A Lily Among Thorns(63)

Lord Braithwaite held on to her arm for several seconds too long and she actually had to wrench away. She turned her back on him—and there was a heavy thud behind her. She turned round again to see Braithwaite sprawled on the floor. He rubbed at his elbow and glared at Solomon, who was standing over him looking very, very apologetic.

“Oh, I am sorry, Braithwaite,” Solomon said earnestly, but there was a malicious note in his voice. “You know how clumsy I’ve always been. I hope I haven’t mussed your coat, I worked so hard on it. Here, let me help you up.” And he held out his hand. Braithwaite examined Solomon’s dye-stained, scarred hand for a weighty moment—then curled his lip and got to his feet unaided.

A wash of red clouded Serena’s vision. She lunged at Braithwaite, only to find herself cannoning solidly into Solomon’s broad chest as he stepped between them.

“Move,” she hissed, her gaze still fixed on Lord Braithwaite’s smirk.

“Stop it,” Solomon murmured. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t mind.” Then, when she didn’t step back, he added in an urgent undertone, “He’s our customer, Serena, stop making a scene.”

Her vision cleared, leaving her extremely conscious that she was pressed up against Solomon and that his hands were gripping her bare upper arms. She drew in a deep breath and stepped back. What had got into her?

Their entire set had stopped dancing and was staring at them. “This is precisely why people of their ilk should not be allowed in well-bred homes,” someone whispered audibly.

Serena drew herself up. “It’s getting stuffy in here,” she said, with a disdainful, sweeping glance at the gawkers. “Let’s find a withdrawing room.” She took Solomon’s arm and pulled him away.

Solomon followed Serena out of the ballroom into the hall. She looked left and right, then led the way unerringly to Mr. Elbourn’s study. He looked a question at her. “A member of my staff bribed a member of his,” she explained as the heavy wooden doors closed behind them.

Solomon wondered if he should say anything about the scene in the ballroom. But as nothing occurred to him, and as Serena began immediately to look behind the pictures over the mantel, he sat down in Mr. Elbourn’s graceful chair and examined the drawers of his desk.

The first few drawers opened easily enough, but they merely contained stationery, old invitations, spare pen nibs, bottles of colored ink, and the like. The only thing that gave Solomon pause was the pistol in the shallow center drawer. The danger of their situation began to seem real.

The bottom left-hand drawer, which was deeper, was locked. “Serena.”

She turned toward him from where she was turning over the cushions of the window seat, and the breath caught in his throat at the blank, bitter look in her quicksilver eyes. He had been almost satisfied earlier with his small revenge on the gentlemen who insulted her, but now he felt he could have disemboweled each and every one.

“Yes?” she asked impatiently. “Have you found something?”

“This drawer is locked.” He pushed the chair back to give her room.

She knelt beside him, fishing in the neckline of her dress. He looked away hastily, and when he looked back she held a little roll of black velvet. With a flick of her wrist, the velvet unrolled to reveal a dozen curious steel implements. She laid her gloves on the desk and set to work on the locks. He watched her, watched her arms and hands in the moonlight, the way it silvered and shaded them, the tender back of her neck. He wondered if she knew he was watching.

One week, she had told Elijah. One week before either Sacreval tossed her into the street, or she broke him and his network. If she lost the Arms, where would she go? Would she let Solomon help her, or would sheer stubborn pride and shame and misery send her off to lick her wounds alone? What if she went back to whoring again? It would break her heart—and, he was beginning to suspect, his. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t make it easy on either of them. It occurred to him that if they were successful and Sacreval was executed, she might not take that much better. And even if she did—

That thought, somehow, was even harder to face. When all the spying and the intrigue were over, what would be left? What did he want from her, and what would she give him? Could they really be happy together?

A week ago he had had nothing. He had looked forward to nothing. Now he had his brother again, and—and Serena, whatever she was to him. At some point in the last week, without his noticing, she had gone from an ice storm he wanted to breathe in to something as vital and familiar as the air in his lungs. Everything had changed in so short a time. He knew how easily it could change back. He was terribly, unbearably afraid that it would.