The Serpent Prince

“And you w-w-won’t either.” James advanced, sword held ready.



Simon felt his smile disappear. “Brave words for a murderer.”



He sensed Christian’s swift look. Did the boy know? He’d never told him about Ethan—about the real reason for these duels. Simon raised his blade and faced his opponent. The mist curled about their legs.



“Allez!” Christian cried.



Simon lunged, James parried, and the swords sang their deadly song. Simon felt his face stretch into a mirthless grin. He stabbed into an opening, but James deflected the blow at the last minute. And then he was on the defensive, retreating even as he parried slash after slash. The muscles in his calves burned under the strain. James was swift and strong, an opponent to take seriously, but he was also desperate, attacking recklessly. The blood pounded in Simon’s veins like liquid fire, making his nerves spark. He never felt so alive and paradoxically so close to death as when he dueled.



“Ah!”



James darted under his guard, aiming a blow at Simon’s chest. He deflected the sword at the last minute. His weapon slid, screeching, against his opponent’s until they were hilt to hilt, breathing into each other’s faces. James pressed against him with all his strength. Simon felt his upper arm bulge. He stood braced, refusing to give ground. He could see the red veins in the other man’s eyes and smell his foul breath, reeking of terror.



“Blood,” one of the seconds called, and only then did he feel the burn at his arm.



“Do you quit?” Christian asked.



“Hell, no.” Simon bunched his shoulders and threw James back, lunging after him. Something dark and animal within him howled, Now! Kill him now! He must be careful. If he only wounded his enemy, James would have the right to stop the duel, and then he’d have to go through all this nonsense again.



“There is no need,” one of the seconds was shouting. “Gentlemen, throw down your swords. Honor is appeased!”



“Bugger honor!” Simon attacked, slashing and stabbing, his right shoulder sending needles of pain down his arm.



The blades clanged as the men stamped across the green. He could feel warmth trickling down his back and had no idea whether it was sweat or blood. James’s eyes widened. He was defending desperately, his face red and gleaming. His waistcoat was stained dark beneath the armpits. Simon feinted high.



And suddenly James turned, lunged, and slashed behind his legs. Simon felt the sting at the back of his knees. Horror streaked through him. If James succeeded in cutting the tendons at the back of his legs, he would be crippled, unable to stand and defend himself. But in lunging, James had exposed his chest. The other man drew back to slash at his legs again. Simon pivoted. Put the whole force of his arm behind the blow. And ran James through the chest. Simon felt the jar as his blade hit and grated against bone. His shoulder burned just above his armpit. He saw James’s eyes widen in understanding of his own mortality, heard the scream of one of the witnesses, and smelled the acid stink of urine as the dead man lost control of his bladder.



His enemy sank to the ground.



Simon bent for a second, gulping great lungfuls of air. Then he placed his foot on the corpse’s chest and pulled his sword out. James’s eyes were still open, staring at nothing now.



“Jesus.” Christian drew a hand across his white mouth.



Simon wiped the blade of his sword. His hands shook slightly and he frowned, trying to control them. “Could you close his eyes?”



“My God. My God. My God.” The short man was nearly jumping up and down in his agitation. Suddenly, he leaned over and vomited, splattering his shoes.



“Can you close his eyes?” Simon asked again. He didn’t know why it bothered him so. James no longer cared that he stared blindly.



The little man was still heaving, but Spectacles passed his hand over James’s eyes.



The physician walked over and stared down impassively. “He’s dead. You’ve killed him.”



“Yes, I know.” Simon shrugged on his coat.



“Christ,” Christian whispered.



Simon motioned to Henry and turned to walk back. They no longer needed the lantern. The sun had risen, evaporating the mist and heralding a new day that Quincy James would never see. Simon’s hands still shook.



“HE’S OUT? HOW CAN HE BE OUT at this hour?” Lucy stared at Newton.



The sky had just lost the pinkness of dawn. Street sweepers were trundling their carts home across the cobblestones. At the house next door, a maid slammed the door and began vigorously scrubbing her employer’s steps. Lucy had arrived at Simon’s town house for their early morning ride in the park. She should’ve waited for him at Rosalind’s home, as they’d originally planned. But last night over supper, Rosalind had announced that she would rise unfashionably early to accompany the new cook to the fish market this morning. Cook had served them slightly off fish two nights in a row, and Rosalind thought she needed pointers on selecting a fresh snapper. Lucy had leapt at the chance to ride along and see Simon a little early.



But now she stood on the front stoop like a poor petitioner before the king. The king, in this case, being Newton the butler. He was splendidly arrayed in silver and black livery and an exquisite wig, despite the hour. He stared back at her down a nose that would have done any ancient Roman proud.



“I couldn’t say, miss.” Two spots of red burned in the butler’s otherwise cadaverous cheeks.



Lucy looked at them suspiciously. Her own face began to heat. Surely Simon wasn’t with another woman? No, of course not. They were to be married in less than a week. But Lucy felt shaken nonetheless. She hardly knew Simon; maybe she had misunderstood. Perhaps when he said dawn it had been a fashionable figure of speech, really meaning ten o’clock. Or maybe she’d confused the day—



A big black carriage rattled up, interrupting her thoughts. Lucy turned to look. The carriage bore Simon’s crest. A footman jumped down and set the steps. Henry and Mr. Fletcher descended. Lucy frowned. Why . . . ? Simon stepped down. Behind her, Newton exclaimed. Simon was in his shirtsleeves, despite the cold. One sleeve was streaked with blood, and he held a soaked rag to the upper arm. Spatters of red arced delicately across his chest. In strange contrast to the gore, he wore an immaculate white wig.



Lucy gasped; her lungs wouldn’t fill with air. How badly was he hurt? She stumbled down the steps. “What has happened?”



Simon stopped and stared at her, white-faced. He looked as if he didn’t recognize her. “Merde.”



At least he could talk. “Newton, send for a doctor!”



Lucy didn’t bother to see if the butler followed her orders. She was afraid if she took her eyes from Simon, he might collapse. She reached him on the street and held out a hand, hesitant to actually touch him lest she harm him further.



“Where are you hurt? Tell me.” Her voice shook.



He took her hand. “I’m fine—”



“You’re bleeding!”



“There’s no need of a doctor—”



“He killed James,” Mr. Fletcher suddenly said.



“What?” Lucy looked at the younger man.



He seemed dazed, as if he’d seen a tragedy. What had happened?



“Not out in the street for all the pious listening neighbors to gossip about, please,” Simon said. His words dragged as if he were weary to his soul. “We’ll hash it out, if we must hash it out, in the sitting room.” The fingers clutching her wrist were sticky with blood. “Come inside.”



“Your arm—”



“Will be fine as soon as I dose it with brandy—by mouth, preferably.” He marched her up the steps.



Behind them, Mr. Fletcher called, “I’m going home. Had enough. Sorry.”



Simon paused on the top step and glanced back. “Ah, the golden resilience of youth.”



Mr. Fletcher swung around violently. “You killed him! Why did you have to kill him?”



Oh, God. Lucy stared, mute, at Simon’s young friend. She felt dread seep into her chest, paralyzing her.



“It was a duel, Christian.” Simon smiled, but his voice was still gritty. “Did you think I meant to dance a pretty gavotte?”



“Jesus! I don’t understand you. I don’t think I even know you.” Mr. Fletcher shook his head and walked away.



Lucy wondered if she should echo the sentiment. Simon had just admitted killing a man. She realized—horribly—that the bloodstains on his chest weren’t his own. Relief flooded her, and then guilt that she rejoiced at another’s death. Simon led her through the door into the great receiving hall. The ceiling, three stories overhead, was painted with classical gods lounging about the clouds, unperturbed by the upheaval below. He dragged her down the hallway and through double doors into a sitting room.



Behind them, Newton groaned. “Not the white settee, my lord.”



“To hell with the settee.” Simon pulled Lucy down beside him on the immaculate piece of furniture. “Where’s that brandy?”



Newton splashed brandy into a crystal glass and brought it over, muttering, “Blood. And it’ll never come out.”



Simon swallowed half the glass and grimaced, laying his head against the settee back. “I’ll have it re-covered, if that’ll make you feel better, Newton. Now get out of here.”



Henry entered the room, carrying a basin of water and linens.



“But, my lord, your arm—” the butler started.



“Get. Out.” Simon closed his eyes. “You, too, Henry. You can bandage, dose, and mother me later.”



Henry raised his eyebrows at Lucy. Silently, he laid the basin and bandages beside her and left. Simon still held her wrist. She reached across him with her free hand and carefully pulled back the ripped sleeve. Beneath, a narrow wound seeped blood.



“Leave it alone,” he murmured. “It’s only a shallow cut. It looks worse than it is, believe me. I won’t bleed to death, at least not right away.”



She pursed her lips. “I’m not your butler. Or your valet, for that matter.”



“No, you’re not.” He sighed. “I forgot.”



“Well, try to remember in the future that I hold an entirely different role in your—”



“Not that.”



“What?”



“I forgot we were to go riding this morning. Stupid of me. Is that why you’re here?”



“Yes. I’m sorry. I came early with Rosalind.”



“Rosalind? Where is she?” His words were slurred as if he were so fatigued he could hardly speak.



“At the fish market. Hush. It doesn’t matter.”



He didn’t listen. “I will never be able to forgive myself, but do you think you can?”



Silly. Her eyes pricked with tears. How could he deflect her anger with such silly words? “For what? Never mind. I forgive you for whatever it is.” She dipped a cloth in the water one-handed. “This would be easier if you let me go.”



“No.”



She wiped at the blood awkwardly. She really ought to cut the sleeve off altogether. She cleared her throat to steady her voice before she inquired, “Did you really kill a man?”



“Yes. In a duel.” His eyes were still closed.



“And he wounded you in return.” She squeezed out the cloth. “What did you duel over?” She made sure her tone was even, as if she were asking the time.



Silence.



She looked at the bandages. There was no way she’d be able to tend to him, shackled as she was. “I’m going to need both arms to bandage you.”



“No.”



Lucy sighed. “Simon, you’ll have to let me go eventually. And I really think your arm should be cleaned and wrapped.”



“Severe angel.” He finally opened his eyes, frost gray and intense. “Promise me. Promise me on your mother’s memory that you won’t leave me if I give you back your wings.”