Lucy, my Lucy.
Two lanterns flickered against dim figures ahead. They were actors in an inevitable drama. The boy, who until a few days ago he’d regarded as a friend, the men who would watch him kill or be killed, the doctor who would pronounce a man dead.
Simon checked his sword, then nudged his horse into a trot. “We’re here.”
“MY LADY.” NEWTON’S FACE RELAXED almost into a smile before he recovered and bowed, the tassel of his nightcap flopping over his eyes. “You’ve returned.”
“Naturally.” Lucy pulled back her hood and stepped over the threshold into her town house. Good Lord, did all the servants know her—their—business? Silly question. Of course they did. And, judging from Newton’s hastily covered surprise, they hadn’t expected her to come back to Simon. Lucy leveled her shoulders. Well. Best put that notion out of their heads. “Is he here?”
“No, my lady. His lordship left not half an hour ago.”
Lucy nodded, trying not to show her disappointment. She had come so close to seeing him before he did this thing. She would’ve liked to wish him luck at least. “I’ll wait for him in the study.”
She laid the blue leather-bound book she carried on the hall table next to a rather battered brown paper package and gave it a small pat.
“My lady.” Newton bowed. “May I wish you merry Christmas?”
“Oh, thank you.” She’d set out late from Kent, despite Papa’s protests, and made the last leg of the journey through the dark of night, thankful for the hired footmen clutching the back of the carriage. In all the whirl, she’d almost forgotten what day it was. “A merry Christmas to you as well, Mr. Newton.”
Newton bowed again and glided away in his Turkish slippers. Lucy picked up a candelabra from the hall table and entered Simon’s study. As she crossed to a chair before the fireplace, the candle flames lit two small prints in the corner that she hadn’t noticed before. Curious, she wandered over to inspect them.
The first was a botanist’s rendition of a rose, full-blown and pink, its petals spread shamelessly wide. Underneath the rose was its dissection, showing the various parts, all properly labeled, as if to bring decorum to the sprawl of the flower above.
The second print was medieval, probably one of a series that would have illustrated the Bible. It depicted the story of Cain and Abel. Lucy held the candelabra up to study the horrible little etching. Cain’s eyes were wide, his muscles bulging bestially as he struggled with his brother. Abel’s face was calm, unalarmed as his brother killed him.
She shivered and turned away. It was horrible to have to wait for him like this. She’d never known before what he was doing. But now . . . She’d vowed to herself that she would not argue with him, even if she hated what he was about to do, even if he killed a friend, even if she was in terror for his very life. When he returned, she would welcome him as a loving wife should. She would get him a glass of wine, she would rub his shoulders, and she would make it clear that she was staying with him forever. Whether he dueled or not.
Lucy shook herself. Best not to think of the duel at all. She set her candelabra on the desk and went to one of the elegant rosewood bookcases to look at the titles. Perhaps she could distract herself with reading. She scanned the spines: horticulture, agriculture, roses, and more roses, with a single treatise, probably valuable, on fencing. She selected a large volume on roses and placed it on the edge of the desk. She was about to open it, perhaps learn enough to be able to discuss the flower with her husband, when she glanced at the blotting paper before the desk chair. There was a letter on it. Lucy angled her head.
Her name was scrawled across the top.
She stared for a moment, her neck still crooked; then Lucy straightened and walked around the desk. She hesitated a second longer before snatching up the letter, ripping it open and reading:
My Dearest Angel,
Had I known what despair I would bring you, I swear I would’ve done my damnedest not to be left half dead almost at your doorstep that afternoon, so long ago now. But then I wouldn’t have met you—and already I am forsworn. For even knowing the pain I’ve brought you, I do not regret loving you, my angel. I am a selfish, uncaring cad, but there it is. I cannot unmake myself. Meeting you was the most wondrous thing that has ever happened to me. You are the closest I will ever come to heaven, either here on Earth or in the afterlife, and I will not regret it, not even at the cost of your tears.
So I go to my grave an unrepentant sinner, I’m afraid. There is no use in mourning one such as I, dearest. I hope you can resume your life in Maiden Hill, perhaps marry that handsome vicar. De Raaf has my business papers and will look after you as long as you need him.
—Your Husband, Simon
Lucy’s hands were shaking so badly the paper cast wild shadows against the wall, and it took her a moment to see the postscript at the bottom:
P.S. Actually, there is one thing I regret. I would’ve very much liked to have made love to you one more time. Or three. —S
She laughed, horribly, through the tears blurring her vision. How like Simon to make salacious jokes even while writing a farewell love letter. For that was what the note was: a good-bye in case he died. Had he written letters like this before all of his duels? There was no way of telling; he would’ve destroyed them on his return.
Oh, God, she wished she’d never entered the room.
Lucy dropped the letter back on the desk and hurried out the door, snatching up the candelabra on her way out. Somehow reading Simon’s words as if he were already dead made the waiting far worse. It was just another duel, she tried to reassure herself. How many had he fought now? Three? Five? She’d lost count and he must have, too. He’d won each before. He’d returned to her bloodied but alive. Alive. Any argument, any problem they had, could be resolved if he just returned to her alive. Lucy looked up and found that her feet had taken her to Simon’s conservatory. She placed her palm against the wooden door, so solid and comforting, and pushed. Perhaps if she strolled the greenhouse with its rows of pots—
The door swung open and she froze. Broken glass glittered everywhere.
Simon’s conservatory had been destroyed.
“IF YOU DON’T MIND, MY LORD?” one of Christian’s seconds asked. The man was narrow-chested with large, bony hands springing strangely from the delicate wrists of a girl. He blinked nervously in the lantern light and almost shied when Simon turned to him.
Oh, grand. The end of his life would be presided over by a boy hardly old enough to shave. “Yes, yes,” Simon muttered impatiently. He tore open the neck of his shirt, popping a button off. It landed in the fluff of snow at his feet and sank, creating a short tunnel. He didn’t bother retrieving it.
The second peered at his chest, presumably to confirm that he wasn’t wearing chain mail under his shirt.
“Let’s get on with it.” Simon swung his arms, trying to keep warm. There was no point in donning his waistcoat and coat again. He’d be sweating soon enough, even in shirtsleeves.
Twenty feet away, he could see de Raaf. The big man grunted and gave Christian back his sword. The younger man nodded and walked toward Simon. Simon studied him. Christian’s face was white and set, his ginger hair like a dark flame. The boy was tall and handsome. No lines marred his cheeks. Only months ago at Angelo’s academy, Christian had walked toward him as he did now. Simon’s regular sparring partner had reneged, and Angelo had sent him Christian to practice against instead. On that occasion, the young man’s face had betrayed nervousness, curiosity, and a little awe. Now his face was expressionless. He’d learned well in just a few months.
“Ready?” Christian’s voice was without inflection.
The thin-wristed second approached to give Simon back his sword. “Ought we to wait until it’s brighter? The sun isn’t even up.”
“No.” Simon took his sword and pointed with the tip. “Put the lanterns to either side of us.”
He watched as de Raaf and the other seconds followed his directions.
Simon flexed his knees and raised his left hand behind his head. He caught de Raaf’s eye. “Remember Lucy.”
De Raaf nodded grimly.
Simon turned to face his opponent. “Ready.”
“Allez!”
Christian sprang like a fox—healthy, young, and feral. Simon brought his sword up just in time, swearing under his breath. He parried the blow and retreated, his rear foot sliding in the crust of snow. He stabbed under the other man’s guard, almost catching him in the side, but Christian was too fast. Steel rang as his sword was deflected. Simon’s breath rasped loudly in his own ears. The air bit his lungs with cold on each inhale. He grunted and parried another attack. Strong and swift, Christian moved like an athlete of old. Simon grinned.
“You find this amusing?” the younger man panted.
“No.” Simon coughed as the cold air seemed to drive too deeply into his lungs and fell back again under a flurry of slashes. “I merely admire your form.” His wrist ached and the muscle on his upper arm was beginning to burn, but it was important to make a good show.
Christian looked at him suspiciously.
“Really. You’ve improved enormously.” Simon smiled and darted at an opening.
Christian leaned back. The tip of Simon’s sword grazed his left cheek, leaving a scarlet line behind. Simon’s smile widened. He hadn’t thought he would make contact.
“Blood!” Christian’s second called.
De Raaf didn’t even bother. Both duelists ignored the shout.
“Bastard,” the younger man said.
Simon shrugged. “Something to remember me by.”
Christian struck at his flank.
Simon pivoted, his feet slipping again in the icy snow. “Would you have hurt Lucy?”
Christian sidestepped, his arm still moving easily despite the blood painting half his face. “Would you have killed my father?”
“Maybe.”
The younger man ignored his answer and feinted, drawing Simon’s blade down. Fire slashed across his brow.
“Damn!” Simon jerked his head back. The blood was already running into his right eye, blinding it. He blinked, his eye stinging. He heard de Raaf swearing in a low, steady monotone.
“Something to remember me by.” Christian repeated his words without smiling.
“I won’t have long.”
Christian stared, then lunged forward violently. Simon blocked the blow. For a second they were locked together, Christian bearing down, Simon holding him off with the strength of his shoulder. Then, slowly—incredibly—Simon’s arm gave. The sword point slid, screeching, toward him. De Raaf shouted hoarsely. The sword point stabbed into Simon, high on his right chest. He gasped and felt the steel scrape against his collarbone, felt the jar as the point hit his shoulder blade and stopped. He brought his own sword up between their sweating, surging bodies and saw Christian’s eyes widen as he understood the peril. The younger man jumped back, the hilt of his sword slipping out of his grasping hand. Simon cursed as the buried sword tip pulled like a damned viper, but remained steadfastly planted in his flesh.
It wasn’t time yet.
Simon ignored the agony in his shoulder and slashed at Christian, keeping the man away from the bobbing hilt. Sweet heaven, he must look like a puppet with a stick jutting from his shoulder. What an ignoble way to die. His opponent stared at him, out of reach but unarmed. The sword in his chest sagged, dragging on his muscle. Simon tried to reach the hilt. He could just grasp it but hadn’t the leverage to pull it from his own body. Blood soaked his shirt, growing colder with each passing minute. Christian’s second was standing shocked in the bloody, churned snow. Christian himself seemed nonplussed. Simon understood the other man’s dilemma. To win the duel, Christian must pull his sword from Simon’s shoulder. But in order to reach his sword, he must first face Simon’s sword unarmed. And yet what could Simon do with the damn thing sticking out in front of him? He couldn’t pull it out, and he couldn’t really fight with it weaving and bobbing before him.
