A Lily Among Thorns

Chapter 9


Serena noticed that Solomon’s steps were getting slower and slower as they turned onto Savile Row. They were going at a crawl by the time Solomon stopped under a green-and-white striped awning. Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring was emblazoned on the shop window in gold and black lettering. Underneath, in smaller letters, it read Since 1786. Everything the Well-Dressed Gentleman Requires. We Match Any Colour. A set each of fashionable morning, evening, and riding dress was prominently displayed, as well as a selection of waistcoats, ranging from brilliantly colored, heavily embroidered brocade to subtly tinted and unadorned piqué. Solomon was looking anywhere but at her now. “You needn’t come in if you don’t wish to.”

Oh. Somehow she hadn’t expected that. “I’ll try not to be too vulgar in front of your relations.”

His eyes flashed, and his mouth compressed into a thin, tight line. He slapped the flat of his hand against the door and pushed it open. A bell tinkled. Solomon bowed with a flourish. “After you,” he said, adding something under his breath that sounded like, Deserves what she gets.

Perhaps the tipsy cake had been a mistake. She felt decidedly sticky. “Is there any custard on my face?” she asked in as dignified a way as possible, but it was hard to sound dignified asking something like that.

He gave her a wicked smile and nodded.

Serena narrowed her eyes. “Where, might I ask?”

Solomon brushed his thumb over the side of her mouth. “There,” he said in his husky voice.

At once every nerve she had was tingling. The tears she knew were just below the surface threatened again. She hadn’t cried in years, and now it seemed that it was all she felt like doing.

She pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule and looked at it for a moment. Then, knowing there was no help for it, she spit into the handkerchief and rubbed at her mouth. “Is it gone?”

His hazel eyes were almost blue with amusement. He nodded, and she swept ahead of him through the door.

The shop was very clean and very neat. Bolts of cloth stacked on shelves completely obscured the wall to their left. To the right was a table covered in copies of Ackermann’s Repository, colored plates of French fashions, and diagrams on the proper method of tying a cravat. That was all, except for a door to the right of the counter that must lead to the fitting rooms. The walls were beautifully whitewashed, and the wooden floor shone. A boy in his late teens sprawled behind the counter, nose buried in a Minerva Press novel. His fair hair was flattened over his forehead and teased up farther back in an eager attempt at sophistication that only made him look impossibly youthful.

“Hullo, Arthur,” Solomon said. “Is Uncle about?”

“He’s in the back.”

Serena was momentarily disconcerted by his voice. It was distinctly London, where Solomon’s was Cambridge with a hint of Shropshire.

Arthur gave her the once-over and whistled appreciatively. “And you must be Lady Serena.”

She inclined her head. Solomon shot his cousin a warning glance. “Sorry. Lady Serena, may I present my cousin Arthur?”

Arthur sketched a bow from his chair. “Enchanté,” he said with a refreshing lack of concern for proper French pronunciation. “You’re much more beautiful than I was expecting, seeing as you’ve been taking liberties with our Sol.”

And yes, she had just been making a silent vow to be civil if it killed her, but she couldn’t be expected to let that slide. “That’s funny, because you’re much less mouthwatering than I was expecting, seeing as you’re Solomon’s cousin.”

Solomon flushed, and it was her turn for his warning glance, but Arthur laughed good-naturedly. “Perhaps I’ll just let you go and speak to Father.”

Solomon offered her his arm. They went through several unoccupied fitting rooms before emerging in the true back of the shop: a low-ceilinged room furnished with two long tables, at which half a dozen men sat and sewed by the light from several enormous windows. At the near end of the right-hand table, a heavyset man in his mid-forties was cutting out a coat. His blond hair was darker than Solomon’s and liberally streaked with gray, but his abstracted frown was very familiar. Serena assumed that his half-glasses were truly necessary. When he looked up, his eyes were brown, not hazel.

“Ah, Solomon,” Mr. Hathaway said in a tone not calculated to reassure. “Just the man I’ve been wanting to see.”

Solomon gulped. “Lady Serena, may I present my uncle, Mr. John Hathaway?”

Mr. Hathaway bowed very politely. “A privilege, my lady.”

“The same, I’m sure.”

He ushered them into a cramped office with only one tiny, high window. “Sol, I’ve had six ladies in since this morning wanting to buy our cloth. I thought I’d need a pair of shears to cut Lady Blakeney loose! You ought to realize that the margin of profit on a length of dyed cloth is much lower than on a finished garment. I was happy to contribute toward a new gown for Lady Serena since she is being so helpful to us, and the hangings for the Ravenshaw Arms are a large enough order to be profitable, but we aren’t a wholesaler, you know.”

Solomon looked hurt, but he stood his ground. “I was meaning to talk to you about that, Uncle. I hate to see a profitable market go to waste. Have you considered going into partnership with Mrs. Cook?”

A deep flush suffused the tailor’s cheeks. Apparently Solomon had got that trait from his father’s side of the family. “Mrs. Cook? Why should you ask? Simply because she comes to dinner occasionally and—and has been so good as to take Clara on as her assistant—”

Serena glanced at Solomon. He was trying to hide a smile. “Of course, Uncle. But surely you’ve noticed that she orders her material through Hyams. Mrs. Cook has a good eye for color and design, but she will never rise to the top of her profession so long as her draper uses such inferior dyes. I worry that Clara’s formative years should be spent in anything less than a truly modish establishment.”

Mr. Hathaway cleared his throat nervously. “Well, when you put it like that—and Mrs. Cook is a woman with a good head on her shoulders.”

“Mrs. Cook is a fine woman,” Solomon agreed gently. “And Arthur and Clara and Jack are very fond of her.” He met his uncle’s sharp eyes guilelessly. “It was just an idea.”

“Mm, well, I’ll think on it.”

“Thank you, Uncle. But my real reason for coming by was to bring you this.” Solomon dipped a hand in his pocket and came up with two hanks of brilliantly colored embroidery thread and a set of pale cream handkerchiefs. Each item had a scrap of like-colored cloth tied round it.

For the first time, Mr. Hathaway broke into a smile. “You matched them perfectly! Clever lad.”

Solomon smiled proudly back. “We match any color. I’ll send the new batches of pearl gray and bottle green round to the warehouse tomorrow. Have you any commissions for me?”

“Actually, we’ll need a large quantity of your black. It looks like Lady M.’s going to stick her spoon in the wall any day now.”

Solomon nodded. “Will do. Is that all?”

Mr. Hathaway’s eyes flickered to Serena. “I’m not sure. Would you mind fetching my orders records from behind the counter?” Solomon hesitated, glancing at Serena. “Solomon?”

“Lady Serena, why don’t you come with me?” Solomon suggested. “I can show you—”

She was tempted to escape, and that decided her. “I’m fine here, thank you.”

Solomon’s lips tightened, and he left the room. Mr. Hathaway regarded Serena over the top of his half-moon glasses. So this was the effect Solomon was going for with his own spectacles. He didn’t come close to his uncle’s mild, shrewd scrutiny. Perhaps in twenty years he’d have managed it. She realized with a pang that she would never know. They were unlikely to still know each other.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Mr. Hathaway said.

She really didn’t need this. “All true.”

“I’ve also heard that you and my nephew were seen in a compromising position Saturday night.”

So they had been seen kissing in the hallway; it was all over London. She had known she shouldn’t, she had known it was stupid—but that was precisely the trouble. She had known, and she hadn’t been able to stop herself. For a brief moment, she hadn’t cared. Well, she would have to carry it off now. She would have to pretend that she was in control of this thing, that she had meant to do it.

Mr. Hathaway’s desk was a mess, covered in paper and books and even a pair of scissors and a few spools of thread. That’s no way to run a business, Serena thought. It didn’t make sense—the shop was obviously doing splendidly—but that slight feeling of superiority gave her courage anyway. “Also true,” she said calmly.

He harrumphed, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “What precisely is your interest in the boy?”

Serena raised her eyebrows back. “Your nephew is very charming.”

“I won’t stand by and see him made a May game of.”

“As much as I admire your plain speaking, Mr. Hathaway, it’s really none of your affair.”

“That boy’s welfare is very much my affair. Sol’s a dear lad, but he needs looking after. I doubt he understands that the likes of you don’t condescend to care for the likes of him. I’m sure you have your uses for him, and perhaps you even find him amusing. But when you’re tired of him you’ll toss him out on his ear and he won’t be able to bear it. I don’t know how far you are in his confidence, Lady Serena, but his brother was killed in Spain a year and a half ago.”

She was having trouble breathing again. How dare he? As if that were something she should be tactfully informed of by relatives.

“There were times . . .” Mr. Hathaway faltered, and though his face closed completely after a moment, Serena knew what she had seen. She felt infinitesimally more charitable toward him. “It broke my heart to see him.”

Serena would have laid odds that that wasn’t what he had been about to say.

“Now he’s finally back on his feet, and I’ve no desire to see all that undone by—I beg your pardon, my lady—a careless flirt. For the boy’s sake, end it now.”

She was silent for a moment. “So you are telling me you think your nephew is a milksop, Mr. Hathaway?”

Hathaway frowned. “Of course not, but he’s a sensitive lad, and—”

“He’s not a lad, Mr. Hathaway. He’s a man grown.” She paused. “I noticed your shop promises to match any color?”

He nodded stiffly.

“We both know it is Solomon who matches every color. Half the ladies in London are dying to have a gown colored by him, and you scolded him for it like a naughty schoolboy. I doubt you pay him a fraction of what he’s worth. Furthermore, both you and your son have had the gall to be puzzled as to what I could possibly see in him.”

Her nerves were buzzing as if she had just drunk eight cups of coffee, but it was a welcome change from the dead, dull feeling of a few minutes ago. “Solomon has decided he is willing to work for you under these conditions. Very well, it is none of my affair. But Solomon will also decide whether or not he is interested in a liaison with the Siren, and when I toss him out on his ear, I trust he will be man enough not to go into a decline.” She couldn’t resist a final scathing witticism. “Should he do so, however, I will be sure to have my chef send you an excellent recipe for a restorative broth. You can spoon-feed it to him while you read him the sermons of Hannah More.”

Mr. Hathaway made a noise in the back of his throat that might almost have been amusement. “That’s very generous of you.” He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I also heard you haven’t taken a single lover since—well. In years.”

The buzzing in her nerves died out, leaving her feeling worn and tender. Christ, not this. “Or perhaps I haven’t taken any stupid enough to gossip about it.”

“You haven’t precisely been discreet about Solomon.” Mr. Hathaway looked at her speculatively. Serena knew her face was blank, but—her actions spoke for themselves, didn’t they? She’d been kissing Solomon in the hallway like an infatuated girl. Mr. Hathaway had to know how nearly impossible it would be for her to toss Solomon out on his ear. She had already tried, and failed.

This was exactly why she hadn’t taken any lovers since she’d come to the Arms. She’d known it would make her weak. She’d known it would make people see her as a helpless girl again.

Sure enough, Mr. Hathaway smiled. “Well, perhaps I won’t send to my brother for his copy of Hannah More just yet.”

Serena felt suffocated.

“What’s that about Hannah More?” Solomon walked back into the room with a wide, flat book under his arm.

“Lady Serena was merely offering me her opinion as to whether Clara would find her essays edifying.”

Solomon blinked. “But when Father sent her a copy of Practical Piety for her birthday, you said you’d thank him to refrain from trying to turn Clara into a canting milk-and-water killjoy, and then you burned it!”

Mr. Hathaway laughed. “Mm, yes, well, hand me that book.” He made a pretense of examining it. “No, it doesn’t look as though I need anything specific at the moment. Lady Pursleigh is giving a masquerade next Sunday, though, and I’m bound to get some last-minute orders, so any simple costume designs you think of would be welcome.”

Solomon smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind. We’ll be off, then.”

Mr. Hathaway cleared his throat. “I heard—that is, I heard Lady Serena’s gown was lovely. I should have liked to see it.”

Solomon looked absurdly pleased. “Thank you.”

Mr. Hathaway frowned. “Well, off you go.”

Off they went, Serena feeling decidedly morose. No sooner had the door clanged shut behind them than Solomon asked, “What did my uncle say to you?”

“What makes you think I didn’t start it?” she asked nastily.

“Because I know my uncle and I know you. Why do you think I didn’t want to leave you alone with him?”

She blinked. “I naturally assumed you thought I’d say something cutting if you weren’t there to restrain me.”

Solomon smiled at her. “I wasn’t worried. You’re polite enough when you’re not unduly provoked.”

Her head started to ache. “What is wrong with all of you?”

Solomon chewed his lip. “Was it that bad? I was only gone a minute—”

“I am not polite,” she said despairingly.

His smile returned, wider this time. “Is that all? It’s not as if I said you were a sensible girl with a good head on her shoulders. You can be debonair, faintly sinister, and polite, you know.”

Damn him, he was laughing at her. “Why must you always be so damned patient and reasonable?”

“Well, I could be unreasonable and accusatory if you prefer, but I don’t think you’d find it entertaining after the first few minutes.” When her scowl didn’t lift, he said, “Cut line, Serena! You’d have been twice as annoyed if I’d assumed you’d started it, anyway.”

“Don’t act like you know me! You don’t. None of you know me.” She saw with dull satisfaction that he was beginning to lose his patience. Not surprising, of course. She could try the patience of a saint.

“I may not know you, Serena, but I’ve figured out by now that you never pass up the opportunity to enact a Cheltenham tragedy. If you don’t want to tell me what my uncle said, well and good, but don’t insult both our intelligences with this claptrap.”

“Damnation, I don’t enact Cheltenham tragedies!”

“Then what the hell is this? What are you so bloody upset about?”

“Your uncle thinks we—I don’t even know what he thinks. I think he likes me.”

“That’s what this is about?” He stared at her. “Are you so determined to be universally detested?”

Frustration welled up inside her. She couldn’t explain it; he would never understand.

He shrugged. “So you can enjoy dramatically disillusioning him when you toss me out on my ear.”

She was a bit put out that he could sound so cavalier about it. “Before that, he as near as told me I was a dissolute lady, born with a silver spoon in my mouth, trifling with your naive affections for the sake of my own high-born amusement.”

Solomon’s jaw dropped. “But that’s ridiculous. You work for a living, same as anyone! He might as well say I—” His face changed. He rubbed at his temple, looking defeated. “But he does think that, of course.”

“He does?” she asked, startled.

He shrugged. She’d noticed that he always did that when he was angry with someone on his own account, as if it wasn’t important. As if it didn’t matter how he felt. “Oh, yes. When I started working there after Cambridge, he was always at me to weigh my options, not to let him hold me back. He never lets me sit behind the counter or do fittings, because that would be too menial for me—but he never lets me touch the books either, because I think he thinks anyone who’s half a toff and went to university must have a wretched head for business. He thinks I’m just dabbling and when I get bored, I’ll take Uncle Dewington’s allowance and go. I’ve been working for him for four years now, and he just won’t—”

“I haven’t traded a poke for a fistful of the ready in five years, but no one’s read that notice in the Gazette.”

He sighed. “I’m awfully sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault.”

“I mean, I’m sorry about my uncle. I’ll explain to him that you’re not trifling with me—”

“Please don’t,” she said in heartfelt tones.

Solomon laughed. “Sorry, forgot about the horrors of being approved of. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, eh? I guess you’ll just have to do what you want.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. “What if I don’t know what I want?”

“We’ll have to wait and see then, won’t we?” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at her as if that was nothing, as if he really was willing to wait as long as it took, as if he didn’t mind waiting. As if he thought they might still know each other in twenty years.

“I told him that when I tossed you out on your ear you were unlikely to go into a fatal decline.”

He smiled oddly. “Perhaps you give me too much credit.”

“I generally find I don’t give you enough,” she said gruffly.

He reached out and laced his fingers with hers. “Come on. You’ll feel better when you’re eating a hot steak-and-kidney pie.”

She had a thought. “How would you like it if we bought lunch and looked for your earrings at the same time?”

He tilted his head in a way that reminded her of his uncle. “How will we do that, pray?”

“You’ll see.”