The leaf he’d snipped fell to the white-painted table, and he picked it up and threw it in a bucket. Sometimes a dead leaf carried parasites and, if forgotten by the horticulturist, would infect the healthy plants as well. He made it a habit to clean up as he went. Even the smallest of leftovers might later prove the doom of an entire table of plants.
He moved to the next rose, a Centifolia muscosa—common moss rose—its leaves glossy green with health, its perfume almost cloyingly sweet. The petals in her flowers spilled over themselves, lush and billowy, shamelessly revealing the green sepals at their center. If roses were women, the moss rose would be a tart.
Sir Rupert was a leftover. Or perhaps the last of a series of labors. Whichever way one looked at it, he had to be dealt with. Clipped and cleaned up. Simon owed it to Ethan to finish the job. And to Lucy, to make sure she was safe from his past and his enemies. But Sir Rupert was also a cripple; there was no getting away from that fact. Simon hesitated, studying the next rose, a York and Lancaster, which bore both pink and white flowers on the same plant. He balked at dueling a man with such uneven odds. It would be a killing, pure and simple. The older man wouldn’t have a chance, and Lucy didn’t want him dueling. She would probably leave him, his stern angel, if she found out he was even contemplating issuing another challenge. He didn’t want to lose her. Couldn’t imagine never waking again with her. His fingers shook at even the thought.
Four dead, wasn’t that enough? Is it enough, Ethan?
He turned over a healthy-looking leaf on the York and Lancaster and found a swarm of aphids, busily sucking the life from the plant.
The door to the conservatory crashed open.
“Sir, you’re not allowed—” Newton’s voice, outraged and fearful, admonished the intruder.
Simon turned to confront whoever disturbed his peace.
Christian charged down the aisle, his face pale and set.
Newton dithered. “Mr. Fletcher, please—”
“That’s all right—” Simon started.
Christian punched him in the jaw.
He staggered back, falling against the table, his vision blurred. What?
Pots crashed to the floor, the shards skittering in the walkway. He straightened and brought his fists up to defend himself as his eyes cleared, but the other man was simply standing there, his chest heaving.
“What the bloody hell,” Simon began.
“Duel me,” Christian spat.
“What?” Simon blinked. Belatedly his jaw began to throb with pain. He noticed that the moss rose was in pieces on the floor, two of the main stems broken. Christian’s boot crushed a bloom underfoot, the perfume rising from the dead rose like a eulogy.
Newton hurried out of the room.
“Duel me.” Christian raised his right fist in threat. “Do I have to hit you again?” His expression was without humor, his eyes wide and dry.
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Simon felt along his jaw. He couldn’t talk if it was broken, could he? “Why would I want to duel you?”
“You don’t. You want to duel my father. But he’s old and his leg is bad. He can hardly walk. Even you might feel a twinge of guilt at running through a cripple.”
“Your father killed my brother.” Simon let his hand fall.
“So you have to duel him.” Christian nodded. “I know. I’ve seen you kill two men now, remember? I’ve watched you enact your sense of family—of honor, though you refuse to use that word—over the last few weeks. Do you really expect any less from me? Duel me as my father’s surrogate.”
Simon sighed. “I don’t—”
Christian hit him in the face again.
Simon fell on his arse. “Shit! Stop that.” He must look a complete idiot, sitting in mud in his own greenhouse. Pain bloomed across his cheekbone. Now the entire left side of his face felt on fire.
“I’ll keep doing it,” the younger man said from above him, “until you agree. I’ve seen you badger two men into dueling. I’ve learned well.”
“For God’s—”
“Your mother was a dockside whore, your father a bastard!” Christian shouted, red-faced.
“Christ.” Was the boy mad? “My fight is with your father, not you.”
“I’ll seduce your wife—”
Lucy! a primitive part of his brain screamed. He shook it away. The boy was playing his own game. “I don’t want to duel you.”
“And if she won’t submit, I’ll kidnap and rape her. I’ll—”
No. Simon surged to his feet, backing Christian against a bench. “Stay away from her.”
The younger man flinched but kept talking. “I’ll parade her naked through the streets of London.”
Dimly, Simon saw Newton coming down the aisle, Lucy’s ghost-white face behind him. “Shut up.”
“I’ll brand her a slut. I’ll—”
Simon backhanded him, throwing him against another table. “Shut your mouth!”
The table quaked under Christian’s weight. More pots exploded on the floor. Simon flexed his hand. His knuckles stung.
The younger man shook his head. “I’ll sell her for tuppence a pop to any man who’ll have her.”
“Shut your bloody mouth, goddamn it!”
“Simon.” Lucy’s voice, quavering.
“Shut it for me,” Christian whispered, his teeth red with blood. “Duel me.”
Simon took a slow breath, fighting down his demons. “No.”
“You love her, don’t you? Would do anything for her.” Christian leaned close enough that blood-flecked spittle struck him in the face. “Well, I love my father. There is no other way for us.”
God. “Christian—”
“Duel me or I’ll make sure you’ll have to.” The boy looked him straight in the eye.
Simon stared at him. Then his gaze traveled over the other man’s head to Lucy’s face. Straight, severe brows, mahogany hair pulled back in a simple knot, lips compressed in a line. Her beautiful topaz eyes were wide, pleading. Absently he noted that she still wore her cloak from an outing. Newton must’ve just caught her as she returned home.
Impossible to chance her safety.
“Very well. The morning after tomorrow. That will give you and me enough time to find seconds.” His eyes flicked back to Fletcher. “Now get out.”
Christian turned and left.
TOO LATE. LUCY STOOD IN THE GREENHOUSE and watched her world crumble around her, despite all the efforts she’d gone to this afternoon. She’d arrived home from her mission too late.