A Lily Among Thorns(15)

Her happiness was snuffed out now like a candle, and as jealous as Solomon had been, he felt a pang at its loss. “René, what is this about? If you’re in trouble, you know I’ll help you, but as for leaving the Arms, it’s out of the question.”

He took a deep breath, then gave a slight Gallic shrug. “Is that any way to treat your husband, sirène?”





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.”