The Serpent Prince

“Then you admit you conspired to kill my brother.” Simon deliberately broke off the leaf he’d been caressing.



“Tcha.” The older man made an irritated sound. “You reduce it to the simplicity of a babe knocking over play blocks, when it was nothing of the sort.”



“No?”



“No, of course not. We stood to lose a fortune—all the investors, not just I.”



“Money.” Simon’s lips twisted.



“Yes, money!” The older man thumped his stick. “You sound like my son, sneering over money like it dirties your hands. Why do you think we all, your brother included, went into the venture in the first place? We needed the money.”



“You killed my brother because of your own greed,” Simon hissed, unable to contain all of his rage.



“We killed your brother for our families.” Sir Rupert blinked, breathing heavily, perhaps surprised by his own candor. “For my family. I’m not a monster, Lord Iddesleigh. Don’t make that mistake. I care for my family. I would do anything for my family, including, yes, removing an aristocrat who would’ve let my family go to the poorhouse so he could stand on his noble principles.”



“You make it seem like the investment was sure to make money all along, yet it was a gamble from the start. It was hardly Ethan’s fault the price of tea fell.”



“No,” Sir Rupert agreed. “Not his fault. But it would’ve been his fault had he kept us from reaping the insurance money.”



“You killed him to commit a fraud.”



“I killed him to preserve my family.”



“I don’t care.” Simon lifted his lip in a sneer. “I don’t care what excuses you’ve made, what reasons you have in your own mind, what sorrows you seek to win my pity with. You killed Ethan. You’ve admitted the murder yourself.”



“You don’t care?” The older man’s voice was soft in the still, oppressive air. “You, who have spent a year avenging your own family?”



Simon’s eyes narrowed. A bead of sweat ran down his back.



“I think you do understand,” Sir Rupert said. “Do care, in fact, for my reasons.”



“It doesn’t matter.” Simon fingered another leaf. “You tried to have my wife killed. For that alone I will see you dead.”



Sir Rupert smiled. “There you are wrong. The attempt on your wife’s life was not my fault. That was the work of Lord Walker, and you’ve already killed him, haven’t you?”



Simon stared at the other man, tempting him with this hope of redemption. How easy it would be to just let it go. He’d killed four men already. This one said he wasn’t a threat to Lucy. He could walk away, go home to Lucy, and never have to duel again. So easy. “I cannot let my brother’s death go unavenged.”



“Unavenged? You’ve avenged your brother to the tune of four souls. Isn’t that enough?”



“Not while you still live.” Simon tore the leaf.



Sir Rupert flinched. “And what will you do? Make war on a crippled man?” He held up his crutch like a shield.



“If need be. I’ll have a life for a life, Fletcher, cripple or no.” Simon turned and walked to the door.



“You won’t do it, Iddesleigh,” the old man called behind him. “You’re too honorable.”



Simon smiled. “Don’t count on it. You’re the one who pointed out how very similar we are.” He closed the door and walked out of the house, the scent of hothouse citrus following him.



“YOU NEED TO HOLD STILL, THEODORA DEAR, if you want Aunt Lucy to draw your portrait,” Rosalind chided that afternoon.



Pocket, in the act of swinging her leg, froze and darted an anxious glance at Lucy.



Lucy smiled. “Almost done.”



The three of them sat in the large drawing room at the front of Simon’s town house—her town house as well, now that they were wed. She must start thinking of it that way. But truthfully, Lucy still considered the house and servants Simon’s. Perhaps if she stayed—



She sighed. What nonsense. Of course she would stay. She was married to Simon; the time for doubts had long since passed. No matter what he did, she was his wife. And if he didn’t duel anymore, there was no reason why they couldn’t grow ever closer. Just this morning, Simon had made urgent love to her, had even told her he loved her. What more could a woman ask from her husband? She should’ve felt safe and warm. Why, then, did she still have this feeling of impending loss? Why hadn’t she said she loved him as well? Three simple words that he must’ve been expecting, yet she’d been unable to form them.



Lucy shook her head and concentrated on the sketch. Simon had insisted this room be remade for her, despite her protests. Though she had to admit now that it really was lovely. With Rosalind’s help, she’d chosen the colors of a ripe peach: delicate yellows, sunny pinks, and rich reds. The result was lively and soothing at the same time. And in addition, the room had the best light in the house. That alone would’ve made it Lucy’s favorite. She looked at her subject matter. Pocket was dressed in turquoise silk that provided a beautiful contrast for her flaxen locks, but she sat stiffly hunched as if frozen in mid-wiggle.



Lucy hastily made a few more strokes with her pencil. “Done.”



“Huzzah!” Pocket exploded off the chair she’d been posed on. “Let me see.”



Lucy turned her sketchbook.



The little girl tilted her head first one way and then another, then scrunched her nose. “Is that what my chin looks like?”



Lucy examined her sketch. “Yes.”



“Theodora.”



Brought up short by her mother’s warning tone, Pocket bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Aunt Lucy.”



“You’re most welcome,” Lucy replied. “Would you like to see if Cook is finished with her mincemeat pies yet? They’re for Christmas dinner, but she might have one for you to sample.”



“Yes, please.” Pocket paused only long enough to seek her mother’s approving nod before darting out of the room.



Lucy began to put away her pencils.



“It’s very kind of you to indulge her so,” Rosalind said.



“Not at all. I enjoy it.” Lucy glanced up. “You and Pocket will be coming to dine with us on Christmas morning, won’t you? I’m sorry my invitation is so late. I forgot Christmas is only a few days away until Cook started baking pies.”



Rosalind smiled. “That’s quite all right. You are newly married, after all. We will be delighted to join you.”



“Good.” Lucy watched her hands placing the pencils in a jar. “I’m wondering if I can ask you something personal. Very personal.”



There was a pause.



Then Rosalind sighed. “Ethan’s death?”



Lucy looked up. “Yes. How did you know?”



“It consumes Simon.” Rosalind shrugged. “Sooner or later I expected you to ask about it.”



“Do you know he’s been fighting duels over Ethan’s death?” Her hands were trembling. “He’s killed two men that I’m aware of.”



Rosalind gazed out the window. “I’d heard rumors. The gentlemen never like to tell us of their affairs, do they? Even when it involves us. I’m not surprised.”



“Didn’t you ever think to stop him?” Lucy grimaced at her own lack of tact. “Forgive me.”



“No, it’s a natural question. You’re aware that he’s dueling partly for my honor?”



Lucy nodded.



“I tried after Ethan’s death when I first heard the gossip about duels to talk to him about it. Simon laughed and changed the subject. But the thing is”—Rosalind leaned forward—“it really isn’t about me. It’s not even about Ethan, God rest his soul.”



Lucy stared. “What do you mean?”



“Oh, how can I explain?” Rosalind got up to pace. “When Ethan was killed, it cut off any way for the brothers to come to terms with each other. For Simon to understand and forgive Ethan.”



“Forgive him? For what?”



“I’m expressing myself badly.” Rosalind stopped and frowned.



Outside, a cart rumbled by and someone shouted. Lucy waited. She knew somehow that Rosalind held the key to Simon’s single-minded quest for revenge.



“You must comprehend,” her sister-in-law said slowly. “Ethan was always the good brother. The one everyone liked, the perfect English gentleman. Simon almost by default took the only other role. That of the wastrel, the ne’er-do-well.”



“I’ve never thought him a wastrel,” Lucy said softly.



“He isn’t, really.” Rosalind looked at her. “I think some of it was merely youth, some of it reaction to his brother and how their parents saw the both of them.”



“How did their parents see them?”



“When the brothers were very young, their parents seemed to decide that one was good and the other bad. The viscountess was especially rigid in her thinking.”



How awful to be branded the bad brother at so young an age. “But”—Lucy shook her head—“I still don’t understand how that affects Simon now.”



Rosalind closed her eyes. “When Ethan let himself be murdered, Simon was forced to assume both roles. Both the good and the bad brother.”



Lucy raised her eyebrows. Was what Rosalind said possible?



“Just listen.” Rosalind held out her hands. “I think Simon felt guilty that Ethan had died defending Simon’s name in a way. Remember the rumors were that Simon was my lover.”



“Yes,” Lucy said slowly.



“Simon had to avenge him. Yet, at the same time, he must feel terrible anger at Ethan for dying in such a way, for leaving me and Theodora to his care, for being the good brother and martyring himself.” She stared down at her open palms. “I know I do.”



Lucy looked away. This was a revelation. Everything she’d heard about Ethan pointed to how good he’d been. It had never occurred to her that Rosalind might feel anger toward her late husband. And if she did . . .



“It took me many months to let Ethan go,” Rosalind said quietly, almost to herself. “To forgive him for dueling a man he knew was the better swordsman. It’s only been recently that . . .”



Lucy looked up. “What?”



Her sister-in-law blushed. “I . . . I have been driving with a gentleman.”



“Forgive me, but Simon said your reputation was—”



“Ruined.” Rosalind’s complexion was quite rosy now. “Yes, in the ton it was. My gentleman is a solicitor at the law house that helped settle Ethan’s estate. I hope you don’t think the less of me?”



“No. No, of course not.” Lucy caught Rosalind’s hand. “I’m happy for you.”



The fair woman smiled. “Thank you.”



“I only wish,” Lucy whispered, “that Simon could find such peace.”



“He’s found you. At one time I wasn’t sure he would ever let himself marry.”



“Yes, but I can’t talk to him. He doesn’t listen, won’t admit what he’s doing is murder. I . . .” Lucy looked blindly away, her eyes full of tears. “I don’t know what to do.”



She felt Rosalind’s hand on her shoulder. “Maybe there isn’t anything you can do. Perhaps this is something only he can defeat.”



“And if he doesn’t?” Lucy began, but Pocket charged back into the room at that moment, and she had to turn away to hide her eyes from the little girl.



The question hung there, unanswered.



If Simon couldn’t defeat his demons, if he didn’t stop killing other men, he would destroy himself. Maybe Rosalind was right; maybe there truly wasn’t anything she could do to stop his deadly path. But she had to at least try.