A Lily Among Thorns(65)

With every movement she made, the gown he’d designed for her caught the light. The silk shifted against her legs. He’d had his hand on her thigh.

She could feel his presence even though she wasn’t looking at him. She could feel his frown. She wanted to kiss him again. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to kiss him, then apologize, then kiss him again until he forgave her. She wanted to make him smile.

But she couldn’t. She was a coward and she couldn’t do anything but slide her fingers around the edges of Elbourn’s desk drawer, pressing, pressing—

The bottom popped out of the drawer. “Aha!” She felt ridiculous the next moment. Aha? But it was instantly clear that here were the incriminating documents they were looking for—the top one was in French, and under it was a map showing what looked to be troop movements.

It was working! It would work. She had bought herself and René a few more days. She selected a few sheets from the stack, replaced everything else in the drawer, and relocked it.

She turned her back to put the lock picks and the carefully folded documents into the bodice of her dress. “Solomon—” She paused for a long moment, drawing on her gloves.

He didn’t wait for her to figure out what to say. “I’ll go first. That way it will look like we’re trying to hide our rendezvous. Meet me in the ballroom in ten minutes.” And he left her there.

She had only managed to wait seven and a half minutes. She scanned the ballroom carefully. She couldn’t see Solomon anywhere. He must be behind one of the great pillars or potted orange trees. She shifted to the right, by the buffet table.

Something caught her eye, peeking from under the tablecloth. The edge of a pair of gloves: Solomon’s gloves. She bent down and picked them up. They were kid, butter-soft and expertly made with small mother-of-pearl buttons. They still retained, slightly, the shape of Solomon’s hands. He’d taken them off, and his hand had been bare against her thigh. Hurriedly, she stuffed the gloves into her reticule.

Scanning the room again, she spotted him—he was indeed behind one of the pillars. She’d recognize that edge of shoulder anywhere.

As she got closer, she saw that he was in close conversation with Jack Ashton. She’d never much liked Ashton—he was always late paying his tab at the Arms and he’d had a reputation for doing the same at Mme Deveraux’s. However, she supposed it stood to reason that Solomon would be happy to converse with a less taxing companion than herself. Succumbing to a base impulse, she kept the pillar between them and listened when she got close.

“Braithwaite’s turned into a real ass since university, hasn’t he?” said Ashton.

“He was always an ass,” Solomon said.

Ashton made a noncommittal noise. “I still can’t believe you managed to bag the Siren.”

Serena couldn’t hear Solomon’s wince, but she could imagine it. “I wouldn’t call it ‘bagging,’” he said.

“So how many birthmarks have you seen?”

Had he seen the third in the library? Or had his eyes been closed by the time her skirts were pushed up high enough to reveal it?

There was a pause. Then Solomon asked, with an edge in his voice, “There’s more than one?”

“Oho, a setdown! I daresay I deserved that. Naturally you’ve seen all three. But listen, Hathaway, be careful, will you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“She isn’t called the Siren for nothing.”

Suddenly Serena couldn’t quite catch her breath.

“Well, no, I assumed it was for her startling beauty and considerable personal charm,” Solomon said bitterly.

“You’ve got it bad.” Ashton sounded concerned.

Serena bit the inside of her cheek.

“That’s not why,” Ashton said. “Well, it is, but it’s also because she lures men to their doom.”

“She lures men to their doom? Ash—” Solomon sounded so intensely, incredulously exasperated that Serena’s heart clenched with helpless affection. Oh God. She didn’t want him to hear this story. It was private.

It was ridiculous to want something to be private when the whole ton knew about it—it was ridiculous to want anything to be private when she’d lived the life she had. But Solomon didn’t know. Not yet. And she didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to be the Siren to him.

“There was this fellow,” Ashton said. “Daubenay. Madly in love with her. He bought her so many extravagant presents he went under the hatches, but she tried to squeeze him for more, so he headed for the gaming dens. And when he had nothing left to give her, she gave him the cold shoulder and found a new protector. He blew his brains out. Left a note. In verse or some such rot. He made the pun on her name and it stuck.”