The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(78)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

He’d ridden more than half the night away, meandering from the white town houses of Grosvenor Square to the stews of Whitechapel. Strangely, he’d not been accosted, prime pickings though he most obviously was—an aristocrat stinking of drink and not aware of his surroundings. A pity that. He could’ve used the distraction of a nasty robbery, and it might’ve solved all his troubles. But instead, here he was alive just before dawn with a duel to fight.

De Raaf’s town house was up ahead. Somewhere. Or at least he thought so. He was so exhausted, weary unto death. Sleep no longer comforted him, no longer brought him a measure of peace. He hadn’t slept since Lucy had left him two days before. Perhaps he’d never sleep again. Or sleep forever, after this dawn. Simon smirked at his own small wit. The horse turned in to a mews, and he straightened a bit in the saddle, looking for the back of de Raaf’s town house. As he neared, a shape separated itself from the black shadows by a gate.

“Iddesleigh,” de Raaf murmured, his low voice startling the gelding.

Simon gentled the horse. “De Raaf. Where’s your mount?”

“’Round here.” The big man opened the gate and ducked inside.

Simon waited, noticing for the first time the bite of the winter’s wind. He glanced up. The moon was down, but it would’ve been covered with clouds had it still hung in the sky. The coming day would be bleak. Just as well.

De Raaf returned, leading his ugly bay. A soft bag was strapped to the back of the beast behind the saddle. “You’re not wearing a wig. You look naked without one.”

“No?” Simon ran his hand over his short hair before he remembered. The wig had fallen off in a lane during the night, and he’d not bothered to retrieve it. No doubt it now decorated the head of some urchin. He shrugged. “No matter.”

De Raaf eyed him in the dark before mounting his horse. “I can’t think your new bride will approve of you trying to get your gut perforated on Christmas morn of all days. Does she know what you intend to do?”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “How does your own lady feel about you attending a duel on Christmas?”

The big man winced. “No doubt Anna would hate it. I hope to be home before she wakes and finds me gone.”

“Ah.” Simon turned his horse’s head.

De Raaf nudged his horse into a walk beside him. They rode abreast back to the lane.

“You didn’t answer my question.” The big man broke the silence, his breath steaming in the light from a window they passed.

“Lucy’s feelings are moot.” Something inside Simon tore at the thought of his angel. He flexed his jaw before admitting, “She’s left me.”

“What did you do?”

Simon scowled. “How do you know it was my fault?”

De Raaf simply lifted one eyebrow.

“She disapproves of dueling,” Simon said. “No, that’s not right. She disapproves of killing. Of murder.”

The other man snorted. “Can’t see why.”

It was Simon’s turn to give a speaking look.

“Then why are you dueling, man?” de Raaf barked impatiently. “Christ, it isn’t worth losing your wife over.”

“He threatened her.” The memory still made his hands clench. Friend or no, Christian had threatened to rape Lucy. He could not be allowed to get away with that offense.

De Raaf grunted. “Then let me handle Fletcher. You won’t even have to get involved.”

Simon glanced at him sideways. “Thank you, but Lucy is my wife.”

The big man sighed. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Simon squeezed the gelding into a trot, forestalling any further conversation.

They wound their way through more dingy streets. The wind whistled its remorse around corners. A cart passed, rumbling on the cobblestones. Simon finally saw movement on the sidewalk. Silent shapes, still infrequent, that slunk or scurried or loped. The denizens of the day had begun their rounds, careful in the dark that still concealed the dangers of night. Simon looked at the sky again. It had barely lightened to a nasty gray-brown. The snow lay in a thin, white layer on the street, covering filth and foul odors, giving it the illusion of purity. Soon the horses would stir it into muddy slush and the illusion would be gone.

“Damn, it’s cold,” de Raaf huffed from behind.

Simon didn’t bother replying. They entered the path into the green. Here, the landscape was quiet. No human had disturbed the pristine snow yet.

“Are his seconds here?” De Raaf broke the quiet.

“They must be.”

“You don’t have to do this. Whatever—”

“Stop.” Simon glanced at the other man. “Be still, Edward. It’s past the time for that.”

De Raaf grunted, frowning.

Simon hesitated. “If I’m killed, you’ll look after Lucy, won’t you?”

“Christ—” De Raaf bit off whatever he was going to say and glared. “’Course.”

“Thank you. She’s with her father in Kent. You’ll find her direction and a letter on my desk. I’d appreciate it if you could deliver the letter to her.”

“What the hell is she doing in Kent?”

“Repairing her life, I hope.” Simon’s mouth quirked sadly. Lucy. Would she mourn for him? Would she wear the dingy weeds of a widow and weep sweet salt tears? Or would she forget him soon and find consolation in the arms of the country vicar? He found to his surprise that he could still feel jealousy.

Lucy, my Lucy.

Two lanterns flickered against dim figures ahead. They were actors in an inevitable drama. The boy, who until a few days ago he’d regarded as a friend, the men who would watch him kill or be killed, the doctor who would pronounce a man dead.

Simon checked his sword, then nudged his horse into a trot. “We’re here.”

“MY LADY.” NEWTON’S FACE RELAXED almost into a smile before he recovered and bowed, the tassel of his nightcap flopping over his eyes. “You’ve returned.”

“Naturally.” Lucy pulled back her hood and stepped over the threshold into her town house. Good Lord, did all the servants know her—their—business? Silly question. Of course they did. And, judging from Newton’s hastily covered surprise, they hadn’t expected her to come back to Simon. Lucy leveled her shoulders. Well. Best put that notion out of their heads. “Is he here?”

“No, my lady. His lordship left not half an hour ago.”