A Lily Among Thorns (5 page)

“You call her your daughter, but ‘a friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity’! How much more so a father, bound to his child by the most unbreakable and sacred ties of responsibility and natural affection? To suggest what you have suggested—to threaten one who should rely on you for protection—” He gulped for breath and plunged on. “Your daughter has done what none of your blood has done since the Conquest—kept an honest roof over her head with the fruits of her own honest labor! And you come here and insult her under it. Are you not
ashamed
?”

Lord Blackthorne’s lips were white. “If you were a gentleman I would call you out for that. As it is, you are fit only for horsewhipping.”

“That’s just as well, for I should certainly not meet you,” Solomon bit out. “Dueling is an outmoded and barbaric custom, fit only for killing off the stupider members of a thoroughly useless class.”

Lord Blackthorne had been angry. Now, he was simply astonished. “Is he this prosy between the sheets?” he asked his daughter.

Her smile was cold, but her eyes were dancing now. “Oh no, Father.
There
he is pure poetry.”

That pulled Solomon up short. Lord Blackthorne wasn’t going
to believe
that
, was he? Solomon could barely believe she’d said it. He blinked again to dispel the images called up by her suggestive tone of voice.
Definitely lacking in verisimilitude
, he told himself.

But Lord Blackthorne’s jaw dropped, and Lady Serena’s smile widened. “Now get out before I have you tossed out.”

Lord Blackthorne gave them the look of a cornered wolf. “I want him gone or I shall take steps. I give you two weeks. Good night.” With that Parthian shot he stormed out.

They stood staring at each other for a moment. Lady Serena’s smile was gone, but there was something warm and tired in her expression that he’d never seen before. “Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful when you’re angry?”

He gave an unsteady, surprised laugh, trying to slow the exhilarated pounding of his heart. He felt clean, like a lanced wound. “I don’t know what came over me. That is—it’s my best impression of my father giving a sermon. That’s his accent. My brother Elijah used to fall out of his chair laughing.”

She met his gaze and shook her head regretfully. “You show such a touching faith in my character that I’m almost loath to destroy it. You called me an honest woman. I’m not. I’m one of the most notorious ex-whores in London.” Her face showed perfect unconcern, but she didn’t appear to be breathing. He couldn’t believe that
that
was what she was worrying about, now, after her father’s threats. Did she care that much what he thought?

He grinned at her. “I know.”

She blinked. “You know?”

“I recognized you as soon as I saw you in the dark.”

Serena couldn’t believe it. He knew, and still he’d defended her.

Once, when she was eighteen and had done something new with her protector, and not liked it, she had lain in bed after he’d gone home and shivered in the dark and thought,
No honest man will ever want me now
.

She didn’t, generally, let herself dwell on things like that; there was no use moping over facts, and honest men could go hang. But that night she hadn’t been able to help herself. For days afterward, despite her best efforts, she had felt cold and miserable and damaged, somehow, inside—
ruined
.

Solomon wasn’t looking at her as if he thought she was ruined.

He’d done the same thing six years ago; he’d come into that awful place and looked at her as if he saw her, as if he
wanted
to see her. And that forced her to see him, and she didn’t want to. She couldn’t afford to, not when she needed all the energy she had for herself, simply to get through each moment.

“Why did you do it?” she asked. “Why did you give me the money?” She’d wanted to know for years; she focused on that. If she let herself think of Bedlam—she couldn’t think of it. She couldn’t.

He chewed on his lip. “Because you needed it?”

“Didn’t you?”

He laughed. “Yes, I did. It was my entire allowance for the quarter. But is it not written, ‘He that loveth wine and oil shall not be rich’?”

He said it as if it could be as simple as it seemed. He was a kind young man, and he’d been drunk, and she had needed it. Try as she might, she could not twist it into selfishness or lust, into something she understood; it unsettled her. “Did you regret it?”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “But not—I regretted it, but I didn’t want to change it.” He gave her a rueful half smile. She didn’t say anything, and the smile faded; his eyes dropped and he rubbed his thumb along the edge of his table of equipment. “I do wish I’d borrowed the money to buy my brother Elijah a birthday gift.”

She shrugged. “I’ve never understood the great fuss about birthdays.”

“He only had two more of them after that,” he said, and she felt abruptly cold. “And he gave me just the thing I wanted.”

“On his own birthday—” Halfway through the sentence she understood, but it was too late.

“Sorry, I—we were born on the same day,” he explained. “We were twins.”

She stood, frozen. She should say something. She had to say something. But she couldn’t think of anything. So this was why he’d lost weight, and why his freckles stood out starkly against his pale skin, and why he had that drawn, defeated look she’d steadfastly refused to be concerned about from the moment she’d seen him again.

“And now I’ve got to go on having birthday after birthday without him.” He looked up; the sweetness of his smile was foreign and incomprehensible, but she felt a piercing kinship at the self-derision in his eyes. “I always thought—I’d know if anything happened to him. I’d feel it. But that was rot. I had no idea. I was laughing or eating and he was dead. He bled in the dirt all alone.”

Serena had no idea what to do.
I’m very sorry for your loss
, she thought, dredging the polite courtesy up from God knew where. But she couldn’t say it, didn’t know how to make her tongue form the words. She was more helpless before his simple, ordinary need than she would have been before any display of mastery. For long, painful moments, the only sound was the rain on the roof and the cobblestones.

“How on earth did you end up at Mme Deveraux’s?” he asked, finally.

“I slept with the footman,” she told him, angrily conscious of her own failure.

“And your father kicked you out?” He shot a sharp, frowning glance at the door Lord Blackthorne had just walked out of.

There, he was doing it already. Trying to make her an abused innocent, searching for the heart of gold among her brass. “No, I left,” she said with a false, brilliant smile. “I became a whore to spite him.” It was about half true. She had left to go after Harry,
the footman; she’d intended to marry him. Harry, however, had had no such intention. When she’d gone to the address he’d given her, he hadn’t been there, and his friends had refused to give her any information about his whereabouts at all.

She’d been starving by the time Mme Deveraux’s procurer approached her in the street. But it hadn’t only been desperation; she had signed her contract with a flourish, feeling hot and triumphant at the thought of what her father would say. She’d been an idiot.

Solomon didn’t say anything; he looked as if he saw through the smile. He was doing it again,
seeing
her, and she hated it. She was afraid of what he would see—and worse, that he wouldn’t like it. “I bought back my contract with your money,” she told him. “But I didn’t stop. I was the most expensive whore in London for a year, and no matter how high my rates were, there was always someone willing to offer more. I couldn’t have done it without you. How do you feel about that?”

He swallowed. “Lady—” He stopped, evidently realizing how stupid it was to speak formally after the conversation they’d just had. “Serena, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

She didn’t either. “I suppose I want you to know what to say.” Stupid, but true. “Fit for Bedlam, aren’t I?”

Black fear rose, then, from where it had been waiting. Her father could do it. He could really do it, and no sweet drunk boy would save her from that. Why now? He’d left her alone for years. She’d thought she was free of him, and instead he was like some deus ex machina who could walk in and out of her life whenever he pleased, handing down ultimatums and commands with no forewarning and no hope of escape.

She pressed her fist to her mouth. “I—I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, quite calmly, and left the room.

Solomon woke at eight o’clock, not at all refreshed. Serena, he knew, must be already awake and dealing with business, and he
wanted to see how she was. He wanted to see
her
. Within twenty minutes he was dressed and hurrying down the back corridor to her office.

In his haste, he ran straight into a tall man in obviously Parisian tailoring. Annoyed at his own gracelessness—but making a mental note to experiment further with gilt thread and pocketflap shapes—he apologized and tried to move past.

To his surprise, the stranger’s dark eyes lit up and he embraced Solomon enthusiastically, talking in rapid French. “
Thierry! Comme ça me fait plaisir de te revoir! Mais où est-ce que t’es parti, hein? Je m’inquiétais tant quand t’as disparu
—”

Solomon disengaged himself and stood stock-still. Once, he’d been used to this—being approached by people he didn’t know and called by a name that wasn’t his. When Elijah was alive, it had usually annoyed him and sometimes entertained him enormously. Now it did neither.

Shortly after Elijah died, someone who hadn’t known yet had mistaken Solomon for his twin, and he’d gone along with it for a joke the way he sometimes had before, thinking—God, he’d been stupid—thinking that it might make him feel better. After five sentences he’d gone outside and been sick.

“
Mais pourquoi tu ne réponds pas? T’es pas heureux de me voir
?”

“I—I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”

The man frowned, laughed, and ran his fingers through his dark hair, making it stand straight up. “You do not speak French!” he said in lightly accented English. “Thierry, you are teasing me! And me, I did not even know you speak English!
Tiens
, do not pretend not to know me any longer. I am not so sure I can bear it.”

He wanted to snap at the man, to tell him to go away and stop making Solomon feel like this. “I’m sorry, but it’s true,” he said gently. “You must have been a friend of my brother’s.”

The man stilled in a way that reminded Solomon a little of Serena. “Your brother?”

“Yes, my brother Elijah. He spoke French very well.”

The man’s dark eyes examined Solomon, suspicious at first and then merely disappointed. “No, I see you are not he. But it is his face, his voice: yes, his brother. I—did not know he was English.” He shook himself a little, and asked more cheerfully, “But Thierry—Elijah”—he pronounced it carefully—“you are his brother, you know where he is—how I can find him?”

Solomon looked away. “Elijah’s dead.”

“Pardon?” But from the tremor in his voice, Solomon thought the man had understood.

“He’s dead. I’m sorry.”

“Dead. As, he lives no more?”

Solomon nodded. How many more times would he have to say it?

All the blood drained from the man’s face. “I see. How did he die, if you please?”

“He was killed by—” Solomon was about to say
the French
, but thought better of it. “He was shot.”

The man’s lips parted, as if he himself had taken a bullet. “I see. Please, accept my condolences on the loss of your brother.”

“Thank you. How—how did you know him? Please, I’d like to hear—” Actually, he could imagine it easily. It would have been very like Elijah to meet the Frenchman by chance and see if he could pass himself off as French, and very like Elijah—who had always been announcing he would build a six—no, an eight—no, a twelve-story house of cards, and who had always laughed when it came tumbling down—to see how far he could take it. Apparently rather far.

“Well, after all, I did not know him very well.”

“But—”

“
Mais non
, I assure you, we did not meet but once or twice.”

“René!” Lady Serena’s voice, behind them, was more unabashedly happy than he’d ever heard it. Solomon felt a small, irrational pang of jealousy. “How charming to see you again. But what is the matter? You look queer as Dick’s hatband.”

“Nothing,
ma petite sirène
,” he said as she ushered the two of them into her office. “It will pass. I—only I knew this gentleman’s brother, a little, and he is dead, it appears.”

Serena stole a glance at Solomon. “Yes,” she said quietly. “He is.” They stood in silence for a few moments. “But I must introduce to you the gentleman who has taken your room. René, allow me to present Solomon Hathaway. Solomon, this is René, marquis du Sacreval and my erstwhile business partner.” She still sounded so damn happy and trying to hide it, like a child who thought she was too old to make a fuss about Christmas.

The marquis and Solomon evinced equal surprise—Solomon would have almost said the Frenchman looked unsettled. “Did you say Hattaway?” he asked, nose wrinkling. “How very English. And are you from Stratford?”

“Yes, Hathaway,” Solomon said. “Sorry about the t-h. No, it’s no relation to Shakespeare’s wife that I know. We’re from Shropshire.”

The marquis frowned and turned cajolingly to Serena. “You have given him my room,
ma sirène
? But I will be needing it.”

She shrugged. “If you’d sent me word you were coming I could have saved it for you, but as it is, I’ll hardly ask Solomon to move. You can have the apricot room if you like; it’s just across the hall.”

“He can have the room,” Solomon said, trying not to think of that connecting door. “It’s his, after all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No, the room is mine. I’m happy to put René up free of charge at any time, but, as I’m sure he will acknowledge, I bought out his share in the Arms when he left for France.”

The marquis pressed his lips together, looking cornered. “It is that which I must speak to you about,
ma sirène
. I have not been able to recover my lands in France, Napoleon is back,
alors
, I am forced to return to your green island.”