A Lily Among Thorns(69)

“I’m not going to tell you what happened, so there’s no need to ply me with liquor,” he told her. “I know you’re worried about Serena, but—”

Sophy’s brows drew together. “I am worried about her,” she agreed. “I’m also worried about my job and about everyone here. If Serena loses to Sacreval, the two of us are out in the cold sure as breathing. Who knows who else with us? Who knows what he’ll do with the place?”

Solomon hadn’t thought that far ahead. He hadn’t thought about anything but Serena.

She sighed. “For your other question, the one about kissing, I stabbed a man once.”

He eyed his tankard doubtfully. He should still be able to follow conversations after half a pint, shouldn’t he? “Um. What?”

“It was years ago. He was drunk. I knew him”—she waved her hands vaguely before settling on—“before. He broke into my room here at the Arms. I had a knife. Serena had given it to me because of this man, because he’d been bothering me. I told him to leave. He didn’t. He didn’t believe a woman would really hurt him. He kept coming at me. He laughed. He saw the knife and he just didn’t believe I would use it—”

“But you did.”

She nodded. “I did. I stabbed him in the arm.”

“That was generous of you.”

Sophy snorted. “A black woman can’t kill a gentleman and not pay for it. I knew that. But after Serena got up the stairs, he didn’t half wish I had killed him. That’s what I mean. He took one look at her, and he never doubted she’d gut him like a fish. She needs that. She couldn’t run this place without it. And even so she has a bar across her door. You don’t.”

Serena couldn’t have been much older than twenty when this happened. She’d already been responsible for all these people’s safety.

“It’s not something she can just open and shut like the tap in a beer keg. And it don’t exactly go with melting into some man’s arms and begging him to kiss you.”

“Oi, Sophy, you coming?” someone called from the doorway. A group clustered there, talking and laughing and putting on greatcoats and pelisses. Solomon recognized some of them: two of the undercooks, the head laundress, a tapster, a young man who sometimes sat at the reception desk.

Sophy stood up. “If I can be of help, please tell me.”

He nodded.

“Thanks for the whisky.” She walked off, wrapping her cloak around her and pulling the hood up over her curly dark hair, and she and the others disappeared out the door. Where were they going? The theater? Another taproom? He didn’t even know any of their names except for Sophy’s.

He’d been so wrapped up in Serena that he’d forgotten to think about the inn beyond her. If she lost the Arms, all these people would lose. He had forgotten that—but Serena hadn’t, had she? In her nightmare, she’d seen her staff being turned out into the chilly street. She knew exactly what was at stake. And she’d been carrying that burden alone since she was barely out of the schoolroom. So she’d snapped at him. So what?

Someone rapped the edge of his table with the silver head of a polished ebony cane. Solomon looked up at a dark-haired young man in a rakishly tilted beaver hat and a daring apricot waistcoat that Solomon recognized as his own work.

“Well, hello,” the man said with a confidential smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Solomon flushed. “Our shop’s matching the upholstery. I’m sorry—it’s wretched of me, but I can’t remember your name. I commend your taste, though.” He nodded at the waistcoat and smiled his best customer-pleasing smile.

The man tilted his head and half-smiled back. “That is wretched of you. Besides, don’t you think you’re being a trifle smug?”

Solomon’s eyes widened in mortification. “I—”

“Good evening, Sir Nigel,” Elijah said from Solomon’s elbow. His voice sounded rather peculiar.

Oh, the spy. Solomon looked for telltale signs of the moral bankruptcy that would allow a man to betray his country and his friends. He saw nothing but startled embarrassment. “Oh—oh!” Sir Nigel said. “I’m dreadfully sorry, I—”

“Allow me to introduce my brother, Mr. Solomon Hathaway.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Sir Nigel held out his gloved hand, attempting to compensate for his earlier familiarity with an exceedingly businesslike air. Then enlightenment struck. “Hathaway! Oh! The waistcoat. Oh Christ. Thank you, I’m—I’m very satisfied with it.”