The Serpent Prince

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Four dead, wasn’t that enough? Is it enough, Ethan?

  He turned over a healthy-looking leaf on the York and Lancaster and found a swarm of aphids, busily sucking the life from the plant.

  The door to the conservatory crashed open.

  “Sir, you’re not allowed—” Newton’s voice, outraged and fearful, admonished the intruder.

  Simon turned to confront whoever disturbed his peace.

  Christian charged down the aisle, his face pale and set.

  Newton dithered. “Mr. Fletcher, please—”

  “That’s all right—” Simon started.

  Christian punched him in the jaw.

  He staggered back, falling against the table, his vision blurred. What?

  Pots crashed to the floor, the shards skittering in the walkway. He straightened and brought his fists up to defend himself as his eyes cleared, but the other man was simply standing there, his chest heaving.

  “What the bloody hell,” Simon began.

  “Duel me,” Christian spat.

  “What?” Simon blinked. Belatedly his jaw began to throb with pain. He noticed that the moss rose was in pieces on the floor, two of the main stems broken. Christian’s boot crushed a bloom underfoot, the perfume rising from the dead rose like a eulogy.

  Newton hurried out of the room.

  “Duel me.” Christian raised his right fist in threat. “Do I have to hit you again?” His expression was without humor, his eyes wide and dry.

  “I wish you wouldn’t.” Simon felt along his jaw. He couldn’t talk if it was broken, could he? “Why would I want to duel you?”

  “You don’t. You want to duel my father. But he’s old and his leg is bad. He can hardly walk. Even you might feel a twinge of guilt at running through a cripple.”

  “Your father killed my brother.” Simon let his hand fall.

  “So you have to duel him.” Christian nodded. “I know. I’ve seen you kill two men now, remember? I’ve watched you enact your sense of family—of honor, though you refuse to use that word—over the last few weeks. Do you really expect any less from me? Duel me as my father’s surrogate.”

  Simon sighed. “I don’t—”

  Christian hit him in the face again.

  Simon fell on his arse. “Shit! Stop that.” He must look a complete idiot, sitting in mud in his own greenhouse. Pain bloomed across his cheekbone. Now the entire left side of his face felt on fire.

  “I’ll keep doing it,” the younger man said from above him, “until you agree. I’ve seen you badger two men into dueling. I’ve learned well.”

  “For God’s—”

  “Your mother was a dockside whore, your father a bastard!” Christian shouted, red-faced.

  “Christ.” Was the boy mad? “My fight is with your father, not you.”

  “I’ll seduce your wife—”

  Lucy! a primitive part of his brain screamed. He shook it away. The boy was playing his own game. “I don’t want to duel you.”

  “And if she won’t submit, I’ll kidnap and rape her. I’ll—”

  No. Simon surged to his feet, backing Christian against a bench. “Stay away from her.”

  The younger man flinched but kept talking. “I’ll parade her naked through the streets of London.”

  Dimly, Simon saw Newton coming down the aisle, Lucy’s ghost-white face behind him. “Shut up.”

  “I’ll brand her a slut. I’ll—”

  Simon backhanded him, throwing him against another table. “Shut your mouth!”

  The table quaked under Christian’s weight. More pots exploded on the floor. Simon flexed his hand. His knuckles stung.

  The younger man shook his head. “I’ll sell her for tuppence a pop to any man who’ll have her.”

  “Shut your bloody mouth, goddamn it!”

  “Simon.” Lucy’s voice, quavering.

  “Shut it for me,” Christian whispered, his teeth red with blood. “Duel me.”

  Simon took a slow breath, fighting down his demons. “No.”

  “You love her, don’t you? Would do anything for her.” Christian leaned close enough that blood-flecked spittle struck him in the face. “Well, I love my father. There is no other way for us.”

  God. “Christian—”

  “Duel me or I’ll make sure you’ll have to.” The boy looked him straight in the eye.

  Simon stared at him. Then his gaze traveled over the other man’s head to Lucy’s face. Straight, severe brows, mahogany hair pulled back in a simple knot, lips compressed in a line. Her beautiful topaz eyes were wide, pleading. Absently he noted that she still wore her cloak from an outing. Newton must’ve just caught her as she returned home.

  Impossible to chance her safety.

  “Very well. The morning after tomorrow. That will give you and me enough time to find seconds.” His eyes flicked back to Fletcher. “Now get out.”

  Christian turned and left.

  TOO LATE. LUCY STOOD IN THE GREENHOUSE and watched her world crumble around her, despite all the efforts she’d gone to this afternoon. She’d arrived home from her mission too late.

  Her husband’s face had turned to graven stone. His eyes had lost any color they once might’ve had. They were as cold now as the midnight frost that kills sparrows in their sleep. Mr. Fletcher brushed past her, but Lucy couldn’t tear her gaze from Simon’s expression. She hadn’t heard their conversation, but she’d seen him hit the younger man and seen the blood on Simon’s cheek.“What happened? What have you done to Mr. Fletcher?” She didn’t mean the words to sound so accusatory.

  Behind her she heard the door close. They were alone in the conservatory. Newton had left as well.

  “I don’t have time to talk.” Simon rubbed his hands together as if washing away imaginary dirt. They trembled. “I need to find seconds.”

  “I don’t care. You must talk to me.” She felt almost dizzy from the perfume of the roses smashed on the floor. “I went to meet Lady Fletcher. She and I—”

  He looked up, his expression unchanged, and cut her off. “I’m to duel Christian Fletcher in two days.”

  “No.” Not again. She couldn’t take another fight, another man dead, another portion of Simon’s soul burned away. Oh, God, no more.

  “I’m sorry.” He made to walk past her.

  She grabbed his arm and felt it flex beneath her hand. She had to stop him. “Simon, don’t do this. Lady Fletcher has agreed to talk to her husband. She thinks he will see reason, that there might be another way—”

  He cut her off, his head bowed, his eyes not meeting hers. “It’s Christian I’m dueling, Lucy, no longer his father.”

  “But the hope remains the same,” she insisted. She’d made the effort, come up with a plan, gained Lady Fletcher’s trust. It’d all seemed so close, so possible half an hour before. Why didn’t he understand? “You can’t do this.”

  “But I shall.” His eyes were still averted.

  “No.” They—their marriage—wouldn’t survive this. Couldn’t he see? “I’ll talk again with Lady Fletcher. We’ll find another way to settle—”

  “There is no other way.” He raised his head finally and she saw anger and despair in his eyes. “This is not your business. Talking to Lady Fletcher will solve nothing.”

  “We must at least try.”

  “Enough, Lucy!”

  “You can’t just kill people!” She flung his arm away, her mouth twisting bitterly. “It’s not right. Don’t you know that? It’s immoral. Simon, it’s evil. Don’t let evil destroy your heart, your soul. I beg you, don’t do this!”

  His jaw clenched. “You don’t understand—”

  “Of course I don’t understand!” Her chest was constricted. She couldn’t catch her breath. The heavy, humid air seemed too thick to inhale. She leaned forward and said fiercely, “I went to church as a little girl. I know that’s considered provincial to a sophisticated man like yourself, but I did. And the church says—the Bible says—that it is a sin to take the lif
e of another.” She had to stop to gasp, tasting the scent of roses on her tongue. “And I believe that. It’s a mortal sin, to murder a fellow human being, even if you try to hide it by dueling. It’s murder, Simon. In the end, it’s murder, and it will consume you.”

  “Then I’m a sinner and a murderer,” he said quietly. He walked past her.

  “He’s your friend,” she called desperately.

  “Yes.” He stopped at that, his back toward her. “Christian is my friend, but he’s also Fletcher’s son. The son of Ethan’s murderer. He challenged me, Lucy, not the other way around.”

  “Listen to yourself.” She fought against tears. “You’re planning to kill a friend. A man you’ve eaten with, talked with, laughed with. He admires you, Simon. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, I know he admires me.” He finally swung around, and she saw a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “He’s spent the last month following me around; he apes my clothes and my mannerisms. How could I miss that he admires me?”

  “Then—”

  He shook his head. “It does not matter.”

  “Simon—”

  “What would you have me do?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Refuse to duel?”

  “Yes!” She held out her palms, pleading. “Yes. Walk away. You’ve already killed four men. Nobody will think the less of you.”

  “I will.”

  “Why?” Desperation made her voice quaver. “You’ve avenged Ethan already. Please. Let’s go to Maiden Hill or to your country estate or anywhere else. It doesn’t matter, just as long as we leave.”

  “I can’t.”

  Angry, hopeless tears blurred her vision. “For God’s sake, Simon—”

  “He threatened you.” He stared into her eyes, and she saw tears and awful determination in his gaze. “Christian threatened you.”

  She swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “I don’t care.”

  “I do.” He stepped close and grabbed her upper arms. “If you think I’m the sort of man to walk away from a threat to my wife—”

  “He only said it to make you fight.”

  “Even so.”

  “I will follow you.” She choked and her voice quavered. “I’ll follow you to the dueling place, and I’ll run between you if I have to. I’ll find a way to stop you when you duel. I can’t let you do this, Simon, I—”

  “Hush. No,” he said gently. “We won’t duel at the last place. You’ll have no knowledge of the meeting spot. You can’t stop me, Lucy.”

  She sobbed. He pulled her against his chest, and she felt his heartbeat, so strong under her cheek. “Please, Simon.”

  “I need to finish this.” His lips were on her forehead, murmuring against her skin.

  “Please, Simon,” she repeated like a prayer. She closed her eyes, felt the tears burn her face. “Please.” She clutched his coat, smelled wool and his scent—the scent of her husband. She wanted to say something to persuade him, but she didn’t have the words. “I’ll lose you. We’ll lose each other.”

  “I can’t change who I am, Lucy,” she heard him whisper. “Even for you.”

  He let her go and walked away.

  “I NEED YOU,” SIMON SAID TO EDWARD DE RAAF an hour later in the Agrarians’ coffeehouse. He was surprised at how rusty his voice sounded, as if he’d been imbibing vinegar. Or sorrow. Don’t think of Lucy. He had to concentrate on what needed to be done.

  De Raaf must’ve been surprised, too. Or maybe it was the words. He hesitated, then waved at the empty chair next to him. “Sit down. Have some coffee.”Simon felt bile rise in his throat. “I don’t want any coffee.”

  The other man ignored him. He gestured to a boy who, strangely, looked up and nodded. De Raaf turned back to him and frowned. “I said sit down.”

  Simon sat.

  The coffeehouse was nearly empty. Too late for the morning crowd, too early for the afternoon drinkers. The only other patron was an elderly man by the door in a dusty, full-bottom wig. He was mumbling to himself as he nursed a cup. The boy slammed down two mugs, snatched de Raaf’s first, and whirled away before they could even thank him.

  Simon stared at the steam drifting from the cup. He felt oddly cold, although the room was warm. “I don’t want any coffee.”

  “Drink it,” de Raaf growled. “Do you good. You look as if someone’s kicked you in the bollocks, then told you your favorite rose died while you were still on the ground writhing.”

  Simon winced at the image. “Christian Fletcher has challenged me to a duel.”

  “Humph. You’re probably shaking in your red-heeled shoes.” De Raaf’s eyes narrowed. “What have you done to the boy?”

  “Nothing. His father was in the conspiracy to kill Ethan.”

  De Raaf raised his black eyebrows. “And he helped?”

  “No.”

  De Raaf looked at him.

  Simon’s lips twisted as he fingered his mug. “He fights for his father.”

  “You would kill an innocent man?” de Raaf asked mildly.

  Christian was innocent of his father’s crime. Simon took a sip of coffee and swore as it burned his tongue. “He’s threatened Lucy.”

  “Ah.”

  “Will you second me?”

  “Hmm.” The other man set his own mug down and leaned back in his chair, making it squeak with his weight. “I knew this day would come.”

  Simon raised his eyebrows. “When you could get a lad to bring you coffee?”

  De Raaf pretended not to hear. “When you would come crawling to me for help—”

  Simon snorted. “I’m hardly crawling.”

  “Desperate. Your wig unpowdered and full of nits—”

  “My wig is not—”

  De Raaf raised his voice to talk over him. “Unable to find any other to help you.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Pleading, begging, Oh, Edward, help me, do.”

  “Jesus,” Simon muttered.

  “This is indeed a wonderful day.” The other man lifted his cup again.

  Simon’s mouth curved in a reluctant smile. He took a careful sip of his coffee. Hot acid.

  De Raaf grinned at him, waiting.

  Simon sighed. “Are you going to second me?”

  “’Course. Be happy to.”

  “I can see that. The duel isn’t until the morning after tomorrow. You have a full day, but you should get started. You’ll need to go ’round Fletcher’s house. Find out who his seconds are and—”

  “I know.”

  “Get a reputable physician, one who doesn’t let blood at the drop of a hat—”

  “I am aware of how to second a duel,” de Raaf interrupted with dignity.

  “Good.” Simon drained the coffee cup. The black liquid burned all the way down. “Try to remember your sword, will you?”

  De Raaf looked insulted.

  He stood.

  “Simon.”

  He turned back around and raised his brows.

  De Raaf looked at him, all trace of humor gone from his face. “If you need me for anything else?”

  Simon looked at the big, scarred man for a moment and felt his throat swell. He swallowed before replying. “Thanks.”

  He strode from the coffeehouse before he started blubbering. The old man in the full-bottomed wig was snoring, facedown on the table, when he passed him. The bright afternoon sun hit Simon as he walked out. Despite the sunlight, the air was so cold his cheeks burned. He swung up on his gelding and guided him into the busy street. I must tell Lucy—

  Simon cut the thought short. He didn’t want to think about Lucy, didn’t want to remember the fear and hurt and rage on her face when he’d left her in the greenhouse, but it was near impossible. Thinking of Lucy was ingrained in his bones now. He turned down a street lined with various small shops. She hated that he was dueling. Perhaps if he had something to give her tonight. He’d never given her a wedding present . . .

  Half an hour later, he exited a shop with a rectangular pap
er-wrapped parcel in his hand and a larger, bulkier one under his arm. The larger parcel was for his niece. He’d noticed a toy shop on the street and remembered he ought to have something for Pocket on Christmas. His mouth twitched as he thought of what his sister-in-law would think of his present for her daughter. He remounted the horse, carefully juggling the parcels. No doubt Lucy would still be angry, but at least she would know that he was sincerely sorry that he’d caused her distress. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to think about the next days. If he survived the duel, it would finally be over. He’d be able to sleep in peace.

  He could love Lucy in peace.

  Maybe he would agree to her idea of travel. They could go to Maiden Hill for their first Christmas together and visit with the captain. He had no need to see the old coot again so soon, but Lucy might be missing her father by now. After the New Year they could tour Kent, then journey north to his lands in Northumberland, assuming the weather wasn’t too bad. He hadn’t been to the manor there in ages. It probably needed refurbishing, and Lucy could help him with that.

  He looked up. His town house was ahead. For a moment he was disoriented. Had he ridden this far and not even noticed? Then he saw the carriage. His carriage. Footmen carried trunks down the front steps. Others were heaving them onto the back of the carriage, swearing from the weight. The coachman already sat on the box. Lucy appeared at the front door, mantled and hooded like a religious penitent.

  He dismounted the horse ungracefully, hurriedly, panic welling in his chest. The rectangular package fell to the cobblestones and he left it.

  She was descending the stairs.

  “Lucy.” He caught her by the shoulders. “Lucy.”

  Her face was cold and white beneath the hood. “Let me go, Simon.”

  “What are you doing?” he hissed, knowing he looked a fool. Knowing the servants, Newton, passing strangers, and the neighbors watched. He didn’t give a damn.

  “I’m going to Papa.”

  A ridiculous spurt of hope. “Wait and I’ll—”