A Lily Among Thorns

Chapter 10


Solomon’s stomach was starting to growl. They had already strolled past several mouthwatering pie stalls set up along the Strand. Finally a pieman wheeling an enormous barrow caught Serena’s eye. “Hey there, Doyle!” she yelled.

He hurried over. “What’ll it be, madam? Steak-and-kidney, mutton, pork, eel, or apple?”

“Two of whichever are least likely to contain rat and pigeon, please.”

Doyle stared. “You want a pie?”

Serena snickered. “What, do they all contain rat?”

“Not on your life! My Bridget bakes these pies and they’re all fine and fresh.”

“In that case, I’ll have a steak-and-kidney. What will you have, Solomon?”

“Eel, please.”

Doyle bit his lip. “I shouldn’t try the eel, sir.”

Solomon laughed. “Steak-and-kidney for me, too, then.”

“Very well, sir, milady, and would you like hot gravy with your pies?”

Serena nodded. Pies were handed over and gravy poured through the hole in the crust; tuppence changed hands. Then Serena said, “Pat, I need your professional opinion. I’m looking for a pair of stolen earrings. Rubies and gold, taken by a gentleman on the high toby Wednesday before last.”

Solomon stared at her. “Serena—”

She smiled faintly at his puzzled expression. “Show him your wares, Pat.”

Doyle grinned and turned back the gaudy checkered cloth in which his pies nestled. Watches, billfolds, handkerchiefs, pocket knives, and dozens of other small items were revealed, crowding the bottom of the barrow.

He flicked back the cloth. “I haven’t seen anything of that description, Thorn. But then, I’m not a baubles man and everyone knows it. You ought to try Dina Levy. I doubt anybody’d bring her something that fine, but she keeps her ears open. If she hasn’t heard, you won’t find it in Whitechapel, St. Giles, or Holborn.”

“Dina’s usually at her Lawrence Street house at this time of day, isn’t she?”

“Not now, she’ll be at her daughter’s stall in the Fleet Market for elevenses. Make sure you try the apple fritters. My Bridget’s been trying to get the recipe off Abigail Levy for years now, but Abby’s a stubborn wench.”

“I shall be sure to do so. Well, you’ve been very helpful. Will half a crown suffice?”

Doyle gestured expansively. “Wouldn’t hear of it! You can be in my debt, if you like.”

Serena raised her eyebrows. “I shall owe you a very small favor then. Now, if your young associate will return my friend’s pocketbook, we’ll be on our way.”

Solomon started, feeling for his billfold. Sure enough, it was gone. He looked accusingly at Doyle, who sighed. “It’s a devil of a job training new workers. I’m sure you find it the same at the Arms. Moreen!” he called. “Come here!”

A ragged little girl of perhaps six or seven detached herself from the crowd and came scuttling over. “Yes, sir?”

“Do you know who this lady is, Mo?”

The girl shook her head.

“Look at her face.” Doyle tapped his brow meaningfully.

Mo’s eyes went wide as platters. She stared at Serena’s birthmark with something approaching worship. “You’re the Black Thorn!”

Solomon saw that Serena was trying very hard to make her expression more forbidding and less charmed. She was such a soft touch. “Yes, I’m the Black Thorn. And you’ve stolen my friend Solomon’s pocketbook.”

The little girl’s awe turned to horror. “He’s Solomon Hathaway?” Solomon frowned. She’d heard of him?

Serena nodded.

“Are you going to have my—”

“Not if you give it back,” Serena said very quickly. So she really had put it about that no one was to touch him, in terms so brutal she evidently didn’t want him to hear what they were. And people were genuinely afraid of her. He tried to wrap his mind around that.

Mo fished his pocketbook out of a ragged pocket and handed it back to Solomon, who checked it for fleas under pretense of counting the bills. Sixpence was missing, but he didn’t say anything. “I want to be just like you when I’m grown,” Mo was telling Serena, who looked decidedly taken aback. “I want an inn and people under me, and if anyone touches me I’ll have their—”

“I wish you luck,” Serena interrupted. “Give Bridget my regards,” she told Doyle, and tugged Solomon away.

As they walked away, he could hear Doyle saying, “I’ve told you a hundred times, you don’t touch ’em till I give you the signal, like this—”

“The Black Thorn?” he asked.

She grimaced. She was so adorable when she was embarrassed. “It’s a stupid nickname. I think it was a joke originally, because it sounded frightening and I was trying to be frightening and wasn’t yet. The only thing intimidating about me was my father’s title. By now it’s just what people call me.”

He wondered suddenly what it had been like for her when she was still learning how to be intimidating. What had she done then when someone pinched one of her waitresses or told her they’d liked her better as a whore? She used to have the most expressive eyes, Sophy had said. He hated the idea of everyone being able to see how scared she was. He hated the idea of her having to destroy that part of herself to become what she was. “What exactly did you tell people you would do to them if they hurt me?”

“You’re too squeamish to know.”

He looked back at Mo. “I’m too squeamish?”

Serena looked back at Mo, too. Her eyes were still expressive, when she wasn’t thinking about it. That made him feel better. “I’m sure she’s heard worse.”

As they walked down to Fleet Market, occasionally stopping to talk to a strolling receiver, Solomon listened to the cries of the vendors with a new ear. “Fine silver eels!” and “Sweet china oranges! Scarlet strawberries!” and “Fresh hot!” How many of them had watches hidden in the bottom of their baskets? How many of them had grubby little apprentices? What could Mo really do if anyone touched her? He wished she’d stolen a shilling.

By the time they reached Fleet Street, he also wished he had four hands. Two pies, an orange, a pitcher of hot tea, and a twist of newspaper with oysters and butter bread inside was a lot to carry even for two people. Luckily, the next man Serena stopped was a basket man.

Dina Levy had heard of his earrings. “Decker has them, unless he is breaking them down already,” she said in heavily accented English, pocketing the half-crown Doyle had refused. “He is a closemouthed old courva, but his client was down at the Blue Ruin last week. Everybody is a gossip with that much gin in them.”

Serena smiled brilliantly. If anything could cheer her up, this would. She was in her element. Solomon tried not to think that if they found the earrings, he’d have no excuse to remain at the Arms. “Thank you, Dina,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“Anything I can do for you, Thorn.”

Serena smiled wider. “I’m glad you say that. I owe Pat Doyle a favor, you see, and I know his wife would kill for Abby’s apple fritter recipe.”

Solomon looked at the basket of food with hopeless longing. “Do we have time to eat, do you think, or ought we to go and find Decker now?”

Serena cut her eyes at him. “We aren’t going to Decker’s. I’m going to Decker’s. Alone.”

He frowned. “Is it dangerous? Surely it’s better if we go together.”

“It’s not dangerous. You just can’t go.”

“But he’s got my earrings!”

“And he won’t sell them between now and tomorrow morning. I’ll send him a message directly to hold them for me. He owes me a favor.”

“Why can’t I go?”

She looked away, but he saw her eyes crinkle in amusement. “You’re too squeamish to know.”

When they were finally settled under the mulberry trees in St. James’s Park with their lunch, Serena came out of a brown study to see that Solomon looked dejected, too. “I’ll get the earrings.”

He smiled at her. “I know.”

She looked away.

“I really am sorry about my uncle.”

“Why do you let him treat you like that?” She couldn’t have borne it, but then, maybe that explained why he had a large family that were at least fond of him and she didn’t. She took a bite of her pie.

Solomon looked surprised. “Isn’t that how family is?”

“Endlessly belittling? That’s certainly been my experience.”

Solomon snorted. “It’s different when it’s Uncle Hathaway. When Uncle Dewington tells me it’s time I put all this chemical dye nonsense behind me—deuced bad ton, don’t you know—I just want his guts for garters. Uncle Hathaway has my best interests at heart, at least.” He knotted his fingers and neatly cracked a walnut by snapping his palms together. It shouldn’t have been erotic, but it was. It was getting to the point where nearly everything he did was erotic, simply because he did it.

“So has Hannah More.”

Solomon smiled at the walnut in his hand, prying the meat out of its shell. “I’m fond of him, though. His family was awfully good to me when Elijah died.”

“You mean they fell awkwardly silent at your approach and gazed at you pityingly over dinner, and occasionally your uncle would lay a supportive hand on your shoulder.”

He laughed. “Well, yes. But—” He had eaten the walnut, but he kept his eyes on his hands. “Elijah was never interested in the shop. Uncle Hathaway was the only person I could be around without wondering if he would have rather I died instead.”

“But—” she began, appalled. “Surely your parents didn’t think that.”

“Probably not. Probably I was the only one who did. But they were all so unhappy. Elijah was always the one who knew what to say, who made everyone laugh. If it had been me, he could have made them feel better. I—I could barely speak to them anymore. I could barely speak to anyone. How could they not wish it?”

“But—”

“You never met him,” Solomon said with finality. “You don’t understand. He may have looked like me, but he was special. When he walked into a room, everyone turned to look.”

When Solomon walked into a room, every fiber of Serena’s being swung toward him like a needle toward the pole. “You’re special,” she said stubbornly. “And your uncle still doesn’t appreciate it enough.”

He sighed. “Serena, I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t necessarily want to discuss it.”

She nodded.

“After Elijah died, I moved my laboratory into the back of the shop for a while.”

“How kind of him, to allow you to use his space in your work for his business. I’ll wager he doesn’t pay you enough either.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Maybe.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant. I moved it there because I—well, I caught myself eyeing the bottle of arsenic. And I didn’t think I would, but I knew I wouldn’t if my cousin Clara might find the body.”

The oyster Serena had just eaten transformed itself into a brick in her stomach.

“I couldn’t sleep and I’d show up there at all hours to work. Uncle Hathaway took to waking at three or four in the morning and coming downstairs. He’d bring in tea, and then he’d go into the other room and work. He didn’t try to talk to me, but I could hear him through the door and it—it helped.”

Serena leaned back against a tree. “I—”

“I said I didn’t want to discuss it.”

“I know. I just wish I could have been there.”

Solomon looked at his hands. “So do I.”

“Have some gingerbread. It’s good.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but he reached for the gingerbread. She took the opportunity to brush their fingers together.

“Elijah would have liked you,” he said. “I wish you could have met him.”

She chewed her lip. “Are you sure he wouldn’t have thought I was toying with your affections?”

“I’m sure you would have gone to a great deal of trouble to make him think so.” He grinned at her. “You really oughtn’t to think you’re a heartless bitch just because people tell you so. ‘Forsake the foolish, and live,’ remember?”

“Because you haven’t been affected at all by your family’s expectations that you’re a dull-as-ditchwater milquetoast Quakerish idiot.”

“I am a dull-as-ditchwater milquetoast Quakerish idiot,” he said without heat. “Pass the orange.”

“Precisely, and I’m a heartless bitch.”

He stared at her with something approaching amazement. “Huh. You’re right.”

“I generally am.”

He frowned. “So—does that mean I’m not a Quakerish idiot?”

She laughed weakly and threw the orange at him. “Well, you may be an idiot.”

He pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced it into eighths. Juice ran over his fingers and he sucked it off, looking irked. Somehow that little frown made it even more seductive. “I was unforgivably foolish this morning. Miss Jeeves would bore me to tears, I know that. But—but she looked like you, except—”

“Except what?”

He hesitated. “Except she looked at me as if she—as if she didn’t mind liking me.”

Poor Solomon. He didn’t even ask her to be pleasant. He just wanted her to be willing to like him, and show it. He had such low expectations, and she still couldn’t meet them. What made it worse was that she liked him so damn much. But she couldn’t show it like other women did. She couldn’t be like other women. She didn’t want to be. It was too frightening; it would make her too vulnerable. She sucked on a piece of orange and tried to think what to say.

He saved her the trouble. He probably thought she wouldn’t have said anything anyway. “Isn’t there anyone in your family you don’t hate?” he asked.

“My mother, I suppose. I haven’t seen her in six years.”

Solomon’s eyes widened. “Your mother is still alive? Where is she?”

“At Ravenscroft, I suppose.” His jaw tightened. She said with as much conviction as she could, “It’s not her fault. She can’t control him, and she’s not well, and she always tried to protect me.” More or less. She could guess what he thought of her mother, anyway, and she didn’t really want to hear it. To avoid looking at him, she untwisted the sheet of newspaper that had held their oysters and flattened it out.

DUCHESS OF RICHMOND PLANS BRUSSELS BALL FOR THE

17TH OF JUNE

LONDON, JUNE 11—FOREIGN OFFICE’S LORD VARNEY

ASKS PARLIAMENT FOR AN ADDITIONAL £20,000 TO

FIGHT FRENCH SPIES

Even here, she couldn’t escape René for a moment.

“We’ll get him,” Solomon said, reading her thoughts as easily as if they were printed headlines. The coldness in his voice surprised her. But then, his brother had been killed by the French. He looked at René and he saw what he ought to see: the enemy. No matter how hard she tried, she could only see her friend. It didn’t matter. She’d get him just the same.

“What I really miss is the sea,” she said.

“I’ve never seen the sea.”

Serena wished she could show it to him. “It’s beautiful. Sometimes I miss it so badly I can almost smell it—except I can’t.” That tantalizing salty smell was forever out of her reach. All she had in London was soot and fog and almond soap. “Sometimes I go into the cellar and open the barrels of pickled cucumber, just to smell the brine.”

Solomon’s brow wrinkled. “The sea doesn’t really smell like a gherkin barrel, does it?”

She laughed. “No.” It struck her then, like a hammer blow, that she might never again after this week go down alone into the cool cellars of the Arms and open the gherkin barrels, or inventory the round smooth wheels of cheese, or inspect the long rows of wine. “Maybe I’ll go to Brighton when I leave.”

It wouldn’t be Cornwall, but she’d rather die than crawl to Cornwall, alone and a failure. And Solomon, if he ever troubled to visit, would love the changes Nash was making to the Marine Pavilion. Prinny had shown her plans for the façade.

Serena hated Brighton already.

She looked up to find Solomon giving her that focused look of his. “Do you know what you need?” he asked.

“An annulment?”

“Later. Right now, you need to cartwheel.”

“To cartwheel?”

He nodded decisively. “Elijah always said there was nothing like it for raising the spirits, and except for chocolate, he was right. Do you know how?”

“Yes, but—Solomon, I’m wearing skirts!”

He grinned wickedly at her. “There’s no one about.”

She was actually tempted. She used to turn cartwheels down the hill at Ravenscroft. And the idea of Solomon ogling her ankles wasn’t precisely unpleasant. However, she didn’t think turning cartwheels would be quite the same in stays and four layers of petticoat. “Perhaps later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Serena stared at her bed. Somehow, she couldn’t quite get in and blow out the candle. Her nightmare of two days before, in the light of what she’d discovered at St. Andrew of the Cross, seemed all too plausible. Go on, this is pathetic. She took a resolute step toward the bed. But it was no use. She wasn’t shaking with fright or weak in the knees, but she also wasn’t going to get into the bed.

Like a spoiled child, she wanted light and warmth and comfort. She wanted chocolate. She wanted—why not admit it, since she wasn’t fooling anyone?—to be held as she fell asleep.

All of that was there, on the other side of the door. But explaining to Solomon that she was afraid to sleep in her own room was every bit as unimaginable as getting into bed and pulling the curtains shut. He would know how weak she was, and he would be so gentlemanly about it, so good-natured, so sympathetic—the idea was appalling.

She had let her guard down with him too far already. In one short week, she had let herself feel safe with him. To the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet. Small wonder that something as sweet and unexpected as Solomon had overwhelmed her. But she couldn’t delude herself that because he made her feel safe, that he could really protect her, or even that he would really try. There was no such thing as safety. Even if people cared for you, in the end they put themselves first. René was proof of that.

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t control how she felt about Solomon. But that didn’t mean he had to know. He’d own her then.

Solomon had just finished making up the batch of black dye he’d promised Uncle Hathaway when the door beside the fireplace swung open. He looked up.

Serena was barefoot, her embroidered orange robe unfastened over her revealing shift. Her hair hung in a black curtain to the top of her breasts. His black dye was the best in the business, but even so it would streak and fade with time. It would never match the dark richness of her hair.

She leaned against the door frame, her face in shadow. “Hello, Solomon.”

“Hello, Serena,” he said warily.

She tilted her head and smiled oddly. Something was very wrong. “Now, Solomon, you sound so unfriendly. I thought you liked me.”

“Yes, and I told you that I didn’t mean I wanted to kiss you.”

She moved forward until they stood barely two feet apart. Her eyes, fixed on his, glimmered strangely. “Oh, Solomon, so pure of heart. But as you also said, we both know that you do want to kiss me.” And as much as he felt off balance, as much as he knew something was wrong—well, didn’t he always feel off balance around her? She did it on purpose, and whether it was wrong or not, his body responded to her, to her low voice and her nearness and even the odd shine of her gray eyes.

She shrugged her shoulders, and the robe slithered to the floor with a fringed rustle. She stood before him in her shift, shoulders and arms bare, every curve plainly visible—and then she stepped closer and put her arms around his neck. Her breasts pressed against his waistcoat. He glanced down and there they were, there was the birthmark on the squashed curve of her left breast. He remembered the first time he had seen that swell of bosom, the horror it had evoked in him. Now everything had changed—now he knew her. He stifled a groan.

“‘I have decked my bed with coverings of tapestry, with carved works, with fine linen of Egypt,’” she quoted. “‘I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.’” He knew the next line, just as she must have known he would. Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning. She had been reading Proverbs.

That brought him nearer to kissing her than any of the rest, but still he was checked by her odd half smile. He drew in a ragged breath. “Have you been drinking?”

Her smile widened, lazily. “Why don’t you kiss me and find out?”

Self-control had its limits. “‘She is loud and stubborn, her feet abide not in her house,’” he said, and kissed her hungrily.