The Serpent Prince (22 page)

“What is this place?” Christian whispered beside him.

He’d picked up the younger man two—no, three—houses before. Christian still looked fresh-faced after the theater earlier in the evening, the fight outside it, and the three increasingly seedy gambling places they’d visited before this. Simon very much feared that he himself resembled a newly unearthed corpse.

Damn youth anyway. “Depends.” He started up the stairs, dodging the race going on there.

Female jockeys wearing only brief corsets and masks rode bare-chested steeds. Simon winced as a jockey drew blood with her quirt. Although, judging by the bulge in the trousers of her mount, he didn’t mind at all.

“On what?” Christian watched wide-eyed as the winning pair galloped up and down the upper hall. The jockey was bare-breasted and bouncing exuberantly.

“On your definition of heaven and hell, I suppose,” Simon said.

His eyes felt as if a handful of sand were under each lid, his head ached, and he was tired. So very tired.

He kicked in the first door.

Christian exclaimed something behind him, but he ignored it. The occupants, two girls and a red-headed gentleman, didn’t even notice the intrusion. He didn’t bother to apologize, just shut the door and moved on to the next. He didn’t have much hope of finding Walker. According to his sources, Walker had never patronized Aphrodite’s Grotto before. But Simon was getting desperate. He needed to find Walker and get this over with. He needed to make Lucy safe again.

Another door. Shrieks from within—two women this time—and he closed it. Walker was married with a mistress, but he liked the bawdy houses. If Simon visited every single brothel in London, eventually he’d find him, or so he hoped.

“Won’t we get thrown out doing this?” Christian asked.

“Yes.”
Kick.
His knee was beginning to hurt. “But hopefully not before I find my quarry.”

He was at the end of the hall now, at the last door, in fact, and Christian was right. It was only a matter of time before the house thugs arrived.
Kick.

He nearly turned away, but he looked again.

The man on the bed had his cock buried in a saffron-haired wench on her knees. She was naked, save a demi-mask, and had her eyes closed. Her partner hadn’t noticed their interruption. Not that it mattered. He was short and swarthy and black haired. No, it was the
second
man, the one almost in the shadows observing the show, that made the squawk. And a good thing, too, since Simon had almost overlooked him.

“What the hell—”

“Ah. Good evening, Lord Walker.” Simon advanced and made a bow. “
Lady
Walker.”

The man on the bed started and swung his head around, although his hips still moved instinctively. The woman remained oblivious.

“Iddesleigh, you bastard, what . . . ?” Walker lurched to his feet, his now-limp prick still hanging from his breeches. “That’s not my wife!”

“No?” Simon cocked his head, examining the woman. “But she looks like Lady Walker. Particularly that mark there.” He pointed with his stick at a birthmark high on her hip.

The man humping her opened his eyes wide. “This ’ere your wife, guvnor?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Oh, but I’ve known your fair lady
intimately
for quite some time, Walker,” Simon drawled. “And I’m quite certain this is she.”

The big man threw back his head suddenly and laughed, although it sounded a bit weak. “I know your game. You’re not going to trick me into—”

“Never had quality before,” the stud said from atop the woman. He increased his pace, possibly in appreciation.

“She’s not—”

“My acquaintance with Lady Walker goes back many years.” Simon leaned on his stick and smiled. “Before the birth of your first child—your heir, I believe?”

“Why, you—”

The black-haired man gave a yell and bucked his hips into the woman, shuddering as he obviously deposited a load of sperm into her. He sighed and fell off her, revealing a cock that, even half-deflated, was of equine proportions.

“Jesus,” Christian said.

“Quite,” Simon concurred.

“How the hell did he get that thing in her?” the younger man muttered.

“I’m glad you asked,” Simon said as if instructing a pupil. “Lady Walker is quite talented in that regard.”

Walker gave a roar and charged across the room. Simon tensed, the blood singing in his veins. Maybe he could finish this tonight.

“See, here,” a voice exclaimed from the door at the same time.

The house bullies had arrived. He stepped aside and Walker ran into their waiting arms. The big man struggled ineffectually in their grasp.

“I’m going to kill you, Iddesleigh!” Walker panted.

“Possibly,” Simon drawled. God, he was tired to the bone. “At dawn, then?”

The man merely growled.

The woman on the bed chose that moment to roll over. “Would you like a go?” she asked no one in particular.

Simon smiled and led Christian away. They passed a new race on the stairs. The male mounts this time had actual bits in their mouths. One man had blood running down his chin and a cock-stand in his breeches.

He’d have to bathe before he returned to Lucy. He felt like he’d rolled in manure.

Christian waited until they made the front steps before he asked, “Was that really Lady Walker?”

Simon caught himself mid-yawn. “I’ve no idea.”

At the far side of the room, partially hidden by the arms of the wing chair and in shadows, she must’ve been nearly invisible to him. She had meant to accost him on his return, to demand answers. But now she merely studied him, her hands curled beneath her chin. He looked tired, her husband, as if he hadn’t slept in years. He wore his clothes from the night before: a deep blue coat and breeches with a silver waistcoat, creased and stained now. His wig had lost some of its powder and looked dingy. Shocking, because she’d never seen him—at least in London—other than sartorially correct. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his lips had thinned, as if he pressed them together to keep them from trembling. He finished whatever he was writing, dusted it with sand, and straightened the paper on the desk. In doing so, he knocked the pen to the floor. He cursed and bent slowly like an old man to pick it up, placed it carefully on the desk, and sighed.

Then he left the room.

Lucy waited several minutes before rising, listening to his footfalls on the stairs. She padded over to the desk to see what he’d written. It was still too dark to read. She took the note to the window, parted the curtains, and angled the paper to read the still-damp writing. The dawn was just breaking, but she could make out the first lines:

In the event of my death, all my worldly possessions
. . .

It was Simon’s will. He was leaving his estate to her. Lucy stared at it a moment longer, then replaced the paper on the desk. From the hallway came the sounds of her husband descending the stairs. She moved to stand beside the doorway.

“I’ll take my horse,” Simon was saying, apparently to Newton. “Tell the coachman I won’t have need of him anymore tonight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The front door closed.

And suddenly Lucy felt a wave of anger. He hadn’t even tried to wake her, else he would’ve noticed her absence from his bed. She strode into the hall, her skirts swishing about her bare ankles. “Newton, wait.”

The butler, his back to her, started and whirled. “M-my lady, I hadn’t realized—”

She waved his apology aside and came straight to the point. “Do you know where he’s going?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Never mind,” she said impatiently. “I’ll simply follow him.”

Lucy cautiously opened the front door. Simon’s carriage was still sitting out front, the coachman almost asleep on the box. A stable hand was yawning as he returned to the mews.

And Simon was riding away.

Lucy closed the door, ignoring Newton’s hissed exclamations behind her, and ran down the steps, shivering in the morning chill. “Mr. Coachman.”

The coachman blinked as if he’d never seen his mistress with her hair undone, as indeed he hadn’t. “My lady?”

“Please follow Lord Iddesleigh without letting him know.”

“But, my lady—”

“Now.”
Lucy didn’t wait for a footman to place the step but scrambled into the carriage. She stuck her head back out again. “And don’t lose him.”

The carriage lurched forward.

Lucy sat back and pulled a rug over herself. It was bitterly cold. Scandalous of her to be driving about London not fully dressed and her hair down, but she couldn’t let modesty keep her from confronting Simon. He hadn’t had any decent sleep for days, and he wasn’t that long recovered from the beating. How dare he continue to risk his life and not think she should know about it? Cut her off, in fact, from that part of himself. Did he think she was a doll to be taken out and played with and then packed away again when he had other matters to see to? Well, it was long past time that she discuss with him exactly what she considered came under the duties of a wife. Her husband’s health, for one thing. Not keeping secrets from her, for another. Lucy harrumphed and folded her arms across her chest.

The December sun had finally dawned, but the light was poor and didn’t seem to affect the cold at all. They turned in to the park, the cobblestones changing to gravel beneath the carriage’s wheels. A mist hung eerily about the ground, shrouding the trunks of trees. From the small carriage window, Lucy couldn’t see any movement and had to trust that the coachman was still following Simon.

They rolled to a halt.

A footman opened the door and peered in at her. “John Coachman says if he gets any closer, his lordship will see.”

“Thank you.”

With the man’s help, Lucy alighted and turned to where he pointed. About a hundred yards away, Simon and another man faced each other like figures in a pantomime. At this distance, she could only tell it was Simon from the way he moved. Her heart seemed to stop dead. Dear Lord, they were ready to begin. She wasn’t in time to persuade Simon to stop this terrible rite.

“Wait for me here,” she ordered the menservants, and walked toward the scene.

There were six men in all—four others stood apart from the duelists, but none looked in her direction or even seemed to notice her at all. They were too involved in this masculine game of death. Simon had removed his coat and waistcoat, as had his opponent, a man Lucy had never seen before. Their white shirtsleeves were almost ghostly in the gray morning mist. They must be cold, but neither man shivered. Instead Simon stood still, while the other man swooshed his sword about, perhaps in practice.

Lucy stopped maybe twenty yards away in the shelter of some bushes. Her bare feet were already frozen.

Simon’s adversary was a very big man, taller than him, with greater breadth of shoulder. His face was ruddy against his white wig. In contrast, Simon’s face was pale as death, the weariness she’d noticed at the house more pronounced in daylight, even at this distance. Both men stood still now. They bent their legs, raised their swords, and paused like a tableau.

Lucy opened her mouth.

Someone shouted. She flinched. Simon and the big man lunged together. Violence sang in the speed of their thrusts, in the awful sneers on their faces. The clatter of their swords rang in the still air. The big man advanced, his sword stabbing, but Simon sprang away, parrying the thrusts. How could he move that fast when he was so tired? Could he keep it up? Lucy wanted to run forward, to shout at the combatants,
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
But she knew that her mere appearance might be enough to startle Simon into dropping his guard and getting killed.

The big man grunted and attacked low. Simon stumbled back and repelled the other man’s blade with his own.

“Blood!” someone cried.

And only then did Lucy notice the stain on her husband’s middle.
Oh, God.
She didn’t realize she’d bitten her lip until she tasted copper. He still moved. Surely if he’d been run through he’d fall? But he backed instead, his arm continuing to work as the other man herded him. She felt bile rise in her throat.
Dear Lord, please don’t let him die.

“Throw down your swords!” another man cried.

Lucy looked and realized one of the men was young Mr. Fletcher. The other three men shouted and gesticulated at the combatants, trying to end the duel, but Mr. Fletcher merely stood, an odd smile on his face. How many of these pointless battles had he attended? How many men had he witnessed her husband kill?

Lucy suddenly hated his fresh, open face.

The bloody stain at Simon’s middle spread. He looked like he wore a scarlet sash about his waist now. How much blood was he losing? The big man grinned and swung his sword with even greater speed and force. Simon was lagging. He turned away the other man’s blade again and again. Then he stumbled and almost lost his footing. Another stain appeared on his shirt, this one above the wrist of the hand that held his sword.

“Goddamn.” She heard his voice faintly. It sounded so weak, so very weary to her ears.

Lucy closed her eyes and felt tears leak beneath them. She rocked her body to contain the sobs.
Must not make a noise. Must not distract Simon.
Another shout. She heard Simon’s husky voice swearing. She almost didn’t open her eyes. But she did. He was on his knees, like a sacrifice to a vengeful god.

Oh, my sweet Lord.

The other man wore a look of grotesque triumph on his face. He lunged, his sword flashing, to stab Simon. To kill her husband.
No, please, no.
Lucy ran forward as if in a dream, not making a sound. She knew she’d never get to them in time.

Simon raised his sword at the very last second and impaled the other man through the right eye.

Lucy bent and vomited, hot bile splattering her bare toes. The big man screamed. Awful, high shrieks that sounded like nothing she’d ever heard before in her life. She heaved again. The other men shouted words she couldn’t comprehend. She looked up. Someone had removed the sword from where the big man’s right eye had been. Black stuff dripped down his cheek. He lay on the ground moaning, his wig fallen from his shaved head. A man with a physician’s black bag was bent over the wounded man, but he merely shook his head.

Simon’s opponent was dying.

She choked and heaved once more, the taste of acid on her tongue. Only a yellow thread emerged from her sore throat.

“Iddesleigh,” the dying man gasped.

Simon had risen, although he seemed to be trembling. Blood was splashed on his breeches. Mr. Fletcher was working at his shirt, trying to bandage him, his face averted from the man on the ground.

“What is it, Walker?” Simon asked.

“Another.”

Her husband suddenly straightened and pushed Mr. Fletcher away. Simon’s face sharpened, the lines carving ditches into his cheeks. In one stride he stood over the fallen man. “What?”

“Another.” The big man’s body shook.

Simon dropped to his knees beside him. “Who?”

The man’s mouth moved before sound emerged. “Fletcher.”

Mr. Fletcher swung around, confusion on his face.

Simon didn’t take his gaze from the dying man. “Fletcher is too young. You can’t trick me that easily.”

Walker smiled, his lips coated with the gore from his destroyed eye. “Fletcher’s—” A convulsion of coughing cut off his words.

Simon frowned. “Bring some water.”

One of the other men proffered a metal bottle. “Whiskey.”

Simon nodded and took it. He held the flask to his enemy’s lips and the man gulped. Walker sighed. His eyes closed.

Simon shook him. “Who?”

The fallen man was still. Was he already dead? Lucy began to whisper a prayer for his soul.

Simon swore and slapped his face.
“Who?”

Lucy gasped.

Walker half opened his eyes. “Faa-therrr,” he slurred.

Simon stood and looked at Christian. The man on the ground sighed again, the breath rattling from his throat.

Simon didn’t even glance down. “Your father? He’s Sir Rupert Fletcher, isn’t he?”

“No.” Christian shook his head. “You’re not taking the word of a man you killed?”

“Should I?”

“He lied!”

Simon simply looked at the younger man. “Did your father help kill my brother?”

“No!” Christian threw up his hands. “No! You’re unreasonable. I’m leaving.” He strode away.

Simon stared after him.

The other men had moved off.

Lucy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stepped forward. “Simon.”

Her husband turned and met her eyes across the body of the man he’d just killed.