A Lily Among Thorns (12 page)

He had heard that a man was living in his room, the Stuart Room. He knew that Lord Blackthorne had failed to oust him. But Blackthorne was a crude, vicious Englishman whom Serena hated. She would listen to René because he was her friend. Her friend—the irony of it made him clench his fist now.

He had come here, almost pleased to be back, and seen
Hathaway. He had thought it was Thierry and been so glad. And then . . . Thierry was dead—and an Englishman—and this Hathaway was living in René’s room. Hathaway had stood there and looked at him with Thierry’s eyes, and Serena wouldn’t make him go away. She wouldn’t even make him leave her office so René could think. All he had had were those papers. And the man was a Hathaway from Shropshire, so René had not been able to risk waiting.

He closed his eyes against Serena’s look, but it stayed, her stricken face clear and perfect in the darkness. He hadn’t seen her look like that since—he had
never
seen her look like that.

In the beginning, he had seen her will herself calm every time an old protector walked in the door; he had seen her tense whenever someone casually touched her arm. He remembered her white face when one of the kitchen maids had nearly been raped in the courtyard. She had looked even worse two weeks later when the two of them had been out walking and passed the bastard who did it in the street. The man had been using a cane, his face one mottled, fading bruise. René had known at once that it was Serena’s doing, that she’d hired someone to do it; she had somehow looked miserable and terrifyingly fierce at the same time.

But that was just it. Before, she had always had that spark of ice in her eyes. She had always been
fighting
, daring the world to do its worst. There had never been that dazed, vulnerable look.

She had never felt betrayed because she had never expected better. But she had expected better of René. He’d worked so hard to win her trust, and he had, and now—

There must have been another way. He had cursed himself afterward for his stupidity. He had learned quickly enough that Solomon had no idea what the Hathaway legacy meant. But René hadn’t been able to think what to do. He had barely been able to speak. All he could think was that Thierry was dead—that he would never speak again.

It was too late now, of course. If he changed his mind and tried to find another way, she would be suspicious, and then when he made his move she would know. She would guess that he had set that fire. She would realize that he hadn’t threatened her until she refused him the room, and that would spell disaster—for him, for his informants, for the men in the French army who needed what he provided.

He thought about the years he had spent building his career, and about how they would be lost if he let his friendship for Serena rule him. He thought about his young cousin, serving in a regiment that was bound to come under heavy fire in the battles to come. It was no use; his mind kept coming back to his
sirène
, looking young and scared.

“Are you all right?” Thierry’s voice asked, and René jumped, his heart pounding. Of course it was only Hathaway, wondering why René was staring at the door to his room.

He had better start thinking of Thierry as Elijah Hathaway. Even the name Thierry had been a lie; even that was gone. Nothing was his anymore. “I’m fine,” he snapped, and went into the apricot room and slammed the door.

A knock came on the connecting door early the next morning. Solomon was already awake and dressed, gathering the things he needed for his trip to Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring to drop off the week’s commissions and get the following week’s. “Come,” he called, shoving a couple of hanks of dyed silk thread into his pocket.

Serena walked through the door. He glanced up—and stared. She was wearing a morning gown of cheap, pale orange cotton, a pretty linen ruffle tucked into the neckline. The lace shawl over her elbows looked to have been made on one of the new Leavers machines. A chinoiserie ivory fan and a beaded reticule dangled from her wrist. More surprising still, her dark hair was wrapped in an orange-and-gold-striped bandeau and gathered
into an adorably careless bundle at the crown of her head. Solomon could have sworn he even caught a touch of rouge on her magnolia skin. She looked like an adorable young bourgeoise. It was only on a second, closer inspection that he saw the pinning of the bodice and her careful walk to hide that the dress wasn’t hers. It had been made for someone larger in the bust, and maybe a little taller.

Her silver eyes glinted at his slack-jawed expression. “Oh, good, you’re wearing something middle-class. Come along, we’re going to St. Andrew of the Cross.” She held out her left hand and Solomon saw a little pearl ring on the third finger. “You’re my fiancé now. I hope you don’t mind.”

The church was an old, drafty place with a few beautiful stained-glass windows and a large number of boarded-up holes that presumably had once been beautiful stained-glass windows. On the threshold, Solomon offered Serena his arm. He expected a rebuff, but she breathed in deep, whipped open her fan, and took it.

A man Solomon assumed to be the rector was replacing candle stubs in one corner. Serena headed straight for him, tugging Solomon along in her wake. “Oh, sir,” she called prettily, “do you think you could do me a very great favor?” Her accent had gone South London and middle-class.

The rector looked up. He was a tall, thin man in his middle sixties, with an extremely incompetent tailor. “For a pretty young lady like yourself? Certainly.” He gave an avuncular chuckle.

Serena giggled behind her fan. Solomon looked at her in surprise. She was dimpling and ducking her head, so he couldn’t see her eyes. “Well, you see, sir, I want to get my sister an anniversary gift, but I can’t remember what day she was married, and I do so want it to be a surprise. She was married here last year, so I thought if I could just see the register—”

The rector smiled. “Of course. I’m sure your sister will be very pleased.”

“I hope so. Oh, but I’m being rude! My name is Elizabeth Jeeves, and this is my fiancé, David Burbank.”

The rector bowed over her proffered hand. “Charles Waddell.” He led them to a small back room, where an oak lectern held a slim leather book with “St. Andrew of the Cross Register” inked across the front. On the shelf below, older registers were stacked in an untidy pile.

“Oh, good!” Serena walked toward the lectern. Halfway there, she stopped and put a hand on her stomach. “Oh,” she said in a very different tone of voice. “Mr. Burbank—” Her other hand fluttered toward him and she swayed.

“Miss Jeeves!” Solomon rushed forward and put his arm around her waist.

She leaned into him and gripped his lapel. She still smelled like almonds, just as she had all those years ago.

“Are you all right?” he asked, remembering at the last second to broaden the Shropshire in his own voice.

She smiled weakly up at him. “It’s nothing. Not even as bad as yesterday. I don’t think I shall”—she glanced down in embarrassment—“I don’t think I shall be sick. I’d just like to sit down for a bit, if I may.” She grimaced queasily.

Solomon turned to Mr. Waddell. “Is there a chair you could bring in here?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The rector bustled out. He was soon back again with a hard wooden bench.

Solomon helped Serena sit. She clung to his sleeve in a way that made him swallow rather hard. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m so sorry. It’s very silly of me to be always—”

“Not at all,” Solomon said firmly. “I’ll just stay here with you for a while, and when you feel better, we can look at the register and find your sister.”

Serena threw him a look of adoration. “You’re so good to me! But I won’t hear of it. This is a lovely old church and there’s no reason you can’t see some more of it. I shall just rest here for a while and you shall come back and find me when you’ve taken a look at those delightful windows. You can show Mr. Burbank the stained glass, can’t you, Mr. Waddell?”

The rector frowned. “Of course I can, Miss Jeeves. But are you sure you’ll be all right alone?”

Serena nodded. “I just feel ill some days. It’s nothing, really.”

Mr. Waddell’s eyes narrowed. Solomon wondered yet again why they hadn’t simply pretended to be married. With considerably less enthusiasm than he had shown before, the rector gestured to Solomon to precede him out of the room.

“Oh, Mr. Burbank, won’t you give me a kiss before you go?”

Solomon stared at Serena. She tilted up her head invitingly, and her gray eyes shimmered. It would serve her right if he shoved his tongue in her mouth. Instead he leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t forget to talk as loudly as possible,” she whispered in his ear.

Solomon smiled insincerely. She hadn’t needed to remind him yet again. He already had a plan. He had formed it the moment they walked through the door. “Here, my dear,” he said solicitously, pulling a small Bible off a nearby shelf and handing it to her. “I wouldn’t want you to be bored. Why don’t you occupy yourself in reading Scripture while you wait for the reverend and me to return? May I recommend Proverbs Thirty-one to your attention? It speaks most eloquently of the duties of a virtuous wife.”

Well, she needed
something
to pass the time until she was sure they were out of earshot. Idly, Serena opened the little Bible and turned to Proverbs. A number of them sounded familiar. She pictured Solomon as a little boy, memorizing the words of his namesake, and smiled.

From the front of the church, the organist began to practice. Good. That would nicely cover any sound she had to make.

Solomon had looked so put-upon when the rector decided they had been anticipating their vows. Pretending morning sickness had been the easiest way to convince him there was no need for a doctor. She knew it would have made more sense—and offended Solomon’s sensibilities less—to simply pretend to be married, but somehow she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. She was close enough to married as it was.

Serena told herself she ought to wait a minute or two more, to be certain the rector wouldn’t return for something he had forgotten, or bring her a glass of water, or the like. But in truth, she was putting off looking for what she was afraid to find.

She glanced back down at Proverbs. She wondered if he liked the Song of Solomon, too. As a child she’d thought it rather peculiar, too many goats and odd metaphors, but when she flipped to it now and began reading, the words had a power she didn’t expect.

As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons
.

She read it again. It was a perfect description of Solomon. An apple tree among the trees of the wood. She shut the book firmly. Enough maundering.

She rose from the hard bench and went to the lectern. Opening the register, she flipped backward until she came to Saturday, April 6, 1813. Surely she wouldn’t find anything—

Christ, there it was. There it really was, neatly written in black ink.

René du Sacreval of Paris and Serena Ravenshaw of Ravenscroft both of this Parish were Married in this Church by Banns this sixth Day of April, one-thousand, eight hundreds and thirteen by me Charles Waddell Curate. This Marriage was Solemnized between us René du Sacreval and Serena Ravenshaw now du Sacreval, in the Presence of John Richardson & John Stephenson.

She gripped the edge of the lectern until her knuckles were white. How long had he been planning this, then? She looked at the preceding Sunday.

Sunday, March 31st. The Banns of Marriage were duly Published
the third time between René du Sacreval and Serena Ravenshaw, both of this Parish by me Charles Waddell, Curate.

She turned the page feverishly.

Sunday, March 24th. The Banns of Marriage were duly Published the second time between René du Sacreval and Serena Ravenshaw, both of this Parish.

Sunday, March 17th. The Banns of Marriage were duly Published the first time between René du Sacreval and Serena Ravenshaw, both of this Parish.

Dear God. He had really done it. But how?

She looked closer. The handwriting didn’t match, but the signatures—the signatures were all perfect. She examined the book more closely: it was loosely bound in groups of folded-in-half sheets. If she ripped out both halves, she would leave no telltale ragged edge. She looked at the page from the other side. There was a note in the margin, half-hidden by her forefinger. She took away her hand and read it.

Now she really did feel queasy.
Extracts made so far. April 21st, 1813
.

Bishop’s transcripts. She had completely forgotten about them. Maybe Mr. Waddell wasn’t in on the plan—René had said he wasn’t—but his was the most unkindest cut of all. He had copied out the false entries with the true and sent them all to the bishop.

Serena closed the register quietly and sat down. Organ music swelled in the background like a cheap melodrama. She couldn’t quite get enough air. She was married.

René could do anything he liked to her. And he owned the Arms.