Her husband’s face had turned to graven stone. His eyes had lost any color they once might’ve had. They were as cold now as the midnight frost that kills sparrows in their sleep. Mr. Fletcher brushed past her, but Lucy couldn’t tear her gaze from Simon’s expression. She hadn’t heard their conversation, but she’d seen him hit the younger man and seen the blood on Simon’s cheek.
“What happened? What have you done to Mr. Fletcher?” She didn’t mean the words to sound so accusatory.
Behind her she heard the door close. They were alone in the conservatory. Newton had left as well.
“I don’t have time to talk.” Simon rubbed his hands together as if washing away imaginary dirt. They trembled. “I need to find seconds.”
“I don’t care. You must talk to me.” She felt almost dizzy from the perfume of the roses smashed on the floor. “I went to meet Lady Fletcher. She and I—”
He looked up, his expression unchanged, and cut her off. “I’m to duel Christian Fletcher in two days.”
“No.” Not again. She couldn’t take another fight, another man dead, another portion of Simon’s soul burned away. Oh, God, no more.
“I’m sorry.” He made to walk past her.
She grabbed his arm and felt it flex beneath her hand. She had to stop him. “Simon, don’t do this. Lady Fletcher has agreed to talk to her husband. She thinks he will see reason, that there might be another way—”
He cut her off, his head bowed, his eyes not meeting hers. “It’s Christian I’m dueling, Lucy, no longer his father.”
“But the hope remains the same,” she insisted. She’d made the effort, come up with a plan, gained Lady Fletcher’s trust. It’d all seemed so close, so possible half an hour before. Why didn’t he understand? “You can’t do this.”
“But I shall.” His eyes were still averted.
“No.” They—their marriage—wouldn’t survive this. Couldn’t he see? “I’ll talk again with Lady Fletcher. We’ll find another way to settle—”
“There is no other way.” He raised his head finally and she saw anger and despair in his eyes. “This is not your business. Talking to Lady Fletcher will solve nothing.”
“We must at least try.”
“Enough, Lucy!”
“You can’t just kill people!” She flung his arm away, her mouth twisting bitterly. “It’s not right. Don’t you know that? It’s immoral. Simon, it’s evil. Don’t let evil destroy your heart, your soul. I beg you, don’t do this!”
His jaw clenched. “You don’t understand—”
“Of course I don’t understand!” Her chest was constricted. She couldn’t catch her breath. The heavy, humid air seemed too thick to inhale. She leaned forward and said fiercely, “I went to church as a little girl. I know that’s considered provincial to a sophisticated man like yourself, but I did. And the church says—the Bible says—that it is a sin to take the life of another.” She had to stop to gasp, tasting the scent of roses on her tongue. “And I believe that. It’s a mortal sin, to murder a fellow human being, even if you try to hide it by dueling. It’s murder, Simon. In the end, it’s murder, and it will consume you.”
“Then I’m a sinner and a murderer,” he said quietly. He walked past her.
“He’s your friend,” she called desperately.
“Yes.” He stopped at that, his back toward her. “Christian is my friend, but he’s also Fletcher’s son. The son of Ethan’s murderer. He challenged me, Lucy, not the other way around.”
“Listen to yourself.” She fought against tears. “You’re planning to kill a friend. A man you’ve eaten with, talked with, laughed with. He admires you, Simon. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I know he admires me.” He finally swung around, and she saw a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “He’s spent the last month following me around; he apes my clothes and my mannerisms. How could I miss that he admires me?”
“Then—”
He shook his head. “It does not matter.”
“Simon—”
“What would you have me do?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Refuse to duel?”
“Yes!” She held out her palms, pleading. “Yes. Walk away. You’ve already killed four men. Nobody will think the less of you.”
“I will.”
“Why?” Desperation made her voice quaver. “You’ve avenged Ethan already. Please. Let’s go to Maiden Hill or to your country estate or anywhere else. It doesn’t matter, just as long as we leave.”
“I can’t.”
Angry, hopeless tears blurred her vision. “For God’s sake, Simon—”
“He threatened you.” He stared into her eyes, and she saw tears and awful determination in his gaze. “Christian threatened you.”
She swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “I don’t care.”
“I do.” He stepped close and grabbed her upper arms. “If you think I’m the sort of man to walk away from a threat to my wife—”
“He only said it to make you fight.”
“Even so.”
“I will follow you.” She choked and her voice quavered. “I’ll follow you to the dueling place, and I’ll run between you if I have to. I’ll find a way to stop you when you duel. I can’t let you do this, Simon, I—”
“Hush. No,” he said gently. “We won’t duel at the last place. You’ll have no knowledge of the meeting spot. You can’t stop me, Lucy.”
She sobbed. He pulled her against his chest, and she felt his heartbeat, so strong under her cheek. “Please, Simon.”
“I need to finish this.” His lips were on her forehead, murmuring against her skin.
“Please, Simon,” she repeated like a prayer. She closed her eyes, felt the tears burn her face. “Please.” She clutched his coat, smelled wool and his scent—the scent of her husband. She wanted to say something to persuade him, but she didn’t have the words. “I’ll lose you. We’ll lose each other.”
“I can’t change who I am, Lucy,” she heard him whisper. “Even for you.”
He let her go and walked away.
“I NEED YOU,” SIMON SAID TO EDWARD DE RAAF an hour later in the Agrarians’ coffeehouse. He was surprised at how rusty his voice sounded, as if he’d been imbibing vinegar. Or sorrow. Don’t think of Lucy. He had to concentrate on what needed to be done.