A Lily Among Thorns (25 page)

“Are you the brother of a Mr. Elijah Hathaway?” she asked.

Solomon nodded, surprised. “Do you know my brother?”

“No—that is, I know
of
him—that is—I was sent here by his colleague Lord Varney at the Foreign Office. To help you—to help you arrest my husband.”

“Your
husband
?” Serena said.

“Yes, I—it appears that he’s a traitor. He passes information to Bonaparte.”

“But—” Solomon began.

Serena tightened her grip on his wrist. “Are you sure?” she asked calmly.

“Yes.” Lady Brendan’s voice shook, but she didn’t look away. “I am sure. At first I could not believe it—his youngest son is with Wellington—but it is true.”

“And what do you want us to do?” Serena thought she spoke perfectly politely, but the woman flinched back shamefully as if she were a servant Serena had slapped. Not that Serena had ever slapped a servant.

“My husband asked me to arrange for you to cater a Venetian breakfast we are giving Monday next,” she said softly. “I believe he passes his information through monseigneur du Sacreval, who used to own this inn.”

It was such a small point, but Serena couldn’t let it pass. “Sacreval
never
owned this inn. He owned half of it.”

Lady Brendan blinked. “Ah. Well, the man at the Foreign Office told me to obey my husband, and they would arrest him at the party. Red-handed, he said.” She spoke the last few words so quietly Serena had to strain to hear them.

“Lady Brendan, may I point out that it was always you who placed catering orders here? You used to spend quite a long time closeted alone with Sacreval to do it. And”—Serena paused delicately—“you are French.”

Lady Brendan’s chin went up. “When I came here to confer
with that fraud of a marquis, it was because my husband asked it of me. My husband”—she faltered—“he likes to eat well. He had very specific instructions.”

“In other words, he was using you to pass information,” Serena said. “Are you sure you weren’t in it together? Because I warn you, if you were, he’ll turn on you the second he’s taken.”

“I am no spy,” she said with quiet dignity. “I am loyal to my adopted country. My father was the vicomte de Tuyère. His blood and my brother’s was spilt on the guillotine. We were driven out of France so that Corsican upstart and his vulgar brothers and sisters could call themselves emperors and princesses and dukes.” Her lips trembled suddenly; she looked at her knotted hands. “And Lord Brendan’s son—he was so small when his father married me. Not even nine. I used to kiss him good night—I do not wish him to be killed. I will do what I must.”

“Very well,” Serena said. “You may leave the matter in our hands. Now, what would you like served at your breakfast? As you know, our chef has a number of specialties. I have a printed menu here.” She leaned over to get it out of her desk drawer.

“Lord Brendan always loved your
asperges à l’italienne
—” There was a choked noise, and when Serena looked up Lady Brendan’s clear gray eyes were filled with tears. “I’m sorry—only—they will cut off his head, and he has been good to me.”

Serena said nothing. What was there to say? If—
when
they arrested René, he would not even receive the peer’s privilege of a quick beheading.

Luckily, Solomon was there to fill the breach. “How dreadful for you,” he murmured, handing Lady Brendan his pocket-handkerchief.

She disappeared behind it for several seconds. “You must think I’m very weak and foolish,” she said finally, looking up at him.

Serena did rather, unless it was all a lie and Lady Brendan the traitor after all, but Solomon replied warmly, “Not at all. I
think it’s very courageous and noble of you to risk everything for England this way.”

Serena felt an unpleasant pang. She knew he thought she ought to have turned René in years ago.

“You’re being a regular Trojan,” he continued. “I am sure your stepson will look out for you, but if you find yourself in any financial difficulty—”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Lady Brendan broke in hurriedly. “I would prefer
anything
to accepting charity. I had enough of that when I was small.” Her hands fluttered emphatically in her lap.

Was that a flash of annoyance in Solomon’s eyes? No, it couldn’t be, because he was reaching out to clasp her hand and smiling. “I wasn’t speaking of charity. But I daresay I could find you a position as a seamstress if you wanted, or perhaps Lady Serena could find you a job, couldn’t you, Lady Serena?”

Serena felt that she ought to be moved by all this, but she wasn’t. The more sympathetic Solomon became, the less she felt anything at all—the colder, in fact, she found herself becoming. “Of course, if I find you have any useful talents.”

Solomon glanced at her.
That
was definitely a flash of annoyance.

“Now I’m afraid I must go,” Serena continued. “If you’re going to cry any more, you’d better do it here where your husband can’t see you, and wash your face before you go, too. I’ll have some tea brought—”

“Free of charge,” Solomon interjected.

“Free of charge, naturally,” Serena agreed, “and I’m sure Mr. Hathaway would be delighted to bear you company.”

“Thank you,” Lady Brendan said with a sort of gracious, wounded misery, “but I don’t like to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Serena said, suddenly perversely determined to be troubled. “But let me show you to a private parlor.” She was damned if she would leave a woman alone in her office whom only half an hour earlier she had believed a traitor.

Solomon offered Lady Brendan his arm, and when they had ensconced her in a private parlor, he pressed her hand before taking his leave. “If you need anything, just let us know.”

When they were out the door and heading toward the kitchen, Solomon looked at Serena. “I can’t believe you were so unfeeling to that young woman.”

She had been, of course. “I am simply an unfeeling woman, I suppose. Perhaps that explains why I’ve never cried on anyone’s shoulder or required free tea of utter strangers.” She had cried on Solomon’s shoulder, though, only a few nights ago in the laundry tunnel. She wished she hadn’t.

“Very true,” said Solomon. “Neither have you ever risked your all for the safety of English soldiers and the liberty of English citizens.”

Serena clenched her jaw and said nothing.

“Not everyone can be such a Spartan as you. I think she’s holding up remarkably well under the circumstances.”

What circumstances? Being on the brink of seeing a man she cares about brutally executed and not knowing if she’ll find herself on the streets? What would I know about
that
? It’s not as if it were
easy
to be a Spartan
, she wanted to yell. But she knew how these things worked. Lady Brendan, with her wet lashes and fluttering hands, would get nothing but sympathy, accolades, and male admiration for her courage. Serena, if the past were any indication of the future, would be termed a cold bitch.

Instead she said something nearly as ill judged. “You’re right, of course. And then she is very pretty, isn’t she?”

Solomon smiled suddenly. “I thought so,” he agreed. “But then, I have an especial fondness for gray eyes.”

Serena’s mouth curved reluctantly. “Oh you have, have you?” They reached the kitchen before he could reply. “Antoine, can you have someone make up a tea tray, please?” She turned back to Solomon. “You’ll take it in to her, won’t you?”

“Not likely,” he said with a grin. “She’s unchaperoned, and
anyway, you’re raving if you think I’ll listen to more of that ‘my father’s blood was the bluest in France’ drivel.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“I say it to
you
,” Solomon said, speaking very slowly, as if to a small child who was just learning English. “I don’t say it to
her
. She’s doing her best. Besides, if we don’t calm her down and she breaks down at home, it’s all our necks. Figuratively speaking.”

And so it was Serena who carried in the tea tray, a small phial of rosewater perched on the edge. Lady Brendan was sitting where Serena had left her, staring out the window with swollen eyes. She started when Serena, both hands full of tray, let the door bang shut. “I brought your tea,” Serena said, awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Lady Brendan mumbled, and sniffled.

“You’re welcome. I brought some rosewater too. Dab it around your eyes. It’ll make them less red.”

“Thank you.” Lady Brendan essayed a weak smile. “I’m surprised you even know that. You don’t seem as if you would ever cry.”

Serena didn’t know whether to be gratified or annoyed. “Concealing tears is only one of the many useful skills one learns in a brothel.”

“Oh.” Lady Brendan looked mortified.

Serena sat beside her on the sofa. “Did you marry him for love?”

“No. But after twelve years—I am fond of him.”

Serena nodded. “It’s hard. I’m rather fond of that fraud of a marquis, myself.”

Lady Brendan’s gray eyes darkened with sympathy. “Oh, were you two—”

“No!” Serena took a deep breath, and continued, “We were friends. Are friends. But he was using me for his own ends.” She thought of the parish register, forged years ago against the day when it would be needed. “Always. And your husband used you. Remember that. Who do you think he intended to take the
blame for his crimes? Why do you think he sent his foreign wife to pass along coded messages without her knowledge?”

For a moment Serena thought that that insight might be more than Lady Brendan could handle. Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. But then she straightened, and a martial light came into her face. “He
was
using me, wasn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.” Serena sighed. “Here, have a ratafia cake. They were delivered this morning still hot.” Both women looked at the airy, golden biscuits without appetite.

Lady Brendan gave her a forced smile. “No, thank you. I should be going.”

“If you’re sure you won’t break down again.”

“I’m sure.” Standing reluctantly, Lady Brendan took up the rosewater and went to a small mirror that hung from the wall. She began dabbing it around her eyes with a perfectly clean handkerchief she pulled from her own reticule. She hadn’t needed Solomon’s at all.

“Just remember, lives could depend on how well you hold up when you go home.”

Lady Brendan examined her eyes in the mirror. “I will.”

“And let me give you a word of advice. If someone offers you charity, take it. Because ‘anything’ can be pretty dreadful.”

Lady Brendan glanced at her and shuddered. Sometimes Serena felt like a walking morality play.

Lady M., for whose heirs Solomon had prepared two batches of black dye, had died the night before. Solomon was summoned to Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring to help fill the massive order. The inevitable could be put off no longer, and that afternoon Elijah reluctantly followed Solomon to Savile Row to explain to his uncle why everyone had thought he was dead.

“And what you put your brother through—the poor lad was wasting away—” Uncle Hathaway was still saying twenty
minutes later. Elijah and Solomon were flushing uncomfortably, Uncle Hathaway was gesticulating wildly, and a large group of interested seamsters had gathered.

“Uncle,” Solomon interrupted firmly, “we don’t need to go into all that.”

Uncle Hathaway looked at Solomon, and his face softened. “Well, I suppose you look all right now. No thanks to this young scapegrace. Do you need a place to stay, Elijah? Arthur can sleep on the sofa.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll be staying at the Ravenshaw Arms with Sol.”

Mr. Hathaway frowned. “Thank God you’re back, Elijah. Talk some sense into your brother, will you? That girl is bad news.”

“Stop it, Uncle,” Solomon said sharply. Elijah didn’t appear to think Serena was such bad news, anyway.

At that point one of the younger seamsters, whom Arthur claimed wanted to be Solomon when he grew up, said, “That’s enough, everyone,” and began shepherding people out of the room.

“You created a scandal! You punched a
customer
, Sol! Braithwaite was a large account, and while I may not
like
him—”

“He called her a whore. What was I supposed to do?”

“She
is
a—” Uncle Hathaway stopped at the look on Solomon’s face. “Do you know why she left home?” he demanded instead.

“Yes,” Solomon said shortly. “She told me herself. May I ask where you got
your
information?”

“Our second seamster at the time had a cousin who worked at Ravenscroft.” Hathaway’s lips tightened. “He lost his job for her, and she hasn’t even the grace to be ashamed of it.”

Solomon’s brows drew together. “I assume my own job isn’t in danger?”

Hathaway looked taken aback. “Of course not.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but she bitterly regrets what happened to H—her lover. And if I
ever
hear you’ve broached the subject with her, I—”

Hathaway waved his hand in a gesture of comprehension.

“Besides,” Solomon went on, “
we
should be the last people to criticize a girl for dallying with the servants. After all, my father was Uncle Dewington’s tutor.”