The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(62)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Four.” He closed his eyes, but he still saw their faces against his eyelids. “I thought four was all. I thought I was done, but I’m told there is a fifth.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Yes.” He didn’t know why he continued. “There will be another.”

She pressed her lips together, whether to hold back a sob or to contain her revulsion, he did not know. “You can’t do this, Simon.”

He pretended stupidity, though he wanted to sob. “Can’t? I’ve already done it, Lucy. I’m still doing it.” He spread his arms wide. “Who is there to stop me?”

“You can stop yourself.” Her voice was low.

His arms dropped. “But I won’t.”

“You will destroy yourself.”

“I am already destroyed.” And he knew, deep, deep in his blackened soul that he spoke the truth.

“Vengeance is for the Lord.”

So calm. So sure.

He sheathed his sword, still bloody. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Simon.”

“If vengeance is for the Lord, then why does England have courts of law? Why do we hang murderers every day?”

“You aren’t a court of law.”

“No.” He laughed. “A court of law wouldn’t touch them.”

She closed her eyes as if weary. “Simon, you can’t just take it upon yourself to kill men.”

“They murdered Ethan.”

“It’s wrong.”

“My brother, Ethan.”

“You’re sinning.”

“Would you have me sit back and let them savor their kill?” he whispered.

“Who are you?” Her eyes snapped open, and her voice held a hysterical edge. “Do I even know who you are?”

He stepped over Walker’s battered corpse and grabbed her by the shoulders, leaned down so that his no-doubt foul breath washed over her face. “I am your husband, my lady.”

She turned her face away from him.

He shook her. “The one you promised to obey always.”

“Simon—”

“The one you said you’d cleave to, forsaking all others.”

“I—”

“The one you make love to at night.”

“I don’t know if I can live with you anymore.” The words were a whisper, but they rang in his head like a death knell.

Overwhelming fear froze his gut. He jerked her body tight against his own and ground his mouth down on hers. He tasted blood—either hers or his, it didn’t matter and he didn’t care. He would not—could not—let her go. Simon raised his head and stared her in the eye. “Then it’s too bad you no longer have a choice.”

Her hand trembled as she wiped a smear of blood from her mouth. He wanted to do it for her, wanted to say he was sorry. But she’d probably bite his fingers right now, and the words wouldn’t come anyway. So he simply watched her. She pulled her soiled cloak together and turned and walked away. He watched as she made her way across the green. She climbed into the carriage and drove off.

Only then did he pick up his coat and mount his horse. The London streets had filled with people going about their business. Costermongers with carts, urchins on foot, lords and ladies in carriages and riding horses, shopkeepers and whores. A mass of breathing beings starting a new day.

But Simon rode apart.

Death had taken him into the company of the damned, and his bond with the rest of humanity was broken.

THE STUDY DOOR SLAMMED AGAINST THE WALL.

Sir Rupert looked up to see his son standing in the doorway, pale, disheveled, and his face gleaming with sweat. He started to rise from his desk.

“Did you do it?” In contrast to his appearance, Christian’s voice was low, almost calm.

“Do what?”

“Did you kill Ethan Iddesleigh?”

Sir Rupert sat back down. If he could, he would’ve lied; he made no bones about it. He’d found that deception was often the best way. More often than not, people wanted to be lied to; they didn’t like the truth. How else to explain why they fell for lies so quickly? But his son’s face showed that he already knew the truth. His question was rhetorical.

“Shut the door,” Sir Rupert said.

Christian blinked, then did as ordered. “My God. Did you, Father?”

“Sit down.”

His son slumped into a carved and gilded chair. His ginger hair was matted with sweat, and his face shone greasily. But it was his tired expression that bothered Sir Rupert. When had his son’s face become lined?

Sir Rupert spread his hands. “Ethan Iddesleigh was a problem. He had to be removed.”

“Dear God,” Christian groaned. “Why? Tell me why you would kill a man.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he said irritably. “Do you think your father so foolish? I simply arranged for his death. I was involved in a business venture with Ethan Iddesleigh. It consisted of myself, Lord Walker—”

“Peller, James, and Hartwell,” Christian interrupted. “Yes, I know.”

Sir Rupert frowned. “Then why do you ask, if you know already?”

“I only know what Simon has told me, and that has been precious little.”

“Simon Iddesleigh was no doubt prejudiced in his account, however small it was,” Sir Rupert said. “The facts are these: We had invested in tea and stood to lose everything. We all agreed to a course of recovery. All, that is, but Ethan. He—”

“This is about money?”

Sir Rupert looked at his son. Christian wore an embroidered silk coat that would provide food and shelter for a laborer’s family for the better part of a season. He sat in a gilt-painted chair a king wouldn’t be ashamed to own, in a house on one of the best streets of London.

Had he any idea at all? “Of course it’s about money, dammit. What did you think it was about?”

“I—”

Sir Rupert slammed the flat of his hand down on his desk. “When I was your age, I worked from before the sun rose until past dark of night. There were days that I fell asleep over my supper, my head on a plank table. Do you think I would ever go back to that?”

“But to kill a man over gold, Father.”

“Don’t you sneer at gold!” Sir Rupert’s voice rose on the last word. He brought it under control again. “Gold is the reason you have no need to labor as your grandfather did. As I did.”

Christian ran a hand through his hair. He seemed dazed. “Ethan Iddesleigh was married with a little daughter.”