A Lily Among Thorns, page 13
“Come on, this is perfect! Here, I’ll hold your robe for you—I don’t want you to trip.”
“But I’ll be cold,” she protested.
“You’ll warm up fast.” He held out his hand.
Obediently—and if anything could have told him how deeply miserable she was, it was that word, obediently, used in connection with Serena—she removed the robe and handed it to him. She stood there in her shift, shivering a little.
“Have you ever done one before?”
That spurred her into action. She spun away, took a few quick steps forward, and turned a long line of perfect cartwheels down the center of the tunnel.
He sat down on the steps and watched her spin back, bare feet and arms and long white legs flashing out of the darkness into the candlelight. She stopped a few yards from the stairs. Flushed with exertion, she pulled her shift quickly to rights—but not before he saw one dusky aureole. Oh God.
“Do—” He cleared his throat. “Do you feel better?”
She smiled at him, still panting. “I do, actually. I feel lighter.”
“Good, I’ll fetch the strawberries. Here’s your robe.” He shoved it quickly into her hands and fled back under the stairs.
They ate the strawberries sitting on the stairs. He was uncomfortably aware of her nearness, and tried not to watch her put the strawberries in her mouth, or to think about what else she would have put in her mouth if he hadn’t had scruples.
When the strawberries were all gone Serena said with a sigh, “I suppose we should be getting back to bed.”
“Just a little longer? I don’t feel like sleeping just yet.”
“It’s late.”
“I know.” He looked down and rubbed at a strawberry stain on his finger. At least it didn’t clash with the splotches of black. “Last night, I had one of those dreams about Elijah again. I—just stay a little longer.”
He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Would you like me to stay all night?”
He looked askance at her.
“In an entirely platonic way, of course.”
“You promise?”
“I promise. I’m not too keen on my own bed right now either.”
He hesitated, as if there were any chance of his saying no. Serena in his bed. Waking up in the night and hearing her breathing, feeling her warmth. It would be torture, but he wanted it. Apparently, so did she. “Would you?”
“I never back out on a deal.”
Serena was not amused when she woke early the next morning to find herself lying next to an angelically slumbering Solomon, her nose pressed into his side and her arm flung across his chest. She sat up. In the morning light, his freckles were sprinkled across his face like gold dust.
Lord, what a stupid thing to think. She rubbed at her eyes.
Last night had gone all wrong. She had merely planned to seduce him, to get him to beg her to stay the night. True, she hadn’t expected the experience to be unpleasant—quite the opposite. But she had planned to remain firmly in control.
Instead, the instant he gave in and kissed her, she’d forgotten all her skill and plans, lost in a wave of sensation, unable to do anything but pant and moan and—God, had she really?—rub herself against him like a cat in heat.
Her attempt to take back control had been disastrous. When he had recoiled, she’d thought she would die. When he’d said, I’m not interested in strange women, that awful ruined feeling from when she was eighteen had risen up and drowned her. Whore, she’d thought. He’s too good for you, and he knows it. For a second she’d hated him with the same sullen contempt she’d felt the first time she’d seen him. And Solomon—bizarre, wonderful Solomon—had yet again only wanted something more honest from her.
He’d pulled back, stopped her from wrapping her mouth around him and showing him all the advantages of bedding the most notorious ex-whore in London, and somehow they’d ended up sleeping side by side like a couple of innocent babes. She’d clung to him. She had let him see her almost in tears. And his ridiculous cartwheels had actually made her feel better.
What was next? Frolicking through a field of daisies? Sweet, tender lovemaking? That idea does not make me feel all warm and tingly, she told herself firmly. Her mind ignored her, dwelling on the last few moments before Solomon had put a stop to things.
She’d pleasured plenty of men with her mouth and received more than her share of compliments on her technique. But last night it had been different—she’d really wanted to, wanted to feel Solomon trembling and hear him gasp with pleasure and know that it was her doing. She had wanted him to look at her the way he looked at his experiments, or at the organ in St. Andrew’s—with utter concentration and joy. She had wanted to give him something wonderful.
She rolled over and looked at Solomon, stretched out in his bed with the morning sun caressing his limbs, and she felt it again. Her hands ached with the need to reach out and touch him. She could do it. He was right there. She could feel the heat from his body warming her legs.
It was seven o’clock. On an ordinary day she would have been up for two hours. She had all of yesterday’s work to do, and Sophy’s teasing to face. Sophy always came to her room in the mornings to help with her stays and buttons. Sophy would know she hadn’t been there. Antoine probably already knew, just as he knew she hadn’t looked at next week’s menus yet. What was the point, when she was going to lose the Arms? She could stay here and touch Solomon, and not face it.
That was when Serena panicked. Solomon had to go. He was clouding her mind, keeping her from figuring out a solution to her problems. Keeping her from caring as much as she should. She was letting him make her feel safe, but the only person who could keep her safe was herself. She had to find his earrings so that he could go.
She would go to Decker’s. She’d go right now. She slid out of bed as slowly as she could and tiptoed to the connecting door, which stood wide open. She shut the door quietly behind her and leaned against it, thinking. Decker required male attire.
Ten minutes later, Serena was tugging on a pair of gleaming Hessians that had stood hidden in her wardrobe behind a green wool evening gown. She shoved her hair inside an old beaver hat and inspected the result in the mirror. I really must invest in a wig, she thought distractedly, and left.
Fritz Decker’s was one of the less reputable molly houses in London—that is to say, one of the less reputable establishments catering to men who preferred the company of other men, at least for certain very personal activities—but that didn’t mean Decker was careless. Serena had to give her name, a sign, and a counter-countersign to the burly, businesslike fellow at the door. At the conclusion of this formality, he ceremoniously showed her in to where the host was sitting in a corner of his taproom.
Decker was a red-nosed man, not many years past his prime. His green-and-gold-striped waistcoat had once been very fine, but was now several years further past its prime than its owner, and covered in grease and beer stains. “Morning, Thorn, it’s good to see you again. What brings you to my humble establishment?”
“Good to see you too, Fritz. I daresay you got my message.”
Decker shifted uneasily. “I warn you I can make no guarantees I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
She gave him a silky smile. “I’ll just have to hope, won’t I?”
Decker sighed lugubriously. “Come in the back and we’ll discuss it.”
Serena glanced about the taproom while he was heaving himself out of his chair. At half-past seven in the morning, there was almost no one about. A group of bleary-eyed men in one corner were glaring at two disgustingly cheery fellows in the opposite corner, who seemed to have just awoken from a good night’s sleep, probably in each other’s company. A few skinny, rouged boys sprawled across stools at the bar.
Serena didn’t recognize more than a handful of the house’s denizens, but she did note that Lord Hartleigh’s coloring was better suited to his wife’s peach sarsenet than Lady Hartleigh’s, and that young Ravi Bhattacharya was thinner than ever and sporting a black eye. They could use a new kitchen boy at the Arms; she’d speak to him about it on her way out. Of course, Sophy had reminded her just last week when she’d hired Charlotte that the Arms wasn’t a Home for Ruined Young Persons, but didn’t she and Sophy give that the lie already?
And then Lord Hartleigh moved a little to the left and Serena’s heart thudded and sank. Sitting just behind him, in close and very amiable conversation with Sir Nigel Anchridge, was Solomon.
Chapter 12
Serena headed straight for him, ignoring Decker’s forceful sotto voce representations. “If you might give us a moment,” she said to Sir Nigel in freezing accents, and stared at him until he shrugged, grinned, and wandered off. Turning her gaze on Solomon, she saw him give Sir Nigel a conspiratorial wink. “Solomon, what the devil is going on here?” she asked in a furious undertone.
His brow wrinkled. He was wearing fetchingly disheveled riding gear that Serena had never seen before. “I’m sorry to disappoint such a lovely young man, but my name’s not Solomon.” He gave her a friendly leer. “However, since you’ve driven off my friend, perhaps I might be of service to you instead?” He was affecting a different accent, a little more Shropshire and less Cambridge, but she’d already heard him use it at St. Andrew of the Cross.
“I don’t give a damn how you choose to spend your spare time, but please have the courtesy not to lie to me to my face.” It occurred to her, painfully, that this explained the hundred and twenty-five pounds. Not to mention last night. He’d been so kind, so respectful—because he didn’t want her.
Solomon crossed a boot over his knee and tilted his head in just that way he had. “I’m very sorry, sir, but there’s been a mistake.” His right hand moved to rest lightly on his top-boot, and two things made Serena realize with a jolt that it was really not Solomon. For one thing, he evidently had a knife in his boot. For another, his hands were smooth and unstained. But they were unmistakably Solomon’s hands—
Serena’s eyes narrowed. “Elijah!” she hissed.
His left hand shot out and caught her by the wrist, and Elijah said pleasantly, “I’d be very much obliged to you if you didn’t use my name here.”
Her lips thinned. “Very well,” she said quietly. “I’d be very much obliged to you if you’d come with me. Your brother has spent the past year and however long mourning you, and I don’t plan to allow that to continue one moment longer than necessary. I have some business to conduct with our host, but I shall return shortly. I trust you’ll still be here—but should you choose to go, I can find you.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, sir, but you have the advantage of me. Who are you, exactly?”
She laid her palm flat on the table and leaned forward. “I am Lady Serena Ravenshaw.”
His brows rose, his eyes flickering to her bound breasts. “I see. Well, in that case I won’t cross you. The Thorn’s network of spies is legend.” He flashed her an engaging grin eerily like Solomon’s—and yet with rather more dash and conscious charm. She felt inexplicably unsettled.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she said sharply, and gave him a last admonitory glare before returning to Decker, who stood watching her resignedly.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if I caused an upheaval at the Arms,” he grumbled.
Serena shrugged. “Don’t tell me your taproom has never seen a jealous lovers’ spat before. That’s all anyone thought it was.”
Decker gave her a sideways grin. “A lovers’ spat, Thorn? Is that the handsome tailor I hear you were kissing in a hallway a few nights ago?”
Serena raised an eyebrow. “Been listening to gossip, Fritz?”
“When do I listen to anything else? Can’t say I wasn’t pleased to hear it. You deserve some fun. I’ve a soft spot for tailors myself. Meticulous, that’s what they are.” He smiled reminiscently and blew his red nose into a cherry-striped handkerchief. “But if he’s having a bit on the side, I say boot him out.”
She was caught between Scylla and Charybdis. God only knew what Elijah was up to, lurking around pretending to be dead and seeming, for a corpse, rather dangerous. She could hardly reveal that he wasn’t Solomon. Nor could she announce that she and Solomon weren’t lovers, since, well, no one would believe it. Which meant Fritz Decker thought she was being cheated on, and there was nothing she could do about it. It was humiliating. “That’s not what we were discussing,” she said icily, and left it at that.
“Well, you always were one for keeping up a brave front,” Decker said cheerily. If only she were a man, no one would say things like that to her.
He let them into a low unpainted room off the house’s yard and latched the door behind them. A table covered in equipment stood in the center of the room. She’d seen it plenty of times before, but now it made her think of Solomon. In the corner was a large safe. As well as running one of London’s less reputable molly houses, Decker was one of London’s more discreet fences. “Now how can I help you?”
“I’m here to get those earrings. These are the same pair you bought off a highwayman last week, are they not?” She drew Solomon’s sketch of the earrings from her pocket and handed it to Decker.
The look he gave her was really troubled. “These were the last things I ever expected you to ask about.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He pursed his lips. “I’ll tell you this much. I did have those earrings. They were here for almost five days. Then someone comes in yesterday morning, asking about them. I’m sorry, Thorn. They’re gone. Were gone hours before I got your note.”
“And who purchased them?”
His round mouth flattened out severely. “You know I won’t tell you. My business relies on discretion.”
“I’m discreet. And I would make it worth your while.”
He looked affronted. “I wasn’t asking for a bribe. I don’t betray my customers. In either of my professions.”
She leaned against the door frame, gave a long-suffering sigh, and fixed him with her blankest, mildest expression. “I need to know where those earrings went, Fritz. I should hate to have to resort to foolish violence.” He quailed. Serena felt a shock of pure malicious satisfaction. That would teach him to tell her she put up a brave front.
“I can’t, and I can’t,” he said pleadingly. “You’ve been accused of black things, Thorn, but violence to an undeserving man for pursuing his profession isn’t one of them.”
She grinned wolfishly. “You clearly haven’t heard my latest orders.”
He had. She saw it in his eyes. He took a hasty step backward. But he stuck obstinately to his guns. “Cutthroat ain’t a profession, and your father deserves what he gets. This is different. But even if it wasn’t, I’m between the devil and the deep sea. My life won’t be worth a copper penny if one of my transactions becomes a source of unpleasantness because of me, and that’s a fact.”
Damn it, he was right. Serena just wanted this over with so she could go back out there and deal with Elijah. It filled her with angry frustration that the information she needed was so damn close and yet she wasn’t going to get it.
On the other hand, she thought, if I can’t get the earrings, Solomon can’t leave yet. No, that was a bad thing. She glared at Decker.
“I owe you a debt, Thorn,” Decker said unexpectedly, stepping forward again. “You didn’t have to warn me about that police raid, and you did. And I like you, for all you could frighten our Lord himself. So let me warn you to be careful. I’m troubled in my mind that you should be asking about those earrings.”
“Oh la,” she drawled. “I’m ever so touched. I can make such practical use of that information. At least tell me one thing: were the earrings whole when you sold them?”
He nodded. His relieved smile that she was relenting just made her angrier. People weren’t supposed to look at her like that. They weren’t supposed to like her. Being liked didn’t keep you safe. You couldn’t predict it or rely on it. It was just something you had to keep earning, over and over.
“Thank you,” she said. “But bear in mind that the next time I come across information that you need, I just may keep it to myself.” But she didn’t find Decker’s hurt expression any more pleasant than his smile. It was an empty threat anyway, and he probably knew it.
Solomon was throwing her off her game, and now that the earrings were missing again, who knew when she could be rid of him?
To her surprise, Elijah was waiting patiently when she returned to the taproom. She motioned him to stay while she had a few words with Ravi Bhattacharya, who was still sitting at the bar with his head high and an empty glass of gin in his hand.
That business concluded, Serena jerked her head toward the door, and Elijah stood and followed her. They were waiting for a hackney on the pavement when Serena asked abruptly, “Is your brother—does he—” She gestured toward the pub behind them, frustrated that she couldn’t seem to just come out and ask. But what would she say? Does your brother like men? Because that would explain why he hasn’t slept with me.
A slow, pleased smile spread across Elijah’s face, and Serena felt her temperature rising. Good God, was she blushing? “No,” he said. “He isn’t, and doesn’t.”
Serena concentrated very hard on watching the road for a hackney. Finally one came, and she hailed it. As Elijah was climbing in ahead of her, he flung back carelessly over his shoulder, “Oh, and Thorn, do me a favor, would you?”
“It depends on the favor.”
He did not meet her eyes. “Don’t tell Solomon where you found me?”
Her heart clenched. “It’s no fun to have your family angry with you for sleeping with the wrong people, is it?”
He laughed. Then his brows drew together. “Surely Solomon isn’t the wrong people.”
“You Hathaways seem to have rather a lot of unjustified family pride,” Serena said in some amusement. “Of course he is. But I’m not sleeping with him.”
