“Your fichu?” Lucy glanced at the innocent bit of lace about Patricia’s neck.

“Yes. Mr. Penweeble had taken me for a drive and somehow”—Patricia’s eyes widened—“it came undone. Well, I couldn’t get it tucked back in properly. So I asked him.”

“Asked him what?”

“Why, to tuck it back in my bodice for me, naturally.”

“Patricia,” Lucy breathed.

“For some reason he felt compelled to propose to me after that.” Patricia smiled like a cat with a saucer of cream. “We’re to have an engagement party on Boxing Day. You’ll stay for that, won’t you?”

Lucy carefully set her teacup down. “I wish I could, dear. But I must get back to Simon. You’re right. I should spend Christmas with him.”

Now that she had made the decision, she felt an urge to be off at once. It was important somehow to return to Simon as soon as possible. Lucy stilled the impulse and folded her hands in her lap. Patricia was talking about her forthcoming marriage and she should listen. The drive to London took hours.

Surely a few minutes more would make no difference either way.

Chapter Nineteen

“What is going on?” his wife demanded before Sir Rupert had even crossed his own threshold.

He frowned, startled, as he handed the sleepy footman his hat and cloak. “What do you mean?” It couldn’t be much past five in the morning.

With Walker and James gone, his investments had become precarious. He’d spent the night, as he had the last several, working to ensure they wouldn’t topple. But what was Matilda doing up at this hour?

His wife’s eyes darted to the footman, trying hard not to appear as if he were listening. “May I speak to you in your study?”

“Of course.” He led the way to his sanctuary and immediately sank into the chair behind the desk. His leg ached terribly.

His wife closed the door softly behind her. “Where have you been? You’ve hardly spoken the last several days. You’ve secluded yourself in here. We don’t even see you at meals. That is what I am referring to.” She advanced toward him, back militarily erect, the green batiste of her gown shushing across the carpet. He noticed that the skin around her jawline had softened, sagging a bit, creating a plump pouch under her chin.

“I’m busy, my dear. Merely that.” He absently rubbed at his thigh.

She wasn’t fooled. “Don’t palm me off. I’m not one of your business cronies. I’m your wife. Lady Iddesleigh called on me two days ago.” She frowned as his curse interrupted her words, but continued. “She told me a fantastic story about you and the viscount. She said that he was intent on calling you out. Cut line and tell me the problem.”

Sir Rupert leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his rump. It was a good thing Matilda was a female; she would have been a frightening man. He hesitated, considering. He’d spent the time since Iddesleigh had threatened him in contemplation. Pondering how he could eliminate a viscount without being implicated. The problem was that the best way had already been used with Ethan Iddesleigh. That plan had been so simple, so elegant. Distribute rumors, force a man into calling a much better swordsman out . . . death had been inevitable, and it hadn’t been traced back to him personally. Other ways—hiring killers, for instance—were much more apt to be brought home to him. But if Iddesleigh persisted, the risk might have to be taken.

Matilda lowered herself into one of the armchairs before his desk. “Think on it all you want, but you must at least bestir yourself enough to go look for Christian.”

“Christian?” He looked up. “Why?”

“You haven’t seen him in the last two days, have you?” She sighed. “He’s been almost as dour as you, moping about the house, snapping at his sisters. And the other day he came home with his lip bloodied—”

“What?” Sir Rupert stood, fumbling for his cane.

“Yes.” His wife’s eyes widened in exasperation. “Hadn’t you noticed? He said he’d stumbled and fallen, but it was quite obvious he’d been in some type of fisticuffs. Not at all what I expect from our son.”

“Why wasn’t I told?”

“If you would bother to talk to me . . .” Matilda’s gaze sharpened. “What is it? What are you keeping from me?”

“Iddesleigh.” Sir Rupert took two steps to the door and stopped. “Where is Christian now?”

“I don’t know. He never came home last night. That is why I’ve waited up for you.” Matilda had stood, clasping her hands before her. “Rupert, what—?”

He swung on her. “Iddesleigh did indeed mean to call me out.”

“Call out—”

“Christian knew. God, Matilda.” He thrust his hands into his hair. “He might’ve challenged Iddesleigh to prevent him dueling me.”

His wife stared at him. The blood slowly left her face, leaving it pasty and crumpled, showing every one of her years. “You must find him.” Her lips hardly moved. “You must find him and stop him. Lord Iddesleigh will kill him.”

He stared for a moment, frozen by the horrible truth.

“Dear husband.” Matilda held out her hands like a supplicant. “I know you have done things. That there are dark actions in your past. I’ve never questioned you before, never wanted to know just what you did. But, Rupert, don’t let our boy die for your sins.”

Her words were a spur, galvanizing him into action. He limped to the door, his cane knocking loudly against the marble in the hall. Behind him, his wife had begun to sob, but he heard her nonetheless. “Don’t let Christian die for you.”

A CAT—OR MAYBE A RAT—RAN ACROSS the path of his horse as Simon rode up the street. Not yet dawn, the blackest part of the night, this was the dominion of Hecate, goddess of crossroads and barking dogs. It was that strange place in between night and day when the living felt not quite safe. The only sound in the deserted street was the muffled clop of his gelding’s hoofs. The corner drabs had already taken to their sad beds, the street mongers were not yet up. He could’ve been riding through a necropolis. A frozen necropolis, snowflakes weeping silently from the sky.

He’d ridden more than half the night away, meandering from the white town houses of Grosvenor Square to the stews of Whitechapel. Strangely, he’d not been accosted, prime pickings though he most obviously was—an aristocrat stinking of drink and not aware of his surroundings. A pity that. He could’ve used the distraction of a nasty robbery, and it might’ve solved all his troubles. But instead, here he was alive just before dawn with a duel to fight.

De Raaf’s town house was up ahead. Somewhere. Or at least he thought so. He was so exhausted, weary unto death. Sleep no longer comforted him, no longer brought him a measure of peace. He hadn’t slept since Lucy had left him two days before. Perhaps he’d never sleep again. Or sleep forever, after this dawn. Simon smirked at his own small wit. The horse turned in to a mews, and he straightened a bit in the saddle, looking for the back of de Raaf’s town house. As he neared, a shape separated itself from the black shadows by a gate.

“Iddesleigh,” de Raaf murmured, his low voice startling the gelding.

Simon gentled the horse. “De Raaf. Where’s your mount?”

“’Round here.” The big man opened the gate and ducked inside.

Simon waited, noticing for the first time the bite of the winter’s wind. He glanced up. The moon was down, but it would’ve been covered with clouds had it still hung in the sky. The coming day would be bleak. Just as well.

De Raaf returned, leading his ugly bay. A soft bag was strapped to the back of the beast behind the saddle. “You’re not wearing a wig. You look naked without one.”

“No?” Simon ran his hand over his short hair before he remembered. The wig had fallen off in a lane during the night, and he’d not bothered to retrieve it. No doubt it now decorated the head of some urchin. He shrugged. “No matter.”

De Raaf eyed him in the dark before mounting his horse. “I can’t think your new bride will approve of you trying to get your gut perforated on Christmas morn of all days. Does she know what you intend to do?”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “How does your own lady feel about you attending a duel on Christmas?”

The big man winced. “No doubt Anna would hate it. I hope to be home before she wakes and finds me gone.”

“Ah.” Simon turned his horse’s head.

De Raaf nudged his horse into a walk beside him. They rode abreast back to the lane.

“You didn’t answer my question.” The big man broke the silence, his breath steaming in the light from a window they passed.

“Lucy’s feelings are moot.” Something inside Simon tore at the thought of his angel. He flexed his jaw before admitting, “She’s left me.”

“What did you do?”

Simon scowled. “How do you know it was my fault?”

De Raaf simply lifted one eyebrow.

“She disapproves of dueling,” Simon said. “No, that’s not right. She disapproves of killing. Of murder.”

The other man snorted. “Can’t see why.”

It was Simon’s turn to give a speaking look.

“Then why are you dueling, man?” de Raaf barked impatiently. “Christ, it isn’t worth losing your wife over.”

“He threatened her.” The memory still made his hands clench. Friend or no, Christian had threatened to rape Lucy. He could not be allowed to get away with that offense.

De Raaf grunted. “Then let me handle Fletcher. You won’t even have to get involved.”

Simon glanced at him sideways. “Thank you, but Lucy is my wife.”

The big man sighed. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Simon squeezed the gelding into a trot, forestalling any further conversation.

They wound their way through more dingy streets. The wind whistled its remorse around corners. A cart passed, rumbling on the cobblestones. Simon finally saw movement on the sidewalk. Silent shapes, still infrequent, that slunk or scurried or loped. The denizens of the day had begun their rounds, careful in the dark that still concealed the dangers of night. Simon looked at the sky again. It had barely lightened to a nasty gray-brown. The snow lay in a thin, white layer on the street, covering filth and foul odors, giving it the illusion of purity. Soon the horses would stir it into muddy slush and the illusion would be gone.

“Damn, it’s cold,” de Raaf huffed from behind.

Simon didn’t bother replying. They entered the path into the green. Here, the landscape was quiet. No human had disturbed the pristine snow yet.

“Are his seconds here?” De Raaf broke the quiet.

“They must be.”

“You don’t have to do this. Whatever—”

“Stop.” Simon glanced at the other man. “Be still, Edward. It’s past the time for that.”

De Raaf grunted, frowning.

Simon hesitated. “If I’m killed, you’ll look after Lucy, won’t you?”

“Christ—” De Raaf bit off whatever he was going to say and glared. “’Course.”

“Thank you. She’s with her father in Kent. You’ll find her direction and a letter on my desk. I’d appreciate it if you could deliver the letter to her.”

“What the hell is she doing in Kent?”

“Repairing her life, I hope.” Simon’s mouth quirked sadly. Lucy. Would she mourn for him? Would she wear the dingy weeds of a widow and weep sweet salt tears? Or would she forget him soon and find consolation in the arms of the country vicar? He found to his surprise that he could still feel jealousy.