The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)

The Serpent Prince (Princes #3) Page 19

Lucy gaped at her.

Patricia sat back on the settee and raised her brows as if they were discussing bonnet styles. “Well?”

“You truly frighten me sometimes.”

“Really?” Patricia looked pleased.

“Really.” Lucy reached for another sweet.

The other woman slapped her hand away. “You won’t fit in your wedding dress if you keep gobbling those.”

“Oh, Patricia.” Lucy sank into the pretty cushions. “I’m not going to be married, to Eustace or anyone else. I’m going to become an eccentric spinster and look after all the children you and Mr. Benning will have in his wonderful manor with the three downstairs maids.”

“And two up.”

“And two up,” she agreed. She might as well start wearing a spinster’s mobcap at once.

“It’s that viscount, isn’t it?” Patricia took one of the forbidden Turkish delights and nibbled absently. “I knew he was trouble the moment I saw him eyeing you like Puss does the birds at the window. He’s a predator.”

“A snake,” Lucy said softly, remembering how Simon would smile with just his eyes over his glass at her.

“What?”

“Or a serpent, if you prefer.”

“Whatever are you gibbering about?”

“Lord Iddesleigh.” Lucy took another candy. She wasn’t getting married anyway, so it didn’t matter if she couldn’t fit into any of her dresses. “He reminded me of a great silver snake. Sort of shiny and rather dangerous. I think it’s his eyes. Even Papa saw it, although he took it in a less flattering way. For Lord Iddesleigh, that is.” She nodded and ate the sticky confection.

Patricia eyed her. “Interesting. Undoubtedly bizarre, but still interesting.”

“I think so, too.” Lucy cocked her head. “And you needn’t tell me he’s not coming back, because I already had that discussion with Eustace.”

“You didn’t.” Patricia closed her eyes.

“I’m afraid so. Eustace brought him up.”

“Why didn’t you change the subject?”

“Because Eustace deserved to know.” Lucy sighed. “He deserves someone who can love him, and I just can’t.”

She felt slightly queasy. Maybe that last piece of candy hadn’t been a good idea. Or maybe the realization that she would spend the remaining years of her life never seeing Simon again had finally caught up with her.

“Well.” Patricia set her teacup down and brushed an invisible crumb from her skirt. “Eustace may deserve love, but so do you, my dear. So do you.”

SIMON STOOD ON THE STEPS to hell and scanned the crowd of revelers.

The Devil’s Playground was London’s newest fashionable gaming palace, which was open only for a fortnight. The chandeliers glittered, the paint on the Doric columns was barely dry, and the marble floor still held its polish. In another year, the chandeliers would be blackened with smoke and dust, the columns would show the smears of a thousand greasy shoulders, and the floor would be dull with accumulated grit. But tonight, tonight, the girls were gay and beautiful, and the gentlemen surging around the tables had nearly identical expressions of excitement. Every now and again a whoop of triumph or an overloud, near maniacal laugh rose above the general rumble of dozens of voices speaking at once. The air was a thick miasma of sweat, burning candle wax, spoiled perfume, and the odor men secrete when they’re on the verge of either winning a fortune or putting a pistol to their head before the night is over.

It had just gone eleven o’clock, and somewhere in this mass of humanity hid his prey. Simon sauntered down the steps into the main room. A passing footman offered a tray of watered-down wine. The libations were free. The more a man drank, the more apt he was to gamble and to stay gambling once started. Simon shook his head, and the footman turned away.

In the far right-hand corner, a golden-haired gentleman leaned over the table, his back to the room. Simon craned to look, but yellow silk obscured his view. A soft, feminine form bumped against his elbow.

“Pardon moi.” The demimondaine’s French accent was quite good. It almost sounded real.

He glanced down.

She had plump rosy cheeks, dewy skin, and blue eyes that promised things she shouldn’t have any knowledge of. She wore a green feather in her hair and smiled artfully. “I shall fetch some champagne in apology, yes?” She couldn’t be more than sixteen, and she looked like she belonged on a farm in Yorkshire, milking the cows.

“No, thank you,” he muttered.

Her expression revealed her disappointment, but then she’d been trained to show what men wanted. He moved away before she could reply and glanced back at the corner. The golden-haired man was no longer there.

He felt weary.

This was irony: only just past eleven o’clock and he wished he was in his bed, asleep and alone. When had he become an old man with a shoulder that ached if he stayed up too late? Ten years ago he would’ve barely begun the night. He would’ve taken the little harlot up on her offer and not even noticed her age. He would’ve gambled half his allowance away and not flinched. Of course, ten years ago he’d been twenty, finally set up in his own establishment, and a hell of a lot closer in age to the harlot than he was now. Ten years ago he hadn’t the sense to be afraid. Ten years ago he hadn’t felt fear or loneliness. Ten years ago he’d been immortal.

A gilt head to the left. It turned and he saw a wizened old face wearing a wig. Simon pushed through the crowd slowly, making his way to the back room. That was where the truly reckless gamblers congregated.

De Raaf and Pye seemed to think he had no fear, that he still thought and acted like that stripling lad ten years ago. But it was just the opposite, really. The fear was more intense with each duel, the knowledge that he could—probably would—die more real. And in a way, the fear drove him forward. What kind of a man would he be if he gave in to it and let his brother’s murderers live? No, every time he felt fear’s icy fingers trailing up his spine, every time he heard her siren call to just give up, let it be, he strengthened his resolve.

There.

Golden Hair ducked through black-velvet-lined doors. The man wore purple satin. Simon set his course, sure of the scent now.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Christian said from beside him.

He whipped around, his heart nearly stuttering out of his chest. Ghastly to be caught so flat-footed. The younger man could have slipped a stiletto between his ribs and he would never have known before he died. Another problem of age—the reflexes slowed. “How?”

“What?” The other man blinked red-tipped eyelashes.

Simon took a breath to control his voice. There was no point in taking out his temper on Christian. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“Oh. Well, I called ’round your place, asked Henry, and voila.” Christian spread his arms like a jester performing a trick.

“I see.” Simon knew he sounded irritated. It was becoming a habit with Christian to show up unexpectedly, rather like a case of the clap. He took a deep breath. Actually, now that he thought about it, he realized it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have the younger man as company. Made one feel less alone at least. And it was rather soothing to be idolized.

“Did you notice that gel?” Christian asked. “The one with the green feather?”

“She’s too young.”

“Maybe for you.”

Simon glared. “Are you coming with me or not?”

“’Course, ’course, old man.” Christian smiled weakly, probably rethinking the advisability of tracking down Simon in the first place.

“Don’t call me that.” Simon started for the black velvet doors.

“Sorry,” Christian muttered behind him. “Where’re we going?”

“Hunting.”

They’d reached the doors now, and Simon slowed to adjust his eyes to the dim room. There were only three tables here. Each table had four players seated at it. No one looked around at the newcomers. Golden Hair sat at the farthest table with his back to the door.

Simon halted and took a breath. It felt like his lungs couldn’t expand enough in his chest to let in the air. Clammy sweat broke out on his back and under his arms. He suddenly thought of Lucy, her white breasts and her serious amber eyes. What a fool he’d been to leave her.

“I should’ve at least kissed her,” he muttered.

Christian’s ears were good. “The green feather girl? Thought she was too young.”

“Not her. Never mind.” Simon watched Golden Hair. He couldn’t tell from this angle—

“Who’re you looking for?” Christian at least had the sense to whisper the question.

“Quincy James,” Simon murmured, and strolled forward.

“Why?”

“To call him out.”

He could feel Christian’s stare. “What for? What’d he do to you?”

“Don’t you know?” Simon turned his head to meet his companion’s clear gaze.

The hazel eyes looked honestly puzzled. Simon sometimes wondered nonetheless. Christian had met him at a crucial point in Simon’s life. The younger man had made himself quite friendly in a short period of time, and he didn’t seem to have anything better to do than to tail Simon about. But perhaps Simon was being overly fearful, seeing enemies in every shadowy corner.

They reached the far table, and Simon stood behind the golden-haired man. Fear was embracing him now, sucking at his mouth with her frosty lips, rubbing her cold breasts against his chest. If he survived tomorrow’s dawn, he was going back for Lucy. What use to play the gallant knight if one died at sunrise without ever tasting the maiden’s lips? He now knew he couldn’t do this alone anymore. He needed her on some basic level to reaffirm and maintain his humanity even as he summoned up the most bestial part of himself. He needed Lucy to keep him sane.

Simon pasted a smile on his face and tapped the man on the shoulder. Beside him, Christian drew in his breath sharply.

The man looked around. Simon stared for a second, stupidly, before his brain registered what his eyes had already told him. Then he turned away.

The man was a stranger.

LUCY TILTED HER HEAD TO THE SIDE and considered the cartoon she’d begun to draw in her sketchbook. His nose was just a bit off. “Don’t move.” She didn’t need to look up to sense that Hedge, her subject, was trying to sneak away again.

Hedge hated sitting for her. “Awww. I gots things to do, Miss Lucy.”

“Such as?” There, that was better. Hedge really had the most extraordinary nose.

They were in the little back sitting room. The light was best here during the afternoon, shining in unobstructed through the tall mullioned windows. Hedge perched on a stool in front of the fireplace. He was attired in his usual rumpled coat and breeches with the addition of an oddly spotted purple neckcloth. Lucy couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten it. Papa would have died before wearing such a thing.

“I gotta feed and groom old Kate,” the manservant groaned.

“Papa did that this morning.”

“Well, then, I should muck out her stall.”

Lucy shook her head. “Mrs. Brodie paid one of the Jones boys to clean Katie’s stall only yesterday. She got tired of waiting for you to do it.”

“Ain’t that cheek!” Hedge looked as indignant as if he hadn’t neglected the horse for days. “She knew I was plannin’ to do it today.”

“Hmm.” Lucy shaded in his hair carefully. “That’s what you’ve said the last week. Mrs. Brodie says she could smell the stable from the back door.”

“That’s only ’cause she’s got such a great hooter.”