The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(60)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

He never looked up.

At the far side of the room, partially hidden by the arms of the wing chair and in shadows, she must’ve been nearly invisible to him. She had meant to accost him on his return, to demand answers. But now she merely studied him, her hands curled beneath her chin. He looked tired, her husband, as if he hadn’t slept in years. He wore his clothes from the night before: a deep blue coat and breeches with a silver waistcoat, creased and stained now. His wig had lost some of its powder and looked dingy. Shocking, because she’d never seen him—at least in London—other than sartorially correct. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his lips had thinned, as if he pressed them together to keep them from trembling. He finished whatever he was writing, dusted it with sand, and straightened the paper on the desk. In doing so, he knocked the pen to the floor. He cursed and bent slowly like an old man to pick it up, placed it carefully on the desk, and sighed.

Then he left the room.

Lucy waited several minutes before rising, listening to his footfalls on the stairs. She padded over to the desk to see what he’d written. It was still too dark to read. She took the note to the window, parted the curtains, and angled the paper to read the still-damp writing. The dawn was just breaking, but she could make out the first lines:

In the event of my death, all my worldly possessions . . .

It was Simon’s will. He was leaving his estate to her. Lucy stared at it a moment longer, then replaced the paper on the desk. From the hallway came the sounds of her husband descending the stairs. She moved to stand beside the doorway.

“I’ll take my horse,” Simon was saying, apparently to Newton. “Tell the coachman I won’t have need of him anymore tonight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The front door closed.

And suddenly Lucy felt a wave of anger. He hadn’t even tried to wake her, else he would’ve noticed her absence from his bed. She strode into the hall, her skirts swishing about her bare ankles. “Newton, wait.”

The butler, his back to her, started and whirled. “M-my lady, I hadn’t realized—”

She waved his apology aside and came straight to the point. “Do you know where he’s going?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Never mind,” she said impatiently. “I’ll simply follow him.”

Lucy cautiously opened the front door. Simon’s carriage was still sitting out front, the coachman almost asleep on the box. A stable hand was yawning as he returned to the mews.

And Simon was riding away.

Lucy closed the door, ignoring Newton’s hissed exclamations behind her, and ran down the steps, shivering in the morning chill. “Mr. Coachman.”

The coachman blinked as if he’d never seen his mistress with her hair undone, as indeed he hadn’t. “My lady?”

“Please follow Lord Iddesleigh without letting him know.”

“But, my lady—”

“Now.” Lucy didn’t wait for a footman to place the step but scrambled into the carriage. She stuck her head back out again. “And don’t lose him.”

The carriage lurched forward.

Lucy sat back and pulled a rug over herself. It was bitterly cold. Scandalous of her to be driving about London not fully dressed and her hair down, but she couldn’t let modesty keep her from confronting Simon. He hadn’t had any decent sleep for days, and he wasn’t that long recovered from the beating. How dare he continue to risk his life and not think she should know about it? Cut her off, in fact, from that part of himself. Did he think she was a doll to be taken out and played with and then packed away again when he had other matters to see to? Well, it was long past time that she discuss with him exactly what she considered came under the duties of a wife. Her husband’s health, for one thing. Not keeping secrets from her, for another. Lucy harrumphed and folded her arms across her chest.

The December sun had finally dawned, but the light was poor and didn’t seem to affect the cold at all. They turned in to the park, the cobblestones changing to gravel beneath the carriage’s wheels. A mist hung eerily about the ground, shrouding the trunks of trees. From the small carriage window, Lucy couldn’t see any movement and had to trust that the coachman was still following Simon.

They rolled to a halt.

A footman opened the door and peered in at her. “John Coachman says if he gets any closer, his lordship will see.”

“Thank you.”

With the man’s help, Lucy alighted and turned to where he pointed. About a hundred yards away, Simon and another man faced each other like figures in a pantomime. At this distance, she could only tell it was Simon from the way he moved. Her heart seemed to stop dead. Dear Lord, they were ready to begin. She wasn’t in time to persuade Simon to stop this terrible rite.

“Wait for me here,” she ordered the menservants, and walked toward the scene.

There were six men in all—four others stood apart from the duelists, but none looked in her direction or even seemed to notice her at all. They were too involved in this masculine game of death. Simon had removed his coat and waistcoat, as had his opponent, a man Lucy had never seen before. Their white shirtsleeves were almost ghostly in the gray morning mist. They must be cold, but neither man shivered. Instead Simon stood still, while the other man swooshed his sword about, perhaps in practice.

Lucy stopped maybe twenty yards away in the shelter of some bushes. Her bare feet were already frozen.

Simon’s adversary was a very big man, taller than him, with greater breadth of shoulder. His face was ruddy against his white wig. In contrast, Simon’s face was pale as death, the weariness she’d noticed at the house more pronounced in daylight, even at this distance. Both men stood still now. They bent their legs, raised their swords, and paused like a tableau.

Lucy opened her mouth.

Someone shouted. She flinched. Simon and the big man lunged together. Violence sang in the speed of their thrusts, in the awful sneers on their faces. The clatter of their swords rang in the still air. The big man advanced, his sword stabbing, but Simon sprang away, parrying the thrusts. How could he move that fast when he was so tired? Could he keep it up? Lucy wanted to run forward, to shout at the combatants, Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! But she knew that her mere appearance might be enough to startle Simon into dropping his guard and getting killed.

The big man grunted and attacked low. Simon stumbled back and repelled the other man’s blade with his own.

“Blood!” someone cried.