The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(43)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“My God. My God. My God.” The short man was nearly jumping up and down in his agitation. Suddenly, he leaned over and vomited, splattering his shoes.

“Can you close his eyes?” Simon asked again. He didn’t know why it bothered him so. James no longer cared that he stared blindly.

The little man was still heaving, but Spectacles passed his hand over James’s eyes.

The physician walked over and stared down impassively. “He’s dead. You’ve killed him.”

“Yes, I know.” Simon shrugged on his coat.

“Christ,” Christian whispered.

Simon motioned to Henry and turned to walk back. They no longer needed the lantern. The sun had risen, evaporating the mist and heralding a new day that Quincy James would never see. Simon’s hands still shook.

“HE’S OUT? HOW CAN HE BE OUT at this hour?” Lucy stared at Newton.

The sky had just lost the pinkness of dawn. Street sweepers were trundling their carts home across the cobblestones. At the house next door, a maid slammed the door and began vigorously scrubbing her employer’s steps. Lucy had arrived at Simon’s town house for their early morning ride in the park. She should’ve waited for him at Rosalind’s home, as they’d originally planned. But last night over supper, Rosalind had announced that she would rise unfashionably early to accompany the new cook to the fish market this morning. Cook had served them slightly off fish two nights in a row, and Rosalind thought she needed pointers on selecting a fresh snapper. Lucy had leapt at the chance to ride along and see Simon a little early.

But now she stood on the front stoop like a poor petitioner before the king. The king, in this case, being Newton the butler. He was splendidly arrayed in silver and black livery and an exquisite wig, despite the hour. He stared back at her down a nose that would have done any ancient Roman proud.

“I couldn’t say, miss.” Two spots of red burned in the butler’s otherwise cadaverous cheeks.

Lucy looked at them suspiciously. Her own face began to heat. Surely Simon wasn’t with another woman? No, of course not. They were to be married in less than a week. But Lucy felt shaken nonetheless. She hardly knew Simon; maybe she had misunderstood. Perhaps when he said dawn it had been a fashionable figure of speech, really meaning ten o’clock. Or maybe she’d confused the day—

A big black carriage rattled up, interrupting her thoughts. Lucy turned to look. The carriage bore Simon’s crest. A footman jumped down and set the steps. Henry and Mr. Fletcher descended. Lucy frowned. Why . . . ? Simon stepped down. Behind her, Newton exclaimed. Simon was in his shirtsleeves, despite the cold. One sleeve was streaked with blood, and he held a soaked rag to the upper arm. Spatters of red arced delicately across his chest. In strange contrast to the gore, he wore an immaculate white wig.

Lucy gasped; her lungs wouldn’t fill with air. How badly was he hurt? She stumbled down the steps. “What has happened?”

Simon stopped and stared at her, white-faced. He looked as if he didn’t recognize her. “Merde.”

At least he could talk. “Newton, send for a doctor!”

Lucy didn’t bother to see if the butler followed her orders. She was afraid if she took her eyes from Simon, he might collapse. She reached him on the street and held out a hand, hesitant to actually touch him lest she harm him further.

“Where are you hurt? Tell me.” Her voice shook.

He took her hand. “I’m fine—”

“You’re bleeding!”

“There’s no need of a doctor—”

“He killed James,” Mr. Fletcher suddenly said.

“What?” Lucy looked at the younger man.

He seemed dazed, as if he’d seen a tragedy. What had happened?

“Not out in the street for all the pious listening neighbors to gossip about, please,” Simon said. His words dragged as if he were weary to his soul. “We’ll hash it out, if we must hash it out, in the sitting room.” The fingers clutching her wrist were sticky with blood. “Come inside.”

“Your arm—”

“Will be fine as soon as I dose it with brandy—by mouth, preferably.” He marched her up the steps.

Behind them, Mr. Fletcher called, “I’m going home. Had enough. Sorry.”

Simon paused on the top step and glanced back. “Ah, the golden resilience of youth.”

Mr. Fletcher swung around violently. “You killed him! Why did you have to kill him?”

Oh, God. Lucy stared, mute, at Simon’s young friend. She felt dread seep into her chest, paralyzing her.

“It was a duel, Christian.” Simon smiled, but his voice was still gritty. “Did you think I meant to dance a pretty gavotte?”

“Jesus! I don’t understand you. I don’t think I even know you.” Mr. Fletcher shook his head and walked away.

Lucy wondered if she should echo the sentiment. Simon had just admitted killing a man. She realized—horribly—that the bloodstains on his chest weren’t his own. Relief flooded her, and then guilt that she rejoiced at another’s death. Simon led her through the door into the great receiving hall. The ceiling, three stories overhead, was painted with classical gods lounging about the clouds, unperturbed by the upheaval below. He dragged her down the hallway and through double doors into a sitting room.

Behind them, Newton groaned. “Not the white settee, my lord.”

“To hell with the settee.” Simon pulled Lucy down beside him on the immaculate piece of furniture. “Where’s that brandy?”

Newton splashed brandy into a crystal glass and brought it over, muttering, “Blood. And it’ll never come out.”

Simon swallowed half the glass and grimaced, laying his head against the settee back. “I’ll have it re-covered, if that’ll make you feel better, Newton. Now get out of here.”

Henry entered the room, carrying a basin of water and linens.

“But, my lord, your arm—” the butler started.

“Get. Out.” Simon closed his eyes. “You, too, Henry. You can bandage, dose, and mother me later.”

Henry raised his eyebrows at Lucy. Silently, he laid the basin and bandages beside her and left. Simon still held her wrist. She reached across him with her free hand and carefully pulled back the ripped sleeve. Beneath, a narrow wound seeped blood.

“Leave it alone,” he murmured. “It’s only a shallow cut. It looks worse than it is, believe me. I won’t bleed to death, at least not right away.”