“It is when you’re risking your life with each duel,” Pye answered for them both.
Simon stared hard.
Neither man blinked.
Damn them. He looked away. “They killed Ethan.”
“John Peller killed your brother.” De Raaf tapped a big finger on the table in emphasis. “And he’s already dead. You ran him through more than two years ago. Why start again now?”
“Peller was part of a conspiracy.” Simon looked away. “A bloody conspiracy from hell. I only found out several months ago, whilst going through some of Ethan’s papers.”
De Raaf sat back and folded his arms.
“I discovered that fact right before I challenged Hartwell.” Simon fingered his index finger. “There were four of them in the conspiracy. Two are left now, and they’re all culpable. What would you do if it were your brother?”
“Probably the same as you’re doing.”
“There you are.”
De Raaf grimaced. “The chances you’ll be killed increase with every duel you fight.”
“I’ve won both duels so far.” Simon looked away. “What makes you think I can’t win the next?”
“Even the best swordsman can slip or be distracted for a moment.” De Raaf looked irritable. “One moment, that’s all it takes. Those are your words.”
Simon shrugged.
Pye leaned forward, his voice lowering. “At least let us go with you, be your seconds.”
“No. I already have someone else in mind.”
“That lad you’ve been partnering with at Angelo’s?” de Raaf cut in.
Simon nodded. “Christian Fletcher.”
Pye’s gaze sharpened. “How well do you know him? Can you trust him?”
“Christian?” Simon laughed. “Young, I concede, but quite good with a blade. Almost as good as I, in fact. He’s beaten me in practice once or twice.”
“But would he guard your back in a crisis?” De Raaf shook his head. “Would he even know to look for tricks?”
“It won’t come to that.”
“Dammit—”
“Besides”—Simon looked from one to the other—“the both of you are in a state of connubial bliss. Think you that I would want to present either of your wives with a dead husband before your first anniversary?”
“Simon—” de Raaf began.
“No. Leave it at that.”
“Goddamn you.” The big man stood, his chair nearly toppling over. “You had better not be dead the next time I see you.” He banged his way out of the coffeehouse.
Simon frowned.
Pye silently emptied his cup. “Since you’ve reminded me of my lady, I’d best be leaving as well.” He rose. “If you have need of me, Lord Iddesleigh, you have only to send word.”
Simon nodded. “The kindness of friendship is all I ask.”
Pye touched him on the shoulder and then he, too, was gone.
Simon looked at his coffee. It was cold, with a ring of greasy scum floating on the surface, but he didn’t order a new cup. At eleven tonight he would track down another of his brother’s murderers and challenge him to a duel. Until then, he had nothing in particular to do. No one waited for his return. No one grew anxious as the time wore on. No one would mourn if he did not turn up.
Simon swallowed some of the filthy coffee and grimaced. Nothing was as pathetic as a man who lied to himself. It wasn’t that no one would mourn his death—Pye and de Raaf had just now indicated that they would do just that—but that no woman would mourn. No, he still lied. Lucy. Lucy wouldn’t mourn. He mouthed her name and tapped his fingers against the mug. When had he forfeited a normal life, one that included a wife and family? Was it after Ethan had died and he’d suddenly had the title and all the cares it represented thrust on him? Or later, when he’d killed the first one? John Peller. Simon shuddered. His dreams were still haunted by Peller’s fingers, falling disconnected to the dewy grass like gruesome flowers newly bloomed.
God.
And he could live with that, could live with the macabre nightmares. After all, the man had killed his only brother. He’d had to die. The dreams had even begun to abate. Until he’d found out there were more men to kill.
Simon raised the mug to his lips before remembering it was empty. Even after dueling Hartwell, it was Peller and his fingers he still dreamed about at night. Strange. It must be some quirk of the mind. Not a normal quirk, to be sure, because his mind was no longer normal. Some men might be able to kill without changing, but he wasn’t among their number. And that thought brought him around once again. He’d been right to leave Lucy behind. To decide not to cleave unto a wife, no matter the temptation to let go and live like an ordinary man. He couldn’t anymore.
He’d lost that choice when he’d set his course of revenge.
“I DON’T THINK THIS IDDESLEIGH gentleman can be a good acquaintance for you, Christian, viscount or no viscount.” Matilda looked pointedly at their only son as she passed him the bread.
Sir Rupert grimaced. His wife’s red hair had mellowed over the years of their marriage, lightening with the addition of gray, but her temper had not. Matilda had been the only daughter of a baronet, an old family now impoverished. Before he’d met her, Sir Rupert had thought all aristocratic women were little more than wilting lilies. Not she. He’d found a will of iron underneath Matilda’s delicate exterior.
He raised his glass and watched to see how this dinner table confrontation would play out. Matilda was usually a very lenient mother, letting her children choose their own friends and interests. But she had recently gotten a bee in her bonnet about Iddesleigh and Christian.
“Why, Mater, what do you have against him?” Christian grinned charmingly at his mother, his hair the same shade of Titian red that hers had been twenty years before.
“He’s a rake, and not a nice one either.” Matilda looked over the half-moon spectacles she wore only at home with family. “It’s said he killed two men in separate duels.”
Christian dropped the bread basket.
Poor lad. Sir Rupert mentally shook his head. He wasn’t yet used to prevarication. Fortunately, he was saved by his elder sister.
“I think Lord Iddesleigh a perfectly delicious man,” Rebecca said, defiance in her dark blue eyes. “The rumors only add to his appeal.”
He sighed. Becca, their second child and the beauty of the family with her classical features, had been at loggerheads with his wife since her fourteenth birthday a decade ago. He’d hoped she would’ve grown out of her spitefulness by now.