A Lily Among Thorns

Chapter 14


The first person Serena saw in Mrs. Elbourn’s ballroom was Lord Smollett. He took one look at the deep blue gown with its spangles and guffawed. “Must say, you never used to need that much fabric to dress as a lady of the evening!”

Serena met Solomon’s eyes and sighed. “I can’t win, can I?”

“No, so why try? You would look magnificent in scarlet.”

Serena hastily turned her attention to the ballroom. Everyone in the room was watching them. The low murmur of conversation rose to an excited hum. At least Mrs. Elbourn looked pleasantly scandalized instead of horrified. This would make her party the talk of London. Perhaps that would be enough to keep them from being tossed out on their ears.

Solomon’s shoulders slumped. “Shall we try the buffet table? Maybe there are lobster patties.”

Serena felt warm. Was it because of all the eyes on her, or because Solomon had noticed she loved lobster patties when Antoine made them last week for supper? Before she could answer, a young matron in a towering purple-and-gold turban appeared and grabbed Serena’s arm. With a small shock, she recognized Jenny Warrington, who had been so vivacious and pretty at school and had always made Serena feel like a colorless stick of a girl.

Serena hadn’t thought about her in years and was vaguely surprised to find she still existed.

“Serena! It’s been an age! How lovely to see you!”

“Good evening, Jenny,” Serena said bemusedly.

Jenny, as vivacious and pretty as ever, was unabashed. “I daresay I should have come visit you at that inn, and I would have, for I was dreadfully curious, but well, you know, my dear Pursleigh wouldn’t have liked it.”

“Pursleigh?” Serena said, caught off guard. So Jenny was married to one of René’s spies. And Serena hadn’t known because Lord Pursleigh might be a turncoat, but he still didn’t want his precious wife anywhere near the scandalous Lady Serena Ravenshaw.

“Oh yes, I’m Lady Pursleigh now. My husband won’t like that I’m talking to you now either of course, and really I was planning to increase my consequence by cutting you dead, but that was before I saw what you were wearing! You never used to be so well-dressed. The way it changes color in the light—tell me who made it and I shall fire my modiste on the spot!” The clusters of blond curls at her temples bobbed with enthusiasm.

Serena gestured to a quietly beaming Solomon to take himself off while she advertised his wares. As Jenny monologued about Pursleigh and her sister Dora and her dear little nephew, Serena turned her bracelet round and round and thought.

It was true what she had said. Jewelry was a bad investment. But she hadn’t said the rest, hadn’t said how wearing jewelry was surrendering, how a necklace settled down around your throat like the yoke of servitude, so cunningly wrought that you were expected to be grateful for it. Already, just looking at that parcel, her throat had felt constricted.

She couldn’t have told him that—she would have choked on the words. Wasn’t she supposed to be indifferent to them all? Wasn’t she supposed to have shed her pride along with her reputation? Let them think what they wanted, so long as it swelled her bank account, wasn’t that her motto? And besides, if she’d said it, Solomon would have put the box away and tried to hide his disappointment and she couldn’t, even though she’d been crawlingly aware that men at the ball would see her wearing it and think smugly, So, the Siren’s finally found a fisherman who can tame her!

Then she’d seen the bracelet. It had cost ten shillings at the most. Not a mark of ownership at all—just a cheap trinket that had made Solomon think of her. And she liked it. Even when she’d heard the clasp click into place, like a tiny manacle, she had felt only—secure.

“Serena?” said Jenny impatiently. “Serena, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“No, Jenny, I’m not.”

For a moment, Jenny’s blue eyes narrowed in irritation.. Then she shrugged and smiled. “Well, you always were peculiar! I was just saying that I can’t thank you enough for bringing Mr. Hathaway to liven up our evening. He’s terribly handsome, and Dewington’s bound to be mortified. Is it true the other one’s been resurrected? And Mrs. Elbourn looks about to burst, though that’s probably because of you. I shall certainly ask Pursleigh to stop by his shop next time he’s in Savile Row. I don’t care what he says, I will have a gown like that.” It was like watching a partridge bob along, singing to itself, and knowing it was about to be shot. It felt so strange, to have the upper hand of Jenny. Serena wasn’t entirely sure she liked it.

When Jenny finally abandoned her to spread whatever information she thought she had gleaned to the entire ballroom, Solomon was still at the buffet table with a plate of lobster patties in his hand, staring moodily at the dance floor.

“You really ought to look cheerier when news of your talent is about to become a nine days’ wonder.” She snagged a patty from his plate and popped it into her mouth. “Your matchmaking plans for your uncle and Mrs. Cook are proceeding apace.”

He summoned a smile for her. “Thank you.”

“I assure you, when we break into Elbourn’s library you will repay me in full.”

He looked at her hopefully. “Can we go and do that now?”

She laughed. “That eager to leave? Don’t you want to ask anyone to dance? You strike me as the dancing sort.”

He looked at the dance floor for a moment, wistfully. “Maybe. But I’m not about to place any girl in the embarrassing position of having to refuse me.” He put down the plate and looked at his hands. Then, with a motion so angry it startled her, he yanked off his gloves and dropped them on the floor. “I don’t know why I bother wearing these when everyone can see right through them.”

“No, or when you have such nice hands,” Serena said. He blinked at her, and she turned her face away. They’d been notflirting all evening, but that had been a bit much. It was wrong of her to flirt, anyway, when she didn’t know what was between them or what she wanted.

It was wrong and it was stupid, because in the end he might be hurt, but even so he could never have meant anything serious. He was the most respectable person she’d ever met. He was too kind to ask her to be his mistress, and anything else was impossible. She was the one who’d end up feeling ruined all over again, and she knew it. But she couldn’t seem to help herself.

“Go on, ask someone,” she said, wishing she sounded less sullen. “How about that bored-looking girl with glasses? She’s very pretty.” And sweet and innocent, too, I’m sure. Perfect for you.

Solomon didn’t even glance at the girl. Instead, he rolled his eyes at Serena. “Do you honestly think there’s one woman in this room who would be anything but aghast at an invitation to dance from an employee of Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring?”

Serena could have told him that Jenny Pursleigh thought him terribly handsome. She could have told him that the way his black cutaway and dove-gray breeches fit him was a tailor’s dream come true. She could have pointed out the interested looks he was getting from half the young ladies in the room.

“There’s me,” she said instead, and then hated how she must sound, like some blushing, hopeful debutante angling for an invitation. She had never used to hate every word that came out of her mouth. Before Solomon, she’d been comfortable with herself.

Well, that was a lie. She’d disliked herself for as long as she could remember. She’d just been used to it, before.

He gaped at her, then looked at the ground. “I’m not a very good dancer.”

She bit her tongue, hard. “I see.”

He looked up hurriedly. “It’s not that! It’s just—I’m not a very good dancer.”

“You, Solomon?” she said with savage incredulity. “Surely you and your wholesome family thrived at country assemblies.”

“Elijah danced. I usually played the piano.” He shrugged. “You’re the one who must have danced the night away.”

“I was a wallflower,” she said flatly.

He stared at her in shock.

Take that, Jenny Warrington, she thought, but at the same time she was startled that he hadn’t guessed at the stubborn, awkward, silent girl she’d been. Sometimes it felt a lifetime away, but other times she didn’t feel as if she’d changed that much.

“Well, all right, then,” he said. “Let’s dance.” He took her hand and maneuvered them into a set that was forming.

At first, Serena was absorbed in watching Solomon’s enthusiasm and enjoying the glittering swish of her skirts when she turned. He was right, he really wasn’t a very good dancer. She smiled.

She was jerked unpleasantly from her thoughts when James Corbin, who had his arm round her waist and was turning her round, allowed his hand to slip too low. A glance told her that nearly every man in the set was leering unpleasantly at her. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed. What was wrong with her?

Her next neighbor caressed her palm with his thumb, the next whispered filthy recollections of their dalliance in her ear, and so on down the line. She clenched her teeth together, fixed an icy smile on her face, and waited for the dance to be over. She didn’t even turn her head to see what oaf was causing the steady progression of oofs and ouches that followed her down the set.

Lord Braithwaite held on to her arm for several seconds too long and she actually had to wrench away. She turned her back on him—and there was a heavy thud behind her. She turned round again to see Braithwaite sprawled on the floor. He rubbed at his elbow and glared at Solomon, who was standing over him looking very, very apologetic.

“Oh, I am sorry, Braithwaite,” Solomon said earnestly, but there was a malicious note in his voice. “You know how clumsy I’ve always been. I hope I haven’t mussed your coat, I worked so hard on it. Here, let me help you up.” And he held out his hand. Braithwaite examined Solomon’s dye-stained, scarred hand for a weighty moment—then curled his lip and got to his feet unaided.

A wash of red clouded Serena’s vision. She lunged at Braithwaite, only to find herself cannoning solidly into Solomon’s broad chest as he stepped between them.

“Move,” she hissed, her gaze still fixed on Lord Braithwaite’s smirk.

“Stop it,” Solomon murmured. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t mind.” Then, when she didn’t step back, he added in an urgent undertone, “He’s our customer, Serena, stop making a scene.”

Her vision cleared, leaving her extremely conscious that she was pressed up against Solomon and that his hands were gripping her bare upper arms. She drew in a deep breath and stepped back. What had got into her?

Their entire set had stopped dancing and was staring at them. “This is precisely why people of their ilk should not be allowed in well-bred homes,” someone whispered audibly.

Serena drew herself up. “It’s getting stuffy in here,” she said, with a disdainful, sweeping glance at the gawkers. “Let’s find a withdrawing room.” She took Solomon’s arm and pulled him away.

Solomon followed Serena out of the ballroom into the hall. She looked left and right, then led the way unerringly to Mr. Elbourn’s study. He looked a question at her. “A member of my staff bribed a member of his,” she explained as the heavy wooden doors closed behind them.

Solomon wondered if he should say anything about the scene in the ballroom. But as nothing occurred to him, and as Serena began immediately to look behind the pictures over the mantel, he sat down in Mr. Elbourn’s graceful chair and examined the drawers of his desk.

The first few drawers opened easily enough, but they merely contained stationery, old invitations, spare pen nibs, bottles of colored ink, and the like. The only thing that gave Solomon pause was the pistol in the shallow center drawer. The danger of their situation began to seem real.

The bottom left-hand drawer, which was deeper, was locked. “Serena.”

She turned toward him from where she was turning over the cushions of the window seat, and the breath caught in his throat at the blank, bitter look in her quicksilver eyes. He had been almost satisfied earlier with his small revenge on the gentlemen who insulted her, but now he felt he could have disemboweled each and every one.

“Yes?” she asked impatiently. “Have you found something?”

“This drawer is locked.” He pushed the chair back to give her room.

She knelt beside him, fishing in the neckline of her dress. He looked away hastily, and when he looked back she held a little roll of black velvet. With a flick of her wrist, the velvet unrolled to reveal a dozen curious steel implements. She laid her gloves on the desk and set to work on the locks. He watched her, watched her arms and hands in the moonlight, the way it silvered and shaded them, the tender back of her neck. He wondered if she knew he was watching.

One week, she had told Elijah. One week before either Sacreval tossed her into the street, or she broke him and his network. If she lost the Arms, where would she go? Would she let Solomon help her, or would sheer stubborn pride and shame and misery send her off to lick her wounds alone? What if she went back to whoring again? It would break her heart—and, he was beginning to suspect, his. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t make it easy on either of them. It occurred to him that if they were successful and Sacreval was executed, she might not take that much better. And even if she did—

That thought, somehow, was even harder to face. When all the spying and the intrigue were over, what would be left? What did he want from her, and what would she give him? Could they really be happy together?

A week ago he had had nothing. He had looked forward to nothing. Now he had his brother again, and—and Serena, whatever she was to him. At some point in the last week, without his noticing, she had gone from an ice storm he wanted to breathe in to something as vital and familiar as the air in his lungs. Everything had changed in so short a time. He knew how easily it could change back. He was terribly, unbearably afraid that it would.

With an audible click, the drawer slid forward a fraction of an inch. Serena gave a satisfied smile and grasped the handle. Solomon shoved his thoughts aside and leaned forward.

At that moment there came the clear sound of footsteps in the corridor and the low murmur of well-bred masculine voices.

Solomon froze, but Serena never hesitated. Sweeping the lock picks out of sight under the desk, she straddled him. The rustle of her petticoats as they slid up to reveal a dazzling length of silk stocking was the loudest sound he had ever heard. A hand fell heavily on the doorknob, and she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

It was for the benefit of the men outside, he knew that. And yet it felt more genuine than either of their previous kisses. The first time, he’d kissed her, and she’d merely let him. The second time, she’d been playing some twisted game that made sense only to her.

Now she was kissing him with no pretense at all, as if she’d only been waiting for this excuse. As if she’d seen her chance and taken it. Her bare hands were chilly against his face, her mouth was hot, and both trembled.

He slid one hand up to cup the back of her head, tiny silk flowers and dark hair against his palm, and kissed her back fiercely. After a moment, her hands and lips gentled and steadied. She opened her mouth and pressed against him, unfurling under his touch like a lily blossoming among thorns, bright and unexpected and vulnerable. Her hands slid down to his shoulders and chest. He knew they were going to have to stop soon, but he couldn’t remember why.

He ran his hand down over her thigh to where her petticoats pooled and slid it slowly up her leg under her skirts. Serena moaned against his mouth. He felt on the brink of being transmuted into something entirely new.

The door opened.