A Lily Among Thorns(93)

His only excuse was that he hadn’t understood until that moment just how Serena must have felt. How the years of friendship and intimacy and shared laughter must have been transformed in an instant into a humiliating mockery. He had felt guilty—of course he had—but it had never occurred to him to compare himself to Lord Brendan.

That it had occurred to Serena—that she thought he had used her like this vieux traître méprisable had used his pretty young French wife—how blind he had been, to think that the risk to the Arms would be enough to stay her hand! It was a miracle she hadn’t already shot him.

He had never intended to use the marriage lines. They had been a sensible precaution, that was all. But she had forced his hand when she gave his room to that puling preacher’s son.

He shot Solomon a venomous glance—and his gaze fell on his Thierry, who looked as if he were trying not to be sick. Thierry. Thierry knew. Thierry’s name was Elijah and he was a loyal Englishman and René was un sot, un con, un imbécile. He had betrayed Serena and lost his lover and still not saved his men.

“Well,” said one of the agents into the resulting silence. “We’ll just be taking his lordship away now.” And they did.

“Will you be going ahead with the entertainment?” René asked Lady Brendan. Merely as a courtesy; of course she would not.

Two spots of high color burned in her cheeks. “Yes. I rather feel like celebrating.”

Everyone stared at her in horror as she swept from the room. “You heard her,” René said mechanically. “And that punch is about to boil over. Ravi, bring up the striped Sicilian cake and the nougats once you’re done carving that chicken.”

He went up the stairs and slipped out the front door.

“Fortunately, Lady Brendan burst into tears about half an hour later and fled the gardens, so we were able to gather everything up and escape back to the Arms,” Elijah said. “Unfortunately, coaches full of caterers are not famous for their speed, but I told the agents who arrested Brendan that Sacreval likely knows he’s been discovered.” He glanced nervously at Solomon when he said René’s name. Solomon was sitting on his workbench watching Serena, and didn’t see.

Why were they in his room? Why had that become their usual meeting place and not some neutral spot like her office? She kept her eyes studiously off the bed, but she could sense its presence. She could sense Solomon sensing it. “‘Regular Trojan’ my arse,” she said. “Lady Brendan as good as told René that I’m working against him.”

“I know,” Solomon said quietly.

“How did he take it?” She managed to keep her voice even, but Solomon’s face softened anyway. How did he always know when she was struggling?

“He looked as if someone had kicked him in the stomach,” he said.

Serena was torn between feeling triumphant, guilty, or pleased that René cared.

“There are agents stationed here in case he returns,” Elijah said in a tight voice. “But very likely he won’t.”

Serena hoped he wouldn’t. The Arms was worthless to him now. He could run, and live, and perhaps no one need ever know that those marriage lines existed. Maybe she could even suppress her newest discovery, delivered by messenger while the Hathaways were away. What right did the Foreign Office have to know? Who would it hurt? Hadn’t she done enough for England? Restlessly she paced to the window. Sunlight fell on her face, making her blink.

There was a small, serviceable edition of Shakespeare lying on the window seat. Of course: Shakespeare’s sonnets. René had told Solomon he hadn’t read them carefully enough, so Solomon was reading them again, like a dutiful pupil. Serena’s heart smote her. Poor Solomon. He tried so hard. He had only ever wanted the truth: from his brother, and from her.

“One of my contacts came by this morning while you were gone,” she said quietly. “Jenny Pursleigh has an account at Rothschild’s bank, and her deposits match René’s payment schedule perfectly.”

Elijah’s head came up. Then he cursed. “It doesn’t matter. I could send men to her house, but Sacreval’s sure to have warned her by now. She’s long gone.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Solomon said, his face alight with suppressed excitement. “There’s paperwork, when you close out an account at a bank. If we go to Rothschild’s right away, I wager we can catch her.”