The Serpent Prince
Page 45

Impasse.
De Raaf had grown silent, but now he spoke. “It’s over.”
“No,” Simon hissed. He kept his eyes on the younger man. “Take it.”
Christian eyed him warily—as well he should.
Meanwhile, de Raaf still pleaded. “He was your friend. You can end this, Fletcher.”
Christian shook his head. Blood from the cut on his cheek already stained his collar. Simon wiped the gore from his eye and smiled. He would die today; he knew it. What point in living without Lucy? But he would have an honorable death. He would make the boy work for his kill. Despite the blood soaking his shirt, despite the fire eating at his shoulder, despite the weariness weighing down his soul, he would have a real fight. A real death.
“Take it,” he repeated softly.
Chapter Twenty
The light from Lucy’s candles shone on the conservatory floor. Glass shards sparkled there like a carpet of diamonds. Lucy stared dazedly at them a moment before she noticed the chill. She looked up. The wind was whistling through what had once been a glass roof, making her candle flames flicker and threaten to go out. She held the candelabra higher. Every pane in the greenhouse was jagged and broken. The sky, graying with the threat of day, hung too low.
Who . . . ?
She moved into the greenhouse almost without volition. The glass crunched beneath her boots, scraping against the brick walk. Terra-cotta pots were in drifts on the tables, broken and crushed, as if a great, angry wave had tossed them there. Lucy stumbled down the aisle, the bits of glass sliding beneath her shoes. Upturned roses in various states of bloom were scattered everywhere. One ball of roots hung from a windowpane overhead. Pink and red blooms bled petals on the floor, their familiar perfume curiously absent. Lucy touched a flower and felt it melt and shrivel beneath the warmth of her hand. It was frozen. The bitter winter air had been let in to savage the sheltered blooms. Dead. All the roses were dead.
Dear God.
Lucy reached what had been the dome in the middle of the conservatory and stopped. Only a skeleton, bits of glass skin still clinging here and there, remained. The marble fountain was chipped and cracked as if a giant hammer had been taken to it. A frozen plume of ice stood in the fountain, stilled in mid-splash. More ice spilled from a crack in the fountain and widened into a frozen lake around it. Beneath the ice, shards of glass glittered, horribly beautiful.
Lucy swayed in shock. A gust of wind moaned through the conservatory and blew out all but one of her candles. Simon must have done this. He’d destroyed his fairyland conservatory. Why? She sank to her knees, huddled on the cold floor, her one remaining flame cradled in her numb palms. She’d seen how tenderly Simon had cared for his plants. Remembered the look of pride when she’d first discovered the dome and fountain. For him to have smashed all this . . .
He must have lost hope. All hope.
She’d left him, even though she’d promised not to on her mother’s memory. He loved her and she’d left him. A sob tore at her throat. Without hope, how could he survive the duel? Would he even try to win? If she knew where he would duel, she might stop him. But she had no idea where this duel would take place. He’d warned her that he would hide the dueling rendezvous from her and he had. She couldn’t stop him, she realized achingly. He was going to duel; he might be there already, preparing to fight in the cold and dark, and she couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t save him.
There was nothing for her to do.
Lucy looked around the ruined conservatory, but there was no answer here. Dear God, he would die. She would lose him without ever having the chance to tell him how much he meant to her. How much she loved him. Simon. Alone in the dark, destroyed greenhouse she wept, her body shaking with sobs and the cold, and she finally acknowledged what she had kept hidden deep in her heart. She loved her husband.
She loved Simon.
Her last candle flickered and went out. She drew a breath and wrapped her arms about herself, bent as if broken. She lifted her face to the gray sky as silent, ghostly snowflakes dropped and melted on her lips and eyelids.
Above her, the dawn broke on London.
DAWN WAS BREAKING ON LONDON. The expressions on the faces of the men around Simon were no longer in shadow. Daylight filtered across the dueling green. He could see the desperation in Christian’s eyes as he darted forward, his teeth clenched and bared, his red hair matted with sweat at the temples. Christian grabbed the sword in Simon’s shoulder and wrenched at it. Simon gasped as the blade sawed at his flesh. Scarlet drops fell to the snow at his feet. He leveled his own sword and swung blindly. Violently. Christian ducked to the side, almost losing the hilt of his sword. Simon slashed again, felt the blade connect. A spray of blood decorated the snow, then was trampled underfoot, mixing with Simon’s scarlet drops until all was a muddy mess.
“Goddamn,” Christian moaned.
His breath blew in Simon’s face, foul with fear. His face was white and scarlet, the wash of blood on his left cheek only a shade darker than the freckles underneath. So young. Simon felt an absurd urge to apologize. He shivered; his blood-soaked shirt was freezing. It had begun to snow again. He looked at the sky over Christian’s head and thought, ridiculously, I shouldn’t have to die on a gray day.
Christian sobbed hoarsely.
“Stop!”
The shout came from behind him. Simon ignored it, bringing his sword up one last time.
But then de Raaf was there, his own sword drawn. “Stop, Simon.” The big man interposed his blade between them.
“What are you doing?” Simon panted. He was dizzy and only just kept from reeling.
“For the love of God, stop!”
“Listen to the man,” de Raaf growled.
Christian froze. “Father.”
Sir Rupert limped slowly through the snow, his face nearly as white as his son’s. “Don’t kill, him, Iddesleigh. I concede. Don’t kill my boy.”
“Concede what?” Was this a trick? Simon glanced at Christian’s horrified face. Not on the son’s part, at least.
Sir Rupert was silent, using his breath to laboriously walk closer.
“Jesus. Let’s get this skewer out of you.” De Raaf placed a fist on Simon’s shoulder and tugged Christian’s sword out with one swift motion.
Simon couldn’t keep a moan from escaping his lips. His vision darkened for a second. He blinked fiercely. Now wasn’t the time to faint. He was vaguely aware that blood was pouring from the wound on his shoulder.
“Christ,” de Raaf muttered. “You look like a butchered pig.” He opened the bag he’d brought with him and took out a handful of linens, wadding and shoving them into the wound.
God’s balls! The pain was near unbearable. “Didn’t you get a doctor?” Simon asked through gritted teeth.
De Raaf shrugged. “Couldn’t find one I trusted.” He pressed harder.
“Ouch.” Simon inhaled a hissing breath. “Goddamnit. So I have you to physic me?”
“Yes. Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Thank you,” Simon grunted. He looked at Sir Rupert, refusing to flinch as de Raaf tended his shoulder. “What do you concede?”
“Father,” Christian began.
Sir Rupert made a slashing motion with his hand, cutting him off. “I concede I am responsible for your brother’s death.”
“Murder,” Simon growled. He gripped his sword tighter, although de Raaf stood between him and the others, blocking the movement of his blade. The big man chose that moment to put his other hand at his back and press his palms together, squeezing the shoulder. Simon bit back an oath.
De Raaf looked pleased. “You’re welcome.”
Sir Rupert nodded. “Your brother’s murder. I am to blame. Punish me, not my son.”
“No!” Christian shouted. He lurched forward, limping like his father.
Simon saw the other man’s right leg was blood-soaked below the thigh. His sword had found its mark. “Killing your son would punish you most satisfactorily,” Simon drawled.
Edward, facing him, lifted his eyebrow so only he could see.
“Killing Christian also takes an innocent life,” Sir Rupert said. He leaned forward, both hands on the head of his cane, his eyes fixed on Simon’s face. “You’ve never killed an innocent before.”
“Unlike you.”
“Unlike me.”
For a moment no one spoke. The snow fell silently. Simon stared at his brother’s murderer. The man admitted it—all but crowed the fact that he’d arranged Ethan’s death. He felt hatred rise in him like bile at the back of his throat, nearly overwhelming reason. But however much he might loathe Sir Rupert, he was right. Simon had never killed an innocent man.
“What do you have in mind?” Simon asked finally.
Sir Rupert took a breath. He thought he’d won a concession, damn him. And he had. “I will pay you the price of your brother’s life. I can sell my London home.”
“What?” Christian burst out. Snowflakes had melted on his eyelashes like tears.
But Simon was already shaking his head. “Not enough.”
His father ignored Christian, intent on persuading Simon. “Our country estates—”
“What about Mother and my sisters?” Christian’s thin-wristed friend approached and tried to tend his wound, but Christian waved him away impatiently.
Sir Rupert shrugged. “What about them?”
“They haven’t done any wrong,” his son said. “Mother adores London. And what of Julia, Sarah, and Becca? Will you beggar them? Make it impossible that they ever marry well?”
“Yes!” Sir Rupert shouted. “They are women. What other avenue would you have me consider?”
“You would sacrifice their futures—their very happiness—to prevent me dueling Simon?” Christian stared incredulously.
“You are my heir.” Sir Rupert held out a shaking hand to his son. “You are the most important. I cannot chance your death.”
“I don’t understand you.” Christian pivoted away from his father, then gasped and wavered. His second hurried to him and offered his support.
“It doesn’t matter,” Simon interrupted. “You cannot pay for my brother’s death. His life has no price.”
“Damn you!” Sir Rupert drew a sword from his cane. “Will you duel a crippled man, then?”
“No!” Christian pulled away from his second.
Simon raised his hand, stopping the younger man’s surge forward. “No, I will not duel you. I find that I have lost my taste for blood.”
Long lost it, if the truth were known. He had never liked what he’d had to do, but now he knew: He could not kill Christian. He thought of Lucy’s fine, topaz eyes, so serious, so right, and almost smiled. He could not kill Christian because it would disappoint Lucy. So small a reason, but a crucial one nevertheless.
Sir Rupert lowered his sword, a smirk forming on his lips. He thought he’d won.
“Instead,” Simon continued, “you will leave England.”
“What?” The smile died from the older man’s face.
Simon raised an eyebrow. “You prefer a duel?”
Sir Rupert opened his mouth, but it was his son who replied. “No, he doesn’t.”
Simon looked at his former friend. Christian’s face was as white as the snow falling around them, but he stood straight and tall. Simon nodded. “You will accept banishment from England for your family?”
“Yes.”
“What?” Sir Rupert blustered.
Christian turned savagely on his father. “He has offered you—us—an honorable way out, without bloodshed or loss of fortune.”
“But where would we go?”
“America.” The young man turned to Simon. “That meets with your approval?”