A Lily Among Thorns

Chapter 3

Surely René hadn’t just said what Serena thought he’d said. “Doing it a bit too brown, René. My husband? Come, what is all this nonsense?” Surely it was a joke. Surely in a moment René would laugh and hold out his hands for her to clasp, and there was no need for her heart to stutter in her chest like that. No need at all.

René didn’t smile as he drew a paper from inside his coat. “It is not nonsense, sirène. Under your English law everything you have is legally mine. Even the Arms. Particularly the Arms.”

She had missed him so much, wanted him to come back for so long. She had been so happy to see him. She had been worried by his stricken look, and he wanted to take the Arms away from her.

She said, with a calm that frightened her, “Let me see that.” René handed her the paper without a word. The marriage lines looked undeniably genuine. Her signature was perfect.

Five years, she thought.

For five years she had lived at the Arms, had got up every morning at dawn to consult with Antoine on the menus and gone to bed late every night after doing the books. For five years she had worked to make the Arms a success, and more, a fixture of the London scene. And all of it meant nothing, because some forger had written Serena Ravenshaw married René du Sacreval on a piece of paper.

For five years she had been an independent woman with a reliable income. And she owed that, at the heart of it, to the two men standing in this room. Men had saved her, and men could destroy her. A woman couldn’t be independent, not really.

She’d been staring at the paper for far longer than the most careful examination required. She had to say something, but she very simply could not move. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think.

Solomon came to her side and pried the piece of paper from her fingers, squeezing one of her hands as he did so. “Are you really married?” he murmured. She shook her head dumbly.

Solomon turned to René. “And if I should put it in the fire?”

“Then what of the parish register?”

She had always loved René’s voice; it had meant safety to her to hear it ringing out from the other side of the taproom. Now it sounded diabolical.

“How much does one have to pay the vicar of”—Solomon glanced at the paper—“Saint Andrew of the Cross to put false names in the register?” He was buying her time, hiding her weakness. It was the second time he’d had to do it.

René tsked. “Do not be foolish, dear boy. If those were false—which I do not admit, mind you—would I take a vicar into my confidence? In England they can have scruples, these men of the cloth.”

Serena spoke with an effort. “I thought I was inured to betrayal, but I must confess this somewhat surprises me. Where do you expect me to go, René?” Too late, she saw she’d made a play for his sympathy; she was a woman, bargaining from a position of weakness, and he and Solomon could both see it.

“Go home to your father, sirène,” René said gently. “Or take the money I am offering you.”

She laughed a little hysterically. “My father came here yesterday and threatened to lock me up in Bedlam.”

René closed his eyes. “I am sorry.” He really did sound sorry, very sorry; that made her angrier. “But—there is nothing I can do about that, chérie.”

Was that all he could say? Serena looked at René, at her oldest, dearest friend, and was possessed by a white-hot fury. As if from very far away, her voice said, “It hardly matters in any case, because I won’t be leaving. You have no next of kin, so as your widow, the Arms will revert to me. I shan’t like to see you hang, but one does what one must. Good day, René.”

His familiar lively features seemed carved out of harsh white stone. “It is not like you to make empty threats, sirène. Écoute, I will give you two weeks to reflect. If you decide to sell to me, you will be still an independent woman, and rich. I hope you will. But if you are not raisonnable, I will be forced to take this paper into a court of law. I will move my things into the apricot room while you decide.”

After he had gone, silence reigned in the office. Serena, still sizzling with furious energy, began creating and discarding ever more elaborate plots to destroy René. There was no point thinking of anything else, because she wasn’t going to lose the Arms.

“Can you really get him hanged?” Solomon asked.

“Nothing simpler.” Serena would never have imagined the words could be so easy to say. “He’s a French spy.”

Solomon gaped. “Wh—what?”

“This inn was only a front for him. I’m not sure why he thought I wouldn’t realize what was going on.”

Solomon stared at her in horror. “You knew he was a spy, and you did nothing?”

She shrugged. He didn’t need to know how she had agonized, weighing up the evidence of René’s guilt again and again, and the consequences if she were right. How she had imagined heroically informing on him, giving up the Arms, taking another protector. And how she couldn’t do it. “I needed the Arms,” she said flatly. “Besides, I didn’t know. It could all have been completely innocent.”

“But—” He looked in the direction René had gone. She had never seen his face so cold. “He could have passed the information that killed Elijah.”

Serena swallowed. He was right. Had she done that to him? Did she have that to answer for, too? She couldn’t think about it now. “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

“What? Serena—”

She gripped the underside of her desk tightly, where he couldn’t see, and tried not to raise her voice. “I’m sorry, Solomon, but I didn’t feel as if I owed it to English men to save them, after—at that point in my life, I didn’t feel I owed them anything. Besides . . .” She drew in a deep breath. “René was my friend.” It hurt to say it; if she went on, if she said enough to make him really understand, if she told him how René had taken care of her when she was nineteen and scared, she would vomit. So she didn’t go on, and the skepticism in Solomon’s eyes hurt almost as much.

She didn’t really expect him to let it go, but he did. “If you had no proof, then how are you going to have him hanged now?”

She wanted to sit down, but that would be one more show of weakness. “He’s right, that was an empty threat. If he’s hanged for treason, his property is forfeit to the Crown. He would have nothing more to lose; he’d produce those documents and I’d lose the Arms. I have to prove the marriage is a forgery first. Vengeance can come later.”

He looked disappointed. She wondered if he wanted to tell her that vengeance was unchristian, or if he simply didn’t want to wait for his own. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll help you.”

His voice sounded like safety. She had been stupid once; she couldn’t do it again. No matter how much she wanted to. “Thank you.” Pull yourself together. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”

He frowned, giving her that piercing hazel look. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

She nodded. For a moment she thought he wouldn’t listen to her, that he would refuse to go; the panicky, powerless feeling in her chest started to take up space she needed for her lungs. But he just looked at her for another moment, and then he nodded and left the room.

She let out her breath, shakily, and sat behind her desk. She ran her hand over the smooth mahogany. She loved that desk. It had been René’s, before Serena discovered that he had no head for money. Gradually she’d taken over nearly all the management of the inn, but it had still been René’s idea. It was René who had come to her bijou residence that she hated, and sat in her dressing room amid French lingerie and perfume bottles and vaginal sponges—he hadn’t even lifted an eyebrow—and offered her, not carte blanche, but a business proposition. He would put up three-quarters of the money, and she would put up the rest, plus her father’s name.

Serena pulled one of the heavy ledgers toward her and opened it. Candles, 15l., she read, written in her own neat script. Firewood, 26l. 6s. New register, 8s. 2p. This was her life now. How could she abandon it?

She had been staring blankly at the ledger for nearly a quarter of an hour when Sophy came in with a tea tray. “Mr. Hathaway said you wanted this.”

Serena looked up at Sophy. Familiar Sophy, who had been there from the beginning. “René wants to take the Arms away from me.” She hated how lost her voice sounded.

“What?” Sophy set the tea tray down on the edge of the desk and sat down.

“He’s forged marriage lines that say he’s my husband.”

Sophy’s eyes went grim behind her spectacles. “I never liked him.”

Serena could not decide whether to laugh or mourn at the patent untruth. “Of course you liked him. I did too. Everybody liked him. But it doesn’t matter. He won’t get the Arms. Do you know if Antoine’s prepared the menus yet for Saturday?”

Sophy accepted the change in topic without a flicker of an eyelid. “I have them right here. He was occupied with tonight’s ragout, but he asked me to have you look them over and bring them back when you were through with them.”

Serena spread the menus in front of her like a fan, her mind turning to sauces, wine selections, and table arrangements.

This was her life. And she would see René hanged, drawn, and quartered before she would lose it.

Solomon was awakened by muffled voices coming from Serena’s room.

“René, he’s the hundred and twenty-five pounds. I’m not asking him to move and that’s final.”

“Is he really?” The marquis sounded appreciative, even through several inches of oak. “I always imagined him more sickly looking.”

Serena snorted with quickly bitten-off laughter. Solomon cringed. She had told Sacreval about him? What had she said?

“Why do you need him in my room, however? I see the door between is locked, which defeats my first guess.”

“Oh, I would only leave that door unlocked for someone I really trusted, like you,” Serena said poisonously. “Solomon is here on business. I’m recovering a family heirloom for him.”

“What sort of heirloom?”

“A pair of ruby earrings. A bit of doggerel has made them indispensable to family weddings and they’re needed rather urgently.”

Solomon flushed at her dismissive tone. Admittedly, that was just how he had described it to her, but it still stung.

“What sort of doggerel?”

Solomon’s embarrassment increased as she recited it.

“And they have gone missing?” the marquis said through his laughter. “How convenient for you—Monsieur Hundred-and-Twenty-Five-Pounds’ wedding is delayed, and he stays here with you while you search. Where have you hidden them, I should like to know?”

To Solomon’s surprise, Serena didn’t seem to take offense. “It’s his sister’s wedding, you clunch. They were stolen by a highwayman on the road to Shropshire last week.”

“Then once again I ask, why is he in my room? I know you have always had a romantic fancy about that boy, but—” The marquis broke off with a laugh. Solomon could imagine Serena’s glare. “My apologies. Bien sûr, you have never had a romantic fancy in your life. But I thought our friendship was stronger than that.”

“I was stupid enough to think so, too, before you threatened to confiscate my rightful property,” she said bitterly. “You of all people ought to be ashamed, using the law’s injustice to further yourself. Lord knows you’ve committed hanging offenses enough, even setting aside your activities for the French crown.”

There was a brief silence. “You would not have me hanged for that.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But you would forge marriage lines to take away my right to own property. Now I find that ironic, don’t you?”

“I am truly sorry, sirène. It is vile. You ought to take my offer to buy you out.”

“Get out of my room, René,” Serena said wearily. A few seconds later, the hall door shut quietly.

So. Apparently the ties of old friendship were too strong to be all loosed at once. Solomon sighed. He had been a little shocked at her ruthlessness, earlier, though her shock and misery had been plain enough beneath it. But now he had heard them talking familiarly together—even if it was about him—he understood how well they had known each other, and how hard the betrayal must have hit.

Solomon felt abruptly guilty. In the midst of her first furious hurt, he had experienced nothing but relief. Relief that she wasn’t really married, as he’d believed for one brief but surprisingly awful moment. He was glad Serena didn’t know that.

He knocked on the connecting door. “Yes?” she called.

“Let me in.”

After a few moments of silence, she turned the key and opened the door. She was still fully dressed, though it was past midnight; there were ink stains on her fingers. A woman of business, indeed. Solomon felt inexplicably pleased. “Are you all right?”

She stared at him. “You knocked on my door after midnight to ask after my health?”

They both knew he hadn’t meant her health. “Well,” he said mildly, “I was awakened by people talking about me loudly in the next room.”

She froze. “René doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You know how the French are.”

He blinked. “I do?”

“Full of romantic notions about everything.”

God, she was impossible. He came to see how she did, even after she’d laughed at him behind his back, and still her first priority was to show she’d never once thought fondly of him. His eyes narrowed. “Since finding my family heirloom is apparently so trivial, perhaps I ought to ask for something extra in return for my help with Sacreval.”

Serena’s brows drew together. She had the most adorable frown. And she’d kill him if she knew he was thinking that. “Don’t think that just because René said I used to have a fancy for you, I’d be willing to—”

Did she really expect him to ask her to sleep with him? He sagged, making a face of theatrical disappointment. “But, Serena—”

She looked murderous. Solomon couldn’t help it: he laughed. Her frown softened at the edges.

Solomon flushed without quite knowing why. Had she had a romantic fancy about him? She’d thought about him apparently.

He had thought about her, too, at first. For those wretched, penniless four months at Cambridge, he’d thought about her every time he had to borrow a half-crown from his friends. He’d spun himself tales about her triumphant return home to lead a happy and virtuous life, trying to convince himself it had been worth it, even though he’d known it was likelier her madam had stolen every penny. He was ashamed to realize that once his penury ended and the next quarter’s allowance appeared, and Ashton and Braithwaite stopped needling him about it, he hadn’t thought about her much at all.

He had certainly never imagined this. He smiled at her. “When the Prince Regent brings his friends here for dinner on Saturday, you have to wear a gown made with fabric from my uncle’s shop.”

She looked at him, and sighed. “Solomon, this isn’t a joke.”

He almost gave in. After all, she’d had a large shock that day. But—he ran his gaze up and down her figure appraisingly, and dress patterns and color combinations started to turn ecstatic somersaults his head. It was improbable, how beautiful she was. “I’m not joking.”

“I suppose I hardly have a choice. But no red. I’m not in the mood for scarlet woman gibes.”

“Pink?” he asked hopefully, and snickered when she glared.

Serena had barely any fault to find with the gown as she tried it on early Saturday morning. The severe cut of the thin wool gave her height, and the deep apricot color made her hair and skin glow; yet neither the cloth nor the color seemed too rich for a hard-working woman of business. The long, full sleeves were gathered in three places by white ribbon covered with delicate gilt flourishes.

“Raizh your armzh,” Solomon said around a mouthful of pins. She obeyed. “Doezh it feel tight?”

“No. I think it’s a trifle loose on the left, actually.” Under pretense of eying her reflection, she watched Solomon in the full-length mirror she’d had carried into her office for the purpose. He was kneeling beside her in his shirtsleeves (which were rolled up above the elbow), a tape measure draped about his neck. There was something very charming about it.

She watched his strong hands and forearms as he pulled a few pins from between his lips. His light skin, with its downy blond hair and smattering of bright freckles, made her think of orchids dipped in honey. As he pulled the left-hand seam of the bodice tighter, one dye-stained thumb slid over the soft edge of her breast. Not quite to Serena’s surprise, her skin began to tingle pleasantly. Damn. She had been a fool to agree to this, even if her own dressmaker was too busy to do the final fitting. She shifted slightly, and to her relief he pricked her. “Ow!”

He looked up at her reprovingly over a pair of severe half-glasses that seemed at odds with his untidy yellow hair.

“And why the devil are you wearing spectacles?” she demanded. “I’ve seen you read without them.”

“Zhey make me look professional.” Serena raised a mocking eyebrow for form’s sake, but his next words echoed her thoughts eerily. “Don’t look at me like zhat. You of all people undershtand about looking professional.”

She didn’t like that. He was supposed to think she was professional. He wasn’t supposed to know it was a struggle. “It was much less expensive when looking professional meant wearing almost nothing.”

Solomon made a choking noise and a shower of pins hit the floor. She expected him to turn red with embarrassment, but then his shoulders shook and when his eyes met hers in the mirror she saw he was laughing. He didn’t do it enough. “Don’t make me laugh!” he said, picking the pins up, wiping them on his breeches, and putting them back in his mouth. “Besides, everybody knows that ‘almost nothing’ is more expensive than a lot where clothes are concerned.”

Serena glanced down at the top of his head with a mixture of exasperation and something else she didn’t want to examine too closely—and fortunately for her peace of mind was instantly distracted. From this angle it became very clear that there was something wrong with the gown.

“While we’re on the subject of almost nothing, don’t you think this is a trifle décolleté for my present line of work?” Of course she had had to speak up—she couldn’t go into the dining room like this—but she almost wished she hadn’t when his brief glance at her bodice had her nipples all but standing up on their hind legs and begging.

He raised his eyebrows. Damnation, that was her supercilious facial expression and it wasn’t fair of him to do it so well. “Don’t you trust me?” he asked. “The chemisette has to be fitted, too.”

Turning to the bandbox in which the gown had been packed, he pulled out two triangular pieces of fine linen, piped with the same white-and-gold ribbon as the sleeves. When sewn into the dress, they would transform the extremely revealing square neckline into a modest V, and hide the birthmark on the slope of her left breast.

He stood and reached for her neckline, but that was going too far. She held out her hand imperiously. “I’ll do it.”

He looked at her in exasperation. “You don’t know how to do it, and anyway you can’t see it. Are you this missish with your modiste?”

“My modiste is—” not you. “A woman.”

His mouth set in a hard line. “Serena, have I been in any way unprofessional?”

“I’m afraid I don’t see—” she began in her most calmly patronizing tone.

“Have I?”

“No, Solomon, you’ve been quite the gentleman, but—”

“Then quit acting as if the only thought in my thimble-sized brain is to get my hands on you. I’m not Lord Smollett!”

Thank God. He was completely unaware of her actual motive. (Also thank God he wasn’t Lord Smollett.) She didn’t know what to say; she was half-afraid that if she said anything further, he would point out that he’d been a lot closer to her and seen a lot more, six years ago. If she weren’t a ruined woman, she thought, he wouldn’t have dared to suggest fitting the dress himself at all.

But that was only half the story, wasn’t it? He’d suggested it—and she had agreed. She’d wanted his hands on her and now she had them, and she had better pretend it wasn’t affecting her in the slightest. “Go ahead,” she muttered.

“Thank you.”

She set her jaw and hoped he couldn’t feel the absurdly fast beating of her heart as she imagined his hands moving lower, cupping her breasts and roaming over her belly, her hips, her—

“There,” he said. He stepped back and nodded with satisfaction. “You look like Lucretia Borgia.”

Serena would have sighed with relief if her breathing hadn’t already been nearly out of her control. “Lucretia Borgia was blond.” But she didn’t dare essay a superior smile.

Besides, she saw what he meant. The gown made her look mysterious and alluring, and at the same time commanding and even a little dangerous—all the things she had striven to be. All the things she had made herself. It was perfect.

And Solomon had designed it for her. He had given her a spangled domino to match her mask—when no one else had ever suspected she was wearing one. It frightened her, made her feel naked and cold. She drew herself up. “Charming, nevertheless. Your talents are wasted on waistcoats.” But light irony had deserted her. Her words sounded sarcastic and ill-humored.

He sighed. “You don’t like it.”

Her twinge of guilt irritated her. “Don’t be a fool,” she said awkwardly. “You don’t need me to tell you you’re talented.”

He relaxed, grinning sheepishly at her. “It looks as if I do. Sorry.”

She made a dismissive gesture as he reached for the hem of her sleeve. Their fingers brushed; electricity tore through her. Solomon’s hazel eyes sharpened over the ridiculous spectacles, and the air between them shimmered and changed—

The door to her office swung open so hard it thunked against the wall.