“Then—”

He shook his head. “It does not matter.”

“Simon—”

“What would you have me do?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Refuse to duel?”

“Yes!” She held out her palms, pleading. “Yes. Walk away. You’ve already killed four men. Nobody will think the less of you.”

“I will.”

“Why?” Desperation made her voice quaver. “You’ve avenged Ethan already. Please. Let’s go to Maiden Hill or to your country estate or anywhere else. It doesn’t matter, just as long as we leave.”

“I can’t.”

Angry, hopeless tears blurred her vision. “For God’s sake, Simon—”

“He threatened you.” He stared into her eyes, and she saw tears and awful determination in his gaze. “Christian threatened you.”

She swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “I don’t care.”

“I do.” He stepped close and grabbed her upper arms. “If you think I’m the sort of man to walk away from a threat to my wife—”

“He only said it to make you fight.”

“Even so.”

“I will follow you.” She choked and her voice quavered. “I’ll follow you to the dueling place, and I’ll run between you if I have to. I’ll find a way to stop you when you duel. I can’t let you do this, Simon, I—”

“Hush. No,” he said gently. “We won’t duel at the last place. You’ll have no knowledge of the meeting spot. You can’t stop me, Lucy.”

She sobbed. He pulled her against his chest, and she felt his heartbeat, so strong under her cheek. “Please, Simon.”

“I need to finish this.” His lips were on her forehead, murmuring against her skin.

“Please, Simon,” she repeated like a prayer. She closed her eyes, felt the tears burn her face. “Please.” She clutched his coat, smelled wool and his scent—the scent of her husband. She wanted to say something to persuade him, but she didn’t have the words. “I’ll lose you. We’ll lose each other.”

“I can’t change who I am, Lucy,” she heard him whisper. “Even for you.”

He let her go and walked away.

“I NEED YOU,” SIMON SAID TO EDWARD DE RAAF an hour later in the Agrarians’ coffeehouse. He was surprised at how rusty his voice sounded, as if he’d been imbibing vinegar. Or sorrow. Don’t think of Lucy. He had to concentrate on what needed to be done.

De Raaf must’ve been surprised, too. Or maybe it was the words. He hesitated, then waved at the empty chair next to him. “Sit down. Have some coffee.”

Simon felt bile rise in his throat. “I don’t want any coffee.”

The other man ignored him. He gestured to a boy who, strangely, looked up and nodded. De Raaf turned back to him and frowned. “I said sit down.”

Simon sat.

The coffeehouse was nearly empty. Too late for the morning crowd, too early for the afternoon drinkers. The only other patron was an elderly man by the door in a dusty, full-bottom wig. He was mumbling to himself as he nursed a cup. The boy slammed down two mugs, snatched de Raaf’s first, and whirled away before they could even thank him.

Simon stared at the steam drifting from the cup. He felt oddly cold, although the room was warm. “I don’t want any coffee.”

“Drink it,” de Raaf growled. “Do you good. You look as if someone’s kicked you in the bollocks, then told you your favorite rose died while you were still on the ground writhing.”

Simon winced at the image. “Christian Fletcher has challenged me to a duel.”

“Humph. You’re probably shaking in your red-heeled shoes.” De Raaf’s eyes narrowed. “What have you done to the boy?”

“Nothing. His father was in the conspiracy to kill Ethan.”

De Raaf raised his black eyebrows. “And he helped?”

“No.”

De Raaf looked at him.

Simon’s lips twisted as he fingered his mug. “He fights for his father.”

“You would kill an innocent man?” de Raaf asked mildly.

Christian was innocent of his father’s crime. Simon took a sip of coffee and swore as it burned his tongue. “He’s threatened Lucy.”

“Ah.”

“Will you second me?”

“Hmm.” The other man set his own mug down and leaned back in his chair, making it squeak with his weight. “I knew this day would come.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “When you could get a lad to bring you coffee?”

De Raaf pretended not to hear. “When you would come crawling to me for help—”

Simon snorted. “I’m hardly crawling.”

“Desperate. Your wig unpowdered and full of nits—”

“My wig is not—”

De Raaf raised his voice to talk over him. “Unable to find any other to help you.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Pleading, begging, Oh, Edward, help me, do.”

“Jesus,” Simon muttered.

“This is indeed a wonderful day.” The other man lifted his cup again.

Simon’s mouth curved in a reluctant smile. He took a careful sip of his coffee. Hot acid.

De Raaf grinned at him, waiting.

Simon sighed. “Are you going to second me?”

“’Course. Be happy to.”

“I can see that. The duel isn’t until the morning after tomorrow. You have a full day, but you should get started. You’ll need to go ’round Fletcher’s house. Find out who his seconds are and—”

“I know.”

“Get a reputable physician, one who doesn’t let blood at the drop of a hat—”

“I am aware of how to second a duel,” de Raaf interrupted with dignity.

“Good.” Simon drained the coffee cup. The black liquid burned all the way down. “Try to remember your sword, will you?”

De Raaf looked insulted.

He stood.

“Simon.”

He turned back around and raised his brows.

De Raaf looked at him, all trace of humor gone from his face. “If you need me for anything else?”

Simon looked at the big, scarred man for a moment and felt his throat swell. He swallowed before replying. “Thanks.”

He strode from the coffeehouse before he started blubbering. The old man in the full-bottomed wig was snoring, facedown on the table, when he passed him. The bright afternoon sun hit Simon as he walked out. Despite the sunlight, the air was so cold his cheeks burned. He swung up on his gelding and guided him into the busy street. I must tell Lucy—

Simon cut the thought short. He didn’t want to think about Lucy, didn’t want to remember the fear and hurt and rage on her face when he’d left her in the greenhouse, but it was near impossible. Thinking of Lucy was ingrained in his bones now. He turned down a street lined with various small shops. She hated that he was dueling. Perhaps if he had something to give her tonight. He’d never given her a wedding present . . .

Half an hour later, he exited a shop with a rectangular paper-wrapped parcel in his hand and a larger, bulkier one under his arm. The larger parcel was for his niece. He’d noticed a toy shop on the street and remembered he ought to have something for Pocket on Christmas. His mouth twitched as he thought of what his sister-in-law would think of his present for her daughter. He remounted the horse, carefully juggling the parcels. No doubt Lucy would still be angry, but at least she would know that he was sincerely sorry that he’d caused her distress. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to think about the next days. If he survived the duel, it would finally be over. He’d be able to sleep in peace.

He could love Lucy in peace.

Maybe he would agree to her idea of travel. They could go to Maiden Hill for their first Christmas together and visit with the captain. He had no need to see the old coot again so soon, but Lucy might be missing her father by now. After the New Year they could tour Kent, then journey north to his lands in Northumberland, assuming the weather wasn’t too bad. He hadn’t been to the manor there in ages. It probably needed refurbishing, and Lucy could help him with that.

He looked up. His town house was ahead. For a moment he was disoriented. Had he ridden this far and not even noticed? Then he saw the carriage. His carriage. Footmen carried trunks down the front steps. Others were heaving them onto the back of the carriage, swearing from the weight. The coachman already sat on the box. Lucy appeared at the front door, mantled and hooded like a religious penitent.

He dismounted the horse ungracefully, hurriedly, panic welling in his chest. The rectangular package fell to the cobblestones and he left it.

She was descending the stairs.

“Lucy.” He caught her by the shoulders. “Lucy.”

Her face was cold and white beneath the hood. “Let me go, Simon.”

“What are you doing?” he hissed, knowing he looked a fool. Knowing the servants, Newton, passing strangers, and the neighbors watched. He didn’t give a damn.

“I’m going to Papa.”

A ridiculous spurt of hope. “Wait and I’ll—”

“I’m leaving.” Her cold lips barely moved as she mouthed the words.

Horror fisted around his vitals. “No.”

For the first time she met his eyes. Hers were red-rimmed but dry. “I have to leave, Simon.”

“No.” He was a little boy denied a sweet. He felt like falling down and screaming.

“Let me go.”

“I can’t let you go.” He half laughed here in the too-bright, cold London sun before his own house. “I’ll die if I do.”

She closed her eyes. “No, you won’t. I can’t stay and watch you tear yourself apart.”

“Lucy.”

“Let me go, Simon. Please.” She opened her eyes, and he saw infinite pain in her gaze.

Had he done this to his angel? Oh, God. He unclasped his hands.

She brushed past him and walked down the steps, the wind playing with the hem of her mantle. He watched her climb into the carriage. The footman shut the door. Then the coachman slapped the reins, the horses stepped out, and the carriage pulled away. Lucy didn’t look back. Simon watched until the carriage was lost in the bustle of the street. And still he stared.

“My lord?” Newton spoke beside him, probably not for the first time.

“What?”

“It’s cold, my lord.”

So it was.

“Perhaps you’d like to go in,” his butler said.

Simon flexed his hand, surprised that his fingertips were numb. He looked around. Someone had taken away his horse, but the rectangular package still lay on the cobblestones.

“Best come inside, my lord.”

“Yes.” Simon started down the steps.

“This way, my lord,” Newton called as if Simon were a senile old man in danger of toddling into traffic.

Simon ignored him and picked up the package. The paper was torn at the corner. Perhaps he could have it rewrapped, this time in pretty paper. Lucy would like pretty paper. Except Lucy wouldn’t ever see it. She’d left him.

“My lord,” Newton still called.

“Yes, all right.” Simon went inside, the package in his hand.

What else was there to do?

Chapter Eighteen

“Who’s there?” Papa called from the doorway, his nightcap pulled down almost to his ears. He wore an old coat over his nightshirt and buckle shoes on his feet, wiry ankles poking out. “It’s past nine o’clock. Decent folk are all in their beds by now, y’know.”

He held a lantern high to throw light into the gravel drive before the Craddock-Hayes house. Behind him, Mrs. Brodie in mobcap and shawl peered over his shoulder.