some sleep, what?”

  Lord Kyle nodded, his attention already on the next game. “Good night, Iddesleigh.”

  “I-I’m done as well. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?” The pigeon nearly ran from the room.

  “Nooo! I’m innocent!” James started sobbing.

  Simon winced and walked from the room.

  Christian caught up with him in the main parlor. “Did you . . . ?”

  “Shut up,” Simon hissed. “Not here, idiot.”

  Thankfully, the younger man kept quiet until they reached the street. Simon signaled to his coachman.

  Christian whispered, “Did you . . . ?”

  “Yes.” God, he was weary. “Do you want a ride?”

  Christian blinked. “Thanks.”

  They got in and the carriage pulled away.

  “You’d better find his seconds tonight and arrange the duel.” Simon was overcome by a ghastly lethargy. His eyes were full of grit, and his hands were shaking. The morning wasn’t that far away. He’d either kill a man or die himself when it came.

  “What?” Christian asked.

  “Quincy James’s seconds. You need to find out who they are, arrange the meeting place and time. All that. The same as the last times.” He yawned. “You are going to act as my second, aren’t you?”

  “I—”

  Simon closed his eyes. If he lost Christian, he didn’t know what he’d do. “If you aren’t, I’ve got four hours to find another.”

  “No. I mean, yes,” the young man blurted. “I’ll be your second. Of course I’ll be your second, Simon.”

  “Good.”

  There was a silence in the carriage, and Simon fell into a doze.

  Christian’s voice woke him. “You went there to find James, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Is it a woman?” His companion sounded genuinely puzzled. “Has he caused you an insult?”

  Simon almost laughed. He’d forgotten that there were men who dueled for such silly things. “Nothing so inconsequential.”

  “But why?” Christian’s voice was urgent. “Why do it that way?”

  Jesus! He didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. Had he ever in his life been this naive? He gathered his wits to try to explain the blackness that lived in men’s souls.

  “Because gambling’s his weakness. Because he couldn’t help himself once I’d joined the game. Because he can’t possibly turn me down or worm his way out. Because he’s the man he is and I’m the man I am.” Simon finally looked at his terribly young friend and gentled his voice. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  Christian’s brow was furrowed as if he was working out a difficult mathematical problem. “I didn’t realize . . . This is the first time I’ve been with you when you challenged your opponent. It seems so unfair. Not at all honorable.” Christian’s eyes suddenly widened as if he’d just realized the insult.

  Simon started laughing and found he couldn’t stop. Tears gathered in his
eyes from the mirth. Oh God, what a world!

  Finally, he gasped, “Whatever gave you the idea I was honorable?”

  Chapter Ten

  The predawn mist lay like gray winding sheets, writhing on the ground. It swirled about Simon’s legs as he made his way to the agreed-upon dueling place, seeping through leather and linen to chill his very bones. In front of him, Henry held a lantern to light their way, but the mist veiled the light so they seemed to move in a disquieting dream. Christian walked beside him, strangely silent. He’d spent the night contacting and conferring with James’s seconds, and gotten little, if any, sleep. Up ahead, another light loomed, and the shapes of four men emerged in the dawn. Each had a nimbus of breath cowling his head.

  “Lord Iddesleigh?” one of the men hailed him. It wasn’t James, so it must be a second.“Yes.” His own breath billowed forth and then dissipated into the icy morning air.

  The man walked toward them. He was of middling years and wore spectacles and a tatty wig. A coat and breeches, several years behind the fashion and obviously well worn, completed his dissolute appearance. Behind him, a shorter man hesitated beside another man who must be the doctor, as evidenced by the bobbed wig of his profession and the black bag he carried.

  The first man spoke again. “Mr. James offers his sincere apology for any insult he may have inflicted upon you. Will you accept this apology and avoid a duel?”

  Coward. Had James sent his seconds and stayed away? “No, I will not.”

  “D-d-d-damn you, Iddesleigh.”

  So he was here. “Good morning, James.” Simon smiled thinly.

  The reply was another curse, no more original than the first.

  Simon nodded to Christian. The younger man and James’s seconds went to mark off the dueling space. Quincy James paced back and forth over the frost-killed earth, either to warm his limbs or from nervousness. He wore the same deep red coat he’d had on the night before, wrinkled and stained now. His hair looked greasy, as if he’d been sweating. As Simon watched, the other man dug his fingers through the locks, scratching. Filthy habit. Did he have lice? James must be tired from the late night, but then again, he was an inveterate gambler, used to staying up to all hours. And he was younger. Simon considered him. He’d never seen James duel, but the word at Angelo’s academy was that his opponent was an expert swordsman. He wasn’t surprised. Despite James’s tics and stutters, the man had the grace of an athlete. He was also the same height. Their reaches would be equal.