The Serpent Prince (27 page)

Lucy opened the carriage door. “It’s me, Papa.”

He squinted, trying to see her in the gloom. “Lucy? What’s Iddesleigh thinking to travel this late at night? Eh? Must’ve gone mad. There’s highwaymen about, or doesn’t he know that?”

Lucy descended the carriage steps with the help of a footman. “He isn’t with me.”

“Mad,” her father repeated. “The man’s mad to let you travel alone, footmen or no. And at night. Bounder!”

She felt a contrary urge to defend Simon. “He didn’t have a say in it. I’ve left him.”

Mrs. Brodie’s eyes widened. “I’ll make tea, shall I?” She turned and hurried into the house.

Papa merely harrumphed. “Come home in a tiff, have you? Smart gel. Keeps a man on his toes when he doesn’t know what a gel will do next. No doubt good for him. You can stay a couple of days and go home after Christmas.”

Lucy sighed. She was tired to her bones, tired to her soul. “I’m not going back to him. I’ve left Simon for good.”

“What? What?” Her father looked alarmed for the first time. “Now see—”

“Jaysus, don’t anybody sleep around here?” Hedge came around the corner, his nightshirt escaping from his breeches, gray hair poking out from a greasy tricorne. He caught sight of Lucy and stopped dead. “Is she back already? Thought we just got her packed off the place.”

“I’m pleased to see you, too, Mr. Hedge,” Lucy said. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation inside, Papa?”

“That’s right,” Hedge muttered. “I’ve been here nearly thirty years—the best years of my life, too—and does anyone care? No, they do not. I’m still not to be trusted.”

“See to the horses, Hedge,” Papa ordered as they went inside.

Lucy heard Hedge groan. “Four big beasties. My back’s not good . . .” Then the door closed behind them.

Papa led the way into his study, a room that she wasn’t used to entering. Papa’s study was his own domain; even Mrs. Brodie wasn’t allowed to clean it. Not, at least, without a lot of fussing first. Papa’s great oak desk was placed at an angle to the fire, too close really, as was attested by the blackened wood on the leg nearest the hearth. The surface of the desk was obscured by piles of colorful maps. They were held in place by a brass sexton, a broken compass, and a short length of rope. To the side of the desk was an enormous globe of the world on its own stand.

“Now, then,” her father started.

Mrs. Brodie bustled in with a tray of tea and buns.

Papa cleared his throat. “Best see if there’s some of your good steak and kidney pie left from dinner, Mrs. Brodie, if you will.”

“I’m not hungry,” Lucy began.

“Looking pale, poppet. Steak and kidney pie do you good, eh?” He nodded at the housekeeper.

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Brodie hurried out.

“Now, then,” Papa began again. “What’s happened that you’ve come running home to your father?”

Lucy felt her cheeks heat. Put like that, her actions sounded childish. “Simon and I have had a difference of opinion.” She looked down as she carefully pulled her gloves off, one finger at a time. Her hands were shaking. “He is doing something that I cannot agree with.”

Papa slammed his hand down on his desk, making her and the papers lying there jump. “Cad! Hasn’t been married more than a few weeks and already messing with ladies of low repute. Ha! When I get my hands on that bounder, that scoundrel, that . . . that
rake,
I’ll see him horsewhipped—”

“No, oh, no.” Lucy felt a bubble of hysterical laughter well up inside her. “That’s not it at all.”

The door opened and Mrs. Brodie came in again. She looked sharply at the two of them. She must’ve heard their voices in the hall, but she didn’t say anything. She set her tray on a table at Lucy’s elbow and nodded. “Have a bite of that, Miss Lucy. It’ll make you feel better. I’ll have the fire laid in your old bedroom, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, the housekeeper bustled out.

Lucy looked at the tray. There was a slice of cold meat pie, a bowl of stewed fruit, a bit of cheese, and some of Mrs. Brodie’s fresh bread. Her stomach rumbled. She’d declined supper at an inn on the way home, and she hadn’t known she was hungry until now. She picked up a fork.

“Then what is it?”

“Hmm?” Mouth full of tender pie, Lucy didn’t want to think about Simon, his danger, or their failed marriage. If she could just go to bed . . .

But Papa was stubborn when he wanted to be. “Why’d you leave the man if he wasn’t carrying on with soiled doves?”

“Duels.” Lucy swallowed. “Simon has killed four men already. In duels. He calls them out and then kills them, and I can’t take it anymore, Papa. He’s destroying himself slowly, even if he survives the encounters. He won’t listen to me, won’t stop, so I left him.” She looked down at her pie, oozing brown gravy, and suddenly felt nauseous.

“What for?”

“What?”

Papa scowled. “Why’s he killing these fellows? Don’t like your husband, never have and, make no bones about it, probably never will. But he doesn’t strike me as a loony. Popinjay, yes; loony, no.”

Lucy almost smiled. “He’s killing the men responsible for his brother, Ethan’s, death, and I know what you’re going to say, Papa, but however noble the reason, it’s still murder and a sin in the Bible. My conscience can’t abide it, and I don’t think Simon’s can either in the end.”

“Ha,” her father grumbled. “Glad to know I’m so easily read by my daughter.”

Lucy bit her lip. This wasn’t how she’d imagined coming home. Her head was beginning to pound, and apparently her father wanted an argument. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know. I know.” He waved away her apology. “You didn’t mean to insult your old pater. But the fact is you did. Think all men feel the same, do you, gel?”

“No, I—”

“’Cause we don’t.” Papa leaned forward and stabbed a finger at her nose to emphasize the point. “Don’t think killing for revenge is the thing at all. Seen too many men die for too little reason to condone it.”

Lucy bit her lip. Papa was right; she’d been too hasty in her judgment. “I’m sorry—”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t understand the man, though,” he said over her words. He sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Lucy flipped over the pie crust. The inside was rapidly congealing, white puddles of fat hardening on the surface of the gravy. She wrinkled her nose and set the plate aside. Her head had begun to pound in earnest now.

“Understand and even sympathize,” Papa suddenly said, making her jump. He popped up from his chair and began pacing. “Yes, sympathize with the man, damn him. Which is more than you do, my dear.”

Lucy stiffened. “I think I understand Simon’s reasons for dueling these men. And I can sympathize with the loss of a loved one.”

“But can you sympathize with the man? Eh?”

“I don’t quite see the difference.”

“Ha.” Papa stared at her a moment, his brows beetling.

She had the sinking feeling that she’d somehow let her father down. Sudden tears threatened. She was tired, so tired from traveling and the argument with Simon and all of the things that had happened before. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d thought surely Papa of all people would take her part in this catastrophe.

Papa stalked to the window and looked out, although he couldn’t have seen anything but his reflection. “Your mother was the finest woman I ever knew.”

Lucy frowned. What?

“Was two and twenty when I met her—a very young lieutenant. She was a bonny lass, all dark curls and light brown eyes.” He turned and looked at her over his shoulder. “Same color as yours, poppet.”

“So I’ve been told,” she whispered. She still missed Mama—the soft voice, the laughter, and the steady light she’d been to her family. Lucy looked down, her eyes filling. It must be the fatigue.

“Mmph,” Papa grunted. “Could’ve had her pick of any of the gentlemen hereabouts. In fact, it was very close at one point with a dragoon captain.” He snorted. “Scarlet uniform. Always turned the ladies’ heads—
and
the bastard was taller.”

“But Mama chose you.”

“Aye, she chose me.” Papa shook his head slowly. “Could’ve knocked me over with a feather, I was that surprised. But we were wed and we settled down here.”

“And you lived happily ever after.” Lucy sighed. She’d heard the tale of her parents’ courtship and marriage many times before when she was a girl. It’d been a favorite bedtime story. Why couldn’t her own marriage—

“No, there you’re wrong.”

“What?” Lucy frowned. She couldn’t have understood Papa correctly. “What do you mean?”

“Life’s not like a fairy tale, my girl.” Papa turned fully around to face her. “In our fifth year of marriage, I came home from sea to find your mother had taken a lover.”

“A lover?” Lucy sat up straight in her amazement. Her mother had been kind and gentle and wonderful. Surely . . . “You must be wrong, Papa.”

“No.” He pursed his lips, frowning at his shoes. “She near threw the fact in my face.”

“But, but . . .” She tried to digest this information and failed completely. It was simply unbelievable. “Mama was good.”

“Yes. She was the finest woman I ever knew. Already said that.” Papa gazed down at the globe as if he were seeing something entirely different. “But I was away at sea for months at a time, and she had two small babies to take care of, all alone in this little village.” He shrugged. “She told me she was lonely. And mad at me.”

“What did you do?” Lucy whispered.

“Got angry. Stormed about, cursing a blue streak and yelling. You know me.” Papa spun the globe. “But in the end I forgave her.” He looked up. “Never regretted it either.”

“But . . .” Lucy frowned, groping for the words. “How could you forgive such an offense?”

“Ha. Because I loved her, that’s why.” Papa tapped the globe, skewering Africa with his finger. “And because I realized that even the finest of women is only human and can make a mistake.”

“How . . . ?”

“She was a woman, not an ideal.” Papa sighed now. He looked old, standing there in his nightshirt and cap, but at the same time stern and commanding. “People make mistakes. Ideals don’t. Think that’s the first lesson that must be learned in any marriage.”

“Simon has murdered.” Lucy drew a deep, shuddering breath. No matter what Papa thought, their cases were very different. “And he plans on doing it again. He’s going to duel a dear friend, a man who looks up to him, and Simon will probably kill him. I know he’s not an ideal, Papa, but how do you expect me to forgive that?” How could he expect her to live with a man so bent on destruction?

“I don’t.” Papa spun the globe a final time and stumped to the door. “Well past your bedtime, gel. And mine. Get some rest.”

Lucy stared after him, uncertain, tired, and confused.

“But remember this.” He turned at the door to spear her with a look. “I might not expect you to forgive, but God does. Says so right in your Bible. Think on that.”

His hands had been shaking ever since Lucy had left yesterday afternoon. He trembled as if he had the ague, as if all the demons inside him had decided to make themselves physically felt. Demons of rage, demons of pain, demons of self-pity, and demons of love. They shook and rattled his frame, demanding acknowledgment. He’d lost the ability to contain them anymore, and they had free rein of his soul now.

He grimaced to himself and swallowed a gulp of the amber liquor. It burned his throat all the way down. He probably wouldn’t be able to hold his sword on the day of the duel. Wouldn’t that be a surprise for Fletcher? To find him standing there, shaking and trembling, his sword fallen to his feet, useless. Christian would merely have to gut him and go home for breakfast. Hardly worth his time, when you thought about it. And Simon had nothing—nothing at all—to do between now and the duel on the morrow’s dawn.

He picked up his glass and wandered from his study. The hall was dark and cold, even if it was only afternoon. Couldn’t anyone keep enough fires lit to warm him? He had so many servants; he was a viscount, after all, and he’d be ashamed to have less than fifty souls toiling over his every whim, night and day. He thought to bellow for Newton, but the butler had been hiding the entire day. Coward. He turned down the hall, his footsteps echoing in his big, lonely house. What had made him think for even a second that he and an angel could ever be united? That he’d be able to hide from her the rage in his heart or the stain on his soul?

Madness, pure madness.

Simon reached the doors to his conservatory and paused. Even from without he could smell them. Roses. So serene, so perfect. As a young boy, he’d been mesmerized by the swirl of velvet petals that led to a secret center, hidden and shy, at the flower’s heart. The thing about roses was that even when not in bloom, they required constant care. The leaves must be inspected for blight, mildew, and parasites. The soil must be carefully tended, weeded, and improved. The plant itself should be cut back in autumn, sometimes quite savagely, in order that it might bloom again in the spring. A demanding, selfish flower, the rose, but one that rewarded with spectacular beauty when well cared for.

He had a sudden memory of himself, young and unmade, sneaking into the rose garden to hide from his tutor. The gardener, Burns, tending to the roses, not noticing the boy stealing behind. Only, of course, the gardener must have noticed. Simon smirked. The old man had merely pretended not to know the boy was in the garden, ducking his studies. In that way both could coexist in the place they loved best without any to blame should they be discovered.

He laid his hand on the door feeling the cedar wood, imported specially when he’d had this adult refuge made. Even as a grown man he went to the rose garden to hide.

Simon pushed open the door, and the humid air caressed his face. He could feel the sweat start along his hairline as he took a gulp of brandy. Newton had made sure the greenhouse was tidied again within an hour of Christian’s departure. One would never know that there had been a fight here. He moved farther in and waited for the smell of loam and the sweet perfume of the roses to bring back his serenity. To return his soul to his body and make him whole again—less a demon and more a man. They did not.

Simon stared at the long row of benches, at the neatly ordered pots, at the plants, some mere thorny sticks, some flamboyantly in bloom. The colors assaulted his eyes, every shade of white and pink and red and all the imaginable hues in between: flesh pink, cold white, black crimson, and a rose the exact shade of Lucy’s lips. It was a dazzling display that had taken him most of his adult life to collect, a masterpiece of horticulture.

He looked up to where the glass ceiling came to a perfect angle overhead, protecting the delicate plants within and keeping the chill London wind without. He looked down to the carefully laid bricks beneath his feet, arranged in a herringbone pattern, orderly and neat. The greenhouse was exactly as he’d envisioned it ten years before, when he’d had it built. It was in every way the culmination of all his dreams of refuge, of peace. It was perfect.

Except that Lucy was not here.

There would never again be peace for him. Simon tossed back the rest of the brandy, raised his tumbler high, and threw it to the bricks. Glass shattered across the path.