The Serpent Prince (11 page)

The sun was out as it had been the previous Tuesday. They drove into Maiden Hill on the road Eustace always took, past the bakery and the same two elderly ladies haggling with the baker. The ladies turned as they had the week before and waved. Nothing had changed. Simon Iddesleigh might never have landed so suddenly in her life only to fly away again.

Lucy felt a mad urge to scream.

“Yes, but I’m not that certain about the nave,” Eustace replied.

This was new to the catalogue of church problems. “What’s wrong with the nave?”

He frowned, lines etching themselves into his normally smooth brow. “The roof has begun to leak there as well. Not very much, only enough to stain the ceiling so far, but it will be harder to get to the damage because of the vaulting. I’m not sure even Tom’s eldest will enjoy that job. We may have to pay him extra.”

Lucy couldn’t help it. She threw back her head and laughed, silly peals that were overloud and seemed to echo in the bright winter air. Eustace half smiled in that embarrassed way one does when one isn’t quite sure of the joke. The two elderly ladies trotted across the green to see what the commotion was about, and the smith and his boy came out of his shop.

Lucy tried to calm herself. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize.” Eustace glanced at her, his coffee-brown eyes shy. “I’m glad to hear your mirth. You don’t often laugh.”

Which only made her feel worse, of course.

Lucy closed her eyes. She suddenly realized that she should have cut this off ages ago. “Eustace—”

“I wanted—” He started talking at the same time as she, and their words collided. He stopped and smiled. “Please.” He indicated she should continue.

But Lucy felt awful now and not eager to start what would no doubt be an uncomfortable discussion. “No, I beg your pardon. What did you mean to say?”

He took a breath, his wide chest expanding under the coarse brown wool of his coat. “I have wanted to speak to you about an important matter for some time now.” He turned the carriage behind the church, and suddenly they were secluded.

Lucy had a terrible premonition. “I think—”

But for once Eustace didn’t defer to her. He continued speaking right over her. “I wanted to tell you how much I admire you. How much I enjoy spending this time with you. They’re comfortable, don’t you think, our little carriage rides?”

Lucy tried again. “Eustace—”

“No, don’t interrupt. Let me get this out. You’d think I wouldn’t be so nervous, as I know you so well.” He inhaled and blew out a gust of air. “Lucy Craddock-Hayes, will you do me the honor of being my bride? There. That’s over with.”

“I—”

Eustace pulled her to him abruptly, and her voice ended in a squeak. He crushed her gently against his big chest, and it was like being enveloped by a giant, smothering pillow, not unpleasant but not entirely comfortable either. His face loomed above hers before he swooped in to kiss her.

Oh, for goodness’ sake!
A wave of exasperation crashed over her head. Not, she was sure, what one should be feeling when being kissed by a handsome young man. And to be fair, Eustace’s kiss was quite . . . nice. His lips were warm, and he moved them in a pleasing way over her own. He smelled of peppermint—he must have prepared for this kiss by chewing some—and on that thought, Lucy’s impatience changed to fond sympathy.

He broke away, looking very pleased with himself. “Shall we tell your father?”

“Eustace—”

“Gadzooks! I should’ve asked his permission first.” His brow crimped in thought.

“Eustace—”

“Well, it can’t come as any great surprise, can it? I’ve been courting you for a long time now. ’Spect the village considers us already married.”

“Eustace!”

He started slightly at the loudness of her voice. “My dear?”

Lucy closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to shout, but he would natter on. She shook her head. Best to concentrate if she was to get through this. “Whilst I am deeply appreciative of the honor you do me, Eustace, I . . .” She made the mistake of looking at him.

He sat there, a lock of brown hair blowing against his cheek, looking perfectly innocent. “Yes?”

She winced. “I can’t marry you.”

“Of course you can. I really don’t think the captain will object. He would’ve shooed me off long before now if he didn’t approve. And you’re well past the age of consent.”

“Thank you.”

He flushed. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Lucy sighed. “But I . . . I really can’t marry you, Eustace.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t want to hurt him. “Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“No.” He drew himself up in an oddly dignified manner. “I’m sorry, but if you’re going to reject me, I think I at least deserve to know the reason why.”

“No,
I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on. It’s just that”—she frowned down at her hands as she tried to find the words—“over the years, we fell into a kind of habit, one that I no longer questioned. And I should have.”

The horse shook its head, jangling the tack.

“I’m a
habit?
”

She winced. “I didn’t—”

He placed both his big hands on his knees and clenched them. “All this time I expected that we would marry.” His hands flexed. “You’ve had the expectation of marriage as well; don’t tell me you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry—”

“And now you expect me to give this up on a whim of yours?”

“It isn’t a whim.” She drew a steadying breath. Crying would be a cowardly way to win his sympathy. Eustace deserved more from her. “I’ve been thinking and thinking over the last days. I’ve agonized about what we are to each other. It just isn’t enough.”

“Why?” Eustace asked the question quietly. “Why should you question what we have, what we are together? It seems nice to me.”

“But that’s just it.” Lucy looked into his eyes. “Nice isn’t enough for me. I want—I
need
—more.”

He was silent a moment as the wind blew a few leftover leaves against the church door. “Is it because of that Iddesleigh fellow?”

Lucy looked away, took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. “I expect it is, yes.”

“You know he isn’t coming back.”

“Yes.”

“Then why”—he pounded his thigh suddenly—“
why
can’t you marry me?”

“It wouldn’t be fair to you. You must know that.”

“I think you should let me be the judge of that.”

“Maybe so,” Lucy conceded. “But then you need to let me be the judge of what is fair to me. And living my life in a compromise, in a
nice
marriage, is no longer tenable for me.”

“Why?” Eustace’s voice was husky. He sounded close to tears.

Lucy felt moisture prick her own eyes. How could she have brought such a good man so low?

“Do you think you love that fellow?”

“I don’t know.” She closed her eyes, but the tears overflowed nevertheless. “All I know is that he opened a door into a whole new world I never even knew existed. I’ve stepped through that door, and I can’t return.”

“But—”

“I know.” She made a slashing motion with her hand. “I know he won’t be coming back, that I’ll never see or speak to him again. But it doesn’t matter, don’t you see?”

He shook his head and, once started, couldn’t seem to stop. His head swung back and forth in a stubborn, bearlike movement.

“It’s like . . .” Lucy raised her hands in a pleading gesture as she tried to think of the analogy. “Like being blind from birth and then one day suddenly being able to see. And not just see, but to witness the sun rising in all her glory across an azure sky. The dusky lavenders and blues lightening to pinks and reds, spreading across the horizon until the entire Earth is lit. Until one has to blink and fall to one’s knees in awe at the light.”

He stilled and stared at her as if dumbstruck.

“Don’t you understand?” Lucy whispered. “Even if one were made blind again in the next instant, one would ever after remember and know what was missed. What could be.”

“So you won’t marry me,” he said quietly.

“No.” Lucy let her hands drop, deflated and weary. “I won’t marry you.”

“D’you think the service is getting worse?” his companion asked as he was passed over again. The boy must be blind. Or willfully not seeing. De Raaf stood a solid six feet and some inches, had a sallow, pockmarked face, and striking midnight black hair worn in a messy queue. His expression at the moment was enough to curdle cream. He didn’t exactly blend into a crowd.

“No.” Simon sipped his own coffee thoughtfully. He’d arrived earlier than the other man and was thus already set up. “It’s always been this awful.”

“Then why do we come here?”

“Well, I come here for the excellent coffee.” Simon glanced around the dingy, low-ceilinged coffeehouse. The Agrarian Society, an eclectic, loose-knit club, met here. The only terms of membership were that the man had to have an interest in agriculture. “And, of course, the sophisticated atmosphere.”

De Raaf shot him a ludicrously outraged look.

A fight broke out in the corner between a macaroni in a deplorable pink-powdered, three-tailed wig, and a country squire wearing muddy jackboots. The boy scurried past them again—de Raaf didn’t even get a chance to raise his hand this time—and Harry Pye stole into the coffeehouse. Pye moved like a cat on the hunt, gracefully and without any sound. Add to that his nondescript appearance—he was of average height and looks and favored a dull brown wardrobe—and it was a wonder anyone noticed him at all. Simon narrowed his eyes. With his physical control, Pye would have made a formidable swordsman. But since he was a commoner, no doubt he had never held a sword; only nobility could wear one. Which didn’t stop Pye from carrying a wicked little blade in his left boot.

“My lords.” Pye sat in the remaining chair at their table.

De Raaf let out a long-suffering sigh. “How many times have I told you to call me Edward or de Raaf?”

Pye half smiled in acknowledgment at the familiar words, but it was to Simon he spoke. “I am glad to see you well, my lord. We had news of your near murder.”

Simon shrugged easily. “A trifle, I assure you.”

De Raaf frowned. “That’s not what I heard.”

The boy slammed a full mug of coffee down beside Pye.

De Raaf’s jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”

“What?” Pye’s gaze lowered to the empty space on the table before the earl. “Aren’t you having a cup today?”

“I—”

“He’s decided to give up coffee,” Simon cut in smoothly. “Heard it’s not good for the libido. Huntington wrote a treatise on it recently, didn’t you hear? It especially affects those nearing their middle years.”

“Really.” Pye blinked.

De Raaf’s pale, pockmarked face crimsoned. “What a lot of rot—”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed it affecting me.” Simon smiled blandly and sipped his coffee. “But then again, de Raaf is considerably older than I.”

“You lying—”

“And he’s recently married. Bound to have a slowing-down consequence, that.”

“Now see here—”

Pye’s lips twitched. If Simon hadn’t been watching closely, he’d have missed it. “But I’m newly married as well,” Pye interrupted softly. “And I can’t say I’ve noticed any, ah, problem. Must be the age.”

Simon felt a strange pang as he realized he was the odd man out. They turned in unison to the earl.

Who sputtered, “Despicable, lying, caddish—”

The boy whirled by again. De Raaf frantically waved his arm. “Ahhh,
damn!
”

The lad disappeared into the kitchen without ever turning his head.

“Good thing you’ve given up the sacred brew.” Simon smirked.

A crash came from the brawl in the corner. Heads swiveled. The country squire had the dandy, sans wig, on his back against a table. Two chairs lay broken nearby.

Pye frowned. “Isn’t that Arlington?”

“Yes,” Simon replied. “Hard to recognize him without that atrocious wig, isn’t it? Can’t think why he chose pink. No doubt that’s the reason the rural chap is pummeling him. Probably overcome with loathing for the wig.”

“They were arguing over swine breeding.” De Raaf shook his head. “He’s always been a bit unreasonable about farrowing pens. Runs in the family.”

“Do you think we should help him?” Pye asked.

“No.” De Raaf looked around for the boy, an evil gleam in his eye. “Arlington could benefit from a beating. Might knock some sense into him.”

“Doubt it.” Simon raised his mug again, but then lowered it as he saw a slight, scruffy character hesitating in the doorway.

The man scanned the room and spotted him. He started toward them.

“Dammit!” de Raaf exclaimed beside him. “They’re ignoring me on purpose.”

“Do you want me to get you a coffee?” Pye asked.

“No. I’m going to do it myself or die trying.”

The man stopped before Simon. “Took me most of the day, Guv, but I’ve found him.” He proffered a dirty scrap of paper.

“Thanks.” Simon gave the man a gold coin.

“Ta.” The little man tugged a forelock and disappeared.

Simon opened the paper and read:
The Devil’s Playground after eleven.
He crumpled the note and stuffed it in a pocket. And only then realized the other two men were watching him. He raised his brows.

“What’s that?” De Raaf rumbled. “Found another one to duel?”

Simon blinked, taken aback. He thought he had kept his dueling secret from de Raaf and Pye. He’d not wanted their interference or their moralizing.

“Surprised we know?” De Raaf leaned back, endangering the wooden chair he sat in. “It wasn’t that hard to ferret out how you’ve been spending the last couple of months, especially after that sword fight with Hartwell.”

What was the big man’s point? “Not your business.”

“It is when you’re risking your life with each duel,” Pye answered for them both.

Simon stared hard.

Neither man blinked.

Damn them.
He looked away. “They killed Ethan.”

“John Peller killed your brother.” De Raaf tapped a big finger on the table in emphasis. “And he’s already dead. You ran him through more than two years ago. Why start again now?”

“Peller was part of a conspiracy.” Simon looked away. “A bloody conspiracy from hell. I only found out several months ago, whilst going through some of Ethan’s papers.”

De Raaf sat back and folded his arms.

“I discovered that fact right before I challenged Hartwell.” Simon fingered his index finger. “There were four of them in the conspiracy. Two are left now, and they’re all culpable. What would you do if it were your brother?”

“Probably the same as you’re doing.”

“There you are.”

De Raaf grimaced. “The chances you’ll be killed increase with every duel you fight.”

“I’ve won both duels so far.” Simon looked away. “What makes you think I can’t win the next?”

“Even the best swordsman can slip or be distracted for a moment.” De Raaf looked irritable. “One moment, that’s all it takes. Those are your words.”

Simon shrugged.

Pye leaned forward, his voice lowering. “At least let us go with you, be your seconds.”

“No. I already have someone else in mind.”

“That lad you’ve been partnering with at Angelo’s?” de Raaf cut in.

Simon nodded. “Christian Fletcher.”

Pye’s gaze sharpened. “How well do you know him? Can you trust him?”

“Christian?” Simon laughed. “Young, I concede, but quite good with a blade. Almost as good as I, in fact. He’s beaten me in practice once or twice.”

“But would he guard your back in a crisis?” De Raaf shook his head. “Would he even know to look for tricks?”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Dammit—”

“Besides”—Simon looked from one to the other—“the both of you are in a state of connubial bliss. Think you that I would want to present either of your wives with a dead husband before your first anniversary?”

“Simon—” de Raaf began.

“No. Leave it at that.”

“God
damn
you.” The big man stood, his chair nearly toppling over. “You had better not be dead the next time I see you.” He banged his way out of the coffeehouse.

Simon frowned.

Pye silently emptied his cup. “Since you’ve reminded me of my lady, I’d best be leaving as well.” He rose. “If you have need of me, Lord Iddesleigh, you have only to send word.”

Simon nodded. “The kindness of friendship is all I ask.”

Pye touched him on the shoulder and then he, too, was gone.

Simon looked at his coffee. It was cold, with a ring of greasy scum floating on the surface, but he didn’t order a new cup. At eleven tonight he would track down another of his brother’s murderers and challenge him to a duel. Until then, he had nothing in particular to do. No one waited for his return. No one grew anxious as the time wore on. No one would mourn if he did not turn up.

Simon swallowed some of the filthy coffee and grimaced. Nothing was as pathetic as a man who lied to himself. It wasn’t that no one would mourn his death—Pye and de Raaf had just now indicated that they would do just that—but that no
woman
would mourn. No, he still lied.
Lucy.
Lucy wouldn’t mourn. He mouthed her name and tapped his fingers against the mug. When had he forfeited a normal life, one that included a wife and family? Was it after Ethan had died and he’d suddenly had the title and all the cares it represented thrust on him? Or later, when he’d killed the first one? John Peller. Simon shuddered. His dreams were still haunted by Peller’s fingers, falling disconnected to the dewy grass like gruesome flowers newly bloomed.

God.

And he could live with that, could live with the macabre nightmares. After all, the man had killed his only brother. He’d had to die. The dreams had even begun to abate. Until he’d found out there were more men to kill.

Simon raised the mug to his lips before remembering it was empty. Even after dueling Hartwell, it was Peller and his fingers he still dreamed about at night. Strange. It must be some quirk of the mind. Not a normal quirk, to be sure, because his mind was no longer normal. Some men might be able to kill without changing, but he wasn’t among their number. And that thought brought him around once again. He’d been right to leave Lucy behind. To decide not to cleave unto a wife, no matter the temptation to let go and live like an ordinary man. He couldn’t anymore.

He’d lost that choice when he’d set his course of revenge.