“What?” Christian burst out. Snowflakes had melted on his eyelashes like tears.
But Simon was already shaking his head. “Not enough.”
His father ignored Christian, intent on persuading Simon. “Our country estates—”
“What about Mother and my sisters?” Christian’s thin-wristed friend approached and tried to tend his wound, but Christian waved him away impatiently.
Sir Rupert shrugged. “What about them?”
“They haven’t done any wrong,” his son said. “Mother adores London. And what of Julia, Sarah, and Becca? Will you beggar them? Make it impossible that they ever marry well?”
“Yes!” Sir Rupert shouted. “They are women. What other avenue would you have me consider?”
“You would sacrifice their futures—their very happiness—to prevent me dueling Simon?” Christian stared incredulously.
“You are my heir.” Sir Rupert held out a shaking hand to his son. “You are the most important. I cannot chance your death.”
“I don’t understand you.” Christian pivoted away from his father, then gasped and wavered. His second hurried to him and offered his support.
“It doesn’t matter,” Simon interrupted. “You cannot pay for my brother’s death. His life has no price.”
“Damn you!” Sir Rupert drew a sword from his cane. “Will you duel a crippled man, then?”
“No!” Christian pulled away from his second.
Simon raised his hand, stopping the younger man’s surge forward. “No, I will not duel you. I find that I have lost my taste for blood.”
Long lost it, if the truth were known. He had never liked what he’d had to do, but now he knew: He could not kill Christian. He thought of Lucy’s fine, topaz eyes, so serious, so right, and almost smiled. He could not kill Christian because it would disappoint Lucy. So small a reason, but a crucial one nevertheless.
Sir Rupert lowered his sword, a smirk forming on his lips. He thought he’d won.
“Instead,” Simon continued, “you will leave England.”
“What?” The smile died from the older man’s face.
Simon raised an eyebrow. “You prefer a duel?”
Sir Rupert opened his mouth, but it was his son who replied. “No, he doesn’t.”
Simon looked at his former friend. Christian’s face was as white as the snow falling around them, but he stood straight and tall. Simon nodded. “You will accept banishment from England for your family?”
“Yes.”
“What?” Sir Rupert blustered.
Christian turned savagely on his father. “He has offered you—us—an honorable way out, without bloodshed or loss of fortune.”
“But where would we go?”
“America.” The young man turned to Simon. “That meets with your approval?”
“Yes.”
“Christian!”
Christian kept his eyes on Simon, ignoring his father. “I will see it done. You have my word.”
“Very well,” Simon said.
For a moment, the two men stared at each other. Simon watched an emotion—regret?—chase across the other’s eyes. He noticed for the first time that Christian’s eyes were almost the same shade as Lucy’s. Lucy. She was still gone from his life. That made two souls he had lost in as many days.
Then Christian straightened. “Here.” He held out his open palm. On it lay the Iddesleigh signet ring.
Simon took it from him and screwed the ring on his right index finger. “Thank you.”
Christian nodded. He hesitated for a moment, looking at Simon as if he wanted to say more, before he limped away.
Sir Rupert frowned, white lines etching themselves between his brows. “You’ll accept my banishment in return for Christian’s life?”
“Yes.” Simon nodded curtly, his lips thinning as he wavered on his feet. A few seconds more, that was all he needed. “You have thirty days.”
“Thirty days! But—”
“Take it or leave it. If you or any member of your family is still in England after thirty days, I will challenge your son again.” Simon didn’t wait for a reply; the other’s defeat was already etched in his face. He turned away and walked toward his horse.
“We need to get you to a physician,” de Raaf rumbled sotto voce.
“So he can bleed me?” Simon almost laughed. “No. A bandaging will suffice. My valet can do it.”
The other man grunted. “Can you ride?”
“’Course.” He said it carelessly, but Simon was relieved when he actually pulled himself atop his horse. De Raaf shot him an exasperated glance, but Simon ignored it, turning toward home. Or what had once been home. Without Lucy there, the town house became merely a building. A place to store his neckcloths and shoes, nothing more.
“Do you want me to accompany you?” de Raaf asked.
Simon grimaced. He held his horse to a gentle walk, but the movement still jarred his shoulder. “It would be nice to have someone here, should I fall ignominiously from my mount.”
“And land on your arse.” De Raaf snorted. “Naturally, I’ll ride you to your town house. But I meant when you go after your lady.”
Simon turned painfully in the saddle to stare at him.
De Raaf raised an eyebrow. “You are going to bring her back, aren’t you? She’s your wife, after all.”
Simon cleared his throat while he pondered. Lucy was very, very mad at him. She might not forgive him.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” de Raaf burst out. “Don’t tell me you’re just going to let her go?”
“Didn’t say that,” Simon protested.
“Mope about in that great house of yours—”
“I don’t mope.”
“Play with your flowers while you let your wife get away from you.”
“I don’t—”
“She is too good for you, granted,” de Raaf mused. “But still. Principle of the thing. Ought to at least try to bring her back.”
“All right, all right!” Simon nearly shouted, causing a passing fishmonger to look at him sharply and cross to the other side of the street.
“Good,” de Raaf said. “And do pull yourself together. Don’t know when I’ve seen you looking worse. Probably need a bath.”
Simon would have protested that as well, except he did indeed need a bath. He was still thinking of a suitable reply when they arrived at his town house. De Raaf dismounted his gelding and helped Simon swing down from his horse. Simon bit back a groan. His right hand felt leaden.