A Lily Among Thorns(33)
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.”
Chapter 8
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.