The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(77)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Lucy nearly giggled, only managing to control the impulse at the last moment. “But how did you get him to propose so fast? It took him three years with me.”

Patricia looked demure. “It might’ve been my fichu.”

“Your fichu?” Lucy glanced at the innocent bit of lace about Patricia’s neck.

“Yes. Mr. Penweeble had taken me for a drive and somehow”—Patricia’s eyes widened—“it came undone. Well, I couldn’t get it tucked back in properly. So I asked him.”

“Asked him what?”

“Why, to tuck it back in my bodice for me, naturally.”

“Patricia,” Lucy breathed.

“For some reason he felt compelled to propose to me after that.” Patricia smiled like a cat with a saucer of cream. “We’re to have an engagement party on Boxing Day. You’ll stay for that, won’t you?”

Lucy carefully set her teacup down. “I wish I could, dear. But I must get back to Simon. You’re right. I should spend Christmas with him.”

Now that she had made the decision, she felt an urge to be off at once. It was important somehow to return to Simon as soon as possible. Lucy stilled the impulse and folded her hands in her lap. Patricia was talking about her forthcoming marriage and she should listen. The drive to London took hours.

Surely a few minutes more would make no difference either way.

Chapter Nineteen

“What is going on?” his wife demanded before Sir Rupert had even crossed his own threshold.

He frowned, startled, as he handed the sleepy footman his hat and cloak. “What do you mean?” It couldn’t be much past five in the morning.

With Walker and James gone, his investments had become precarious. He’d spent the night, as he had the last several, working to ensure they wouldn’t topple. But what was Matilda doing up at this hour?

His wife’s eyes darted to the footman, trying hard not to appear as if he were listening. “May I speak to you in your study?”

“Of course.” He led the way to his sanctuary and immediately sank into the chair behind the desk. His leg ached terribly.

His wife closed the door softly behind her. “Where have you been? You’ve hardly spoken the last several days. You’ve secluded yourself in here. We don’t even see you at meals. That is what I am referring to.” She advanced toward him, back militarily erect, the green batiste of her gown shushing across the carpet. He noticed that the skin around her jawline had softened, sagging a bit, creating a plump pouch under her chin.

“I’m busy, my dear. Merely that.” He absently rubbed at his thigh.

She wasn’t fooled. “Don’t palm me off. I’m not one of your business cronies. I’m your wife. Lady Iddesleigh called on me two days ago.” She frowned as his curse interrupted her words, but continued. “She told me a fantastic story about you and the viscount. She said that he was intent on calling you out. Cut line and tell me the problem.”

Sir Rupert leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his rump. It was a good thing Matilda was a female; she would have been a frightening man. He hesitated, considering. He’d spent the time since Iddesleigh had threatened him in contemplation. Pondering how he could eliminate a viscount without being implicated. The problem was that the best way had already been used with Ethan Iddesleigh. That plan had been so simple, so elegant. Distribute rumors, force a man into calling a much better swordsman out . . . death had been inevitable, and it hadn’t been traced back to him personally. Other ways—hiring killers, for instance—were much more apt to be brought home to him. But if Iddesleigh persisted, the risk might have to be taken.

Matilda lowered herself into one of the armchairs before his desk. “Think on it all you want, but you must at least bestir yourself enough to go look for Christian.”

“Christian?” He looked up. “Why?”

“You haven’t seen him in the last two days, have you?” She sighed. “He’s been almost as dour as you, moping about the house, snapping at his sisters. And the other day he came home with his lip bloodied—”

“What?” Sir Rupert stood, fumbling for his cane.

“Yes.” His wife’s eyes widened in exasperation. “Hadn’t you noticed? He said he’d stumbled and fallen, but it was quite obvious he’d been in some type of fisticuffs. Not at all what I expect from our son.”

“Why wasn’t I told?”

“If you would bother to talk to me . . .” Matilda’s gaze sharpened. “What is it? What are you keeping from me?”

“Iddesleigh.” Sir Rupert took two steps to the door and stopped. “Where is Christian now?”

“I don’t know. He never came home last night. That is why I’ve waited up for you.” Matilda had stood, clasping her hands before her. “Rupert, what—?”

He swung on her. “Iddesleigh did indeed mean to call me out.”

“Call out—”

“Christian knew. God, Matilda.” He thrust his hands into his hair. “He might’ve challenged Iddesleigh to prevent him dueling me.”

His wife stared at him. The blood slowly left her face, leaving it pasty and crumpled, showing every one of her years. “You must find him.” Her lips hardly moved. “You must find him and stop him. Lord Iddesleigh will kill him.”

He stared for a moment, frozen by the horrible truth.

“Dear husband.” Matilda held out her hands like a supplicant. “I know you have done things. That there are dark actions in your past. I’ve never questioned you before, never wanted to know just what you did. But, Rupert, don’t let our boy die for your sins.”

Her words were a spur, galvanizing him into action. He limped to the door, his cane knocking loudly against the marble in the hall. Behind him, his wife had begun to sob, but he heard her nonetheless. “Don’t let Christian die for you.”

A CAT—OR MAYBE A RAT—RAN ACROSS the path of his horse as Simon rode up the street. Not yet dawn, the blackest part of the night, this was the dominion of Hecate, goddess of crossroads and barking dogs. It was that strange place in between night and day when the living felt not quite safe. The only sound in the deserted street was the muffled clop of his gelding’s hoofs. The corner drabs had already taken to their sad beds, the street mongers were not yet up. He could’ve been riding through a necropolis. A frozen necropolis, snowflakes weeping silently from the sky.