A Lily Among Thorns (27 page)

They had already heated wine for the syllabub, set pheasants to roasting, and put two small hams in the oven to warm. Ravi was bound to appear at any moment and the marquis showed no signs of going upstairs. Elijah was beginning to fidget, but at last Sacreval seized a carton full of fruit and flowers. “I am going
en haut
to make sure the buffet table is presentable. Jack, Emma, take those tubs and follow me.” The pair hastened to obey, and Solomon heard Elijah breathe a sigh of relief.

But a quarter of an hour later, there was still no Ravi. Half an hour more passed. The first guests trickled in, and he had still not arrived. At five to nine he burst in, ran up to Elijah, and said urgently, “May I speak to you, sir?”

“Of course,” Elijah said, leaving Solomon to finish the syllabub.

Elijah had not returned when Sacreval came in and said, “Is the syllabub ready?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“
Merveilleux
. Where is that brother of yours? I need the pair of you to flank the buffet table. Twins at a masquerade, it is too perfect. We must show you off,
non
?”

“He stepped out. He’ll be back any moment.”

Just then, Elijah walked in, biting his lip.

“You,” the marquis said imperiously. “Put on your mask, help your brother with that punch bowl there, and follow me.”

“Yes, monseigneur,” Elijah said ironically, and a dull flush crept across the marquis’s face.

Carrying an enormous punch bowl up a flight of stairs was even harder than Solomon had expected. He was glad the punch itself was carried separately, by professionals.

At quarter past nine the marquis was still at the buffet table, so Solomon could not ask Elijah what had happened. Then Lord Pursleigh appeared.

“Fancy a game of piquet, old fellow?” he asked Sacreval jovially. “I heard an anecdote just the other day that I think you’ll find hilarious.” He winked.

Something had gone very wrong.

Solomon glanced at Elijah, who did not seem surprised, only intent on listening without appearing to. The marquis nodded, looking disgusted by his confederate’s lack of subtlety, but before he could follow Pursleigh to one of the little tables set up along the side of the room, his arm was seized by the viscount’s dainty wife.

“You can have him in a little while, Pursleigh,” she said with a
faint pout. “But first he must play with me. Last time he was here he trounced me thoroughly, and I want to show him I’ve grown up a bit since then.”

“I hope not
too
much,” Sacreval said. “You made
such
a charming girl.”

Solomon gagged inwardly. Lady Pursleigh dimpled, and her husband frowned. “Jenny, wouldn’t you rather dance with some of these besotted fellows?” He gestured at the cluster of costumed young men his wife had abandoned. “I let you muck up my house with laurel wreaths and broken scepters in honor of our
victory
over Napoleon,”—he said “victory” with an unpleasant sneer— “now you let me enjoy a game of piquet.”

“Your husband asked me first,” Sacreval told her. “But after our game, I am yours to command until I am needed for the laying out of the supper.”

Lady Pursleigh’s pout deepened. Her pretty blue eyes fixed appealingly on her husband. “Pursleigh, I only want him for half an hour and then you can talk boring old politics as much as you like.
I
want to hear what they’re wearing in Paris!”

“If you insist,” Lord Pursleigh said with ill grace.

The marquis gave him an apologetic shrug. “Half an hour, then,” he said, and turned to kiss Lady Pursleigh’s hand.

She slipped him a little pink note in a manner she evidently thought inconspicuous.

The marquis palmed it with a deal more grace, but his gaze shot apprehensively to Lord Pursleigh. The viscount, to Solomon’s surprise, smiled maliciously. “All grown up, ain’t she?”

When the pair was ensconced at a table at the far end of the room (playing with a fresh deck brought by a servant who carried a great stack of them), to all appearances flirting outrageously, Solomon made his way around the buffet table to Elijah. “Did you see that? She passed him a love note not two feet from her own husband! I thought I’d sink from embarrassment and I wasn’t even involved.”

Elijah was watching them with narrowed eyes. “I did see it. I can’t help wondering if we’ve made the same mistake here we made with Brendan, only the other way round.”

Solomon blinked. “Surely if she were passing state secrets, she wouldn’t do it right under our noses.”

“She doesn’t know we’re watching,” Elijah pointed out. “And if she does, she may expect us to think exactly that. Dalliance is a splendid cover. If she’s really bedding him, so much the better.”

If Elijah was right, Solomon could only imagine what schoolgirl feuds must have been like at Serena’s school, with Serena on one side and Jenny Pursleigh on the other. He sighed. “What did Ravi have to say?”

“Lord Pursleigh put nothing on his person but a small snuffbox, which Spratt vowed contained only snuff.”

“So what do we do next?”

“Ravi is trailing Pursleigh to see if he picks anything up. Lady Serena said she’d be watching Sacreval. All we can do is wait.” Elijah watched Sacreval and the viscountess. “I’m going to have to lift that note.”

He tugged at his livery coat with suppressed irritation. “Where the devil is Lady Serena?”

Was that what was causing Elijah’s fidgets? He was watching for Serena? “I haven’t seen her,” Solomon said shortly. He’d been looking. Whatever disguise she was affecting must be more effective than he’d thought possible. That was good, because she had no plausible reason to be here besides the real one of helping them keep watch on Sacreval. If the Frenchman spotted her, he’d know at once something was up.

“Oh, Lord,” Elijah muttered. “Ravi is taking drinks to someone on the balcony. What does he think he’s about?”

Solomon sighed. “Would you like me to go and follow Pursleigh myself?”

Elijah shook his head. “No, Sacreval would notice. Just go and fetch Ravi back, would you?”

Solomon made his way around the edge of the room to where French doors let in the summer evening. As he reached the doorway, he heard a drawling, well-bred voice say with some amusement, “Does the Siren
know
what sort of adder she’s nursing in her bosom, Ravi? I swear, that inn gets more scandalous every year.” Solomon peered out and saw that the voice belonged to a middle-aged Apollo whose toga looked more Roman than Greek.

Ravi raised his chin defiantly. “No, my lord, of course she does not.”

But the boy took a step back when the Apollo said, “Bring me another glass of champagne, Ravi. Bring one for yourself, too.”

“I can’t. I am working, my lord.”

Solomon had no idea what was going on, but it was clear in every line of Ravi’s body that the boy was scared. Only Serena could turn half the work of innkeeping into preventing people from bullying her staff. Solomon obviously had to do something, but intimidating lords was exactly what he had always been worst at. He tried to think what Serena would do in this situation.

“I used to find you worked better after a glass or two,” Apollo said slyly.

The look on Ravi’s face galvanized Solomon into action. He stepped out onto the balcony so that his shoes rang on the stone. “Oh, there you are, Ravi. You’re needed inside.”

“I am very sorry, sir,” Ravi said nervously. “I was only—his lordship asked me to—”

Solomon made a harried gesture and smiled at him. “You’re not in any trouble, Ravi. Just get back inside. I’ll help this gentleman.”

“Yes, sir,” Ravi gasped with a last pleading look at Apollo, and fled.

The Apollo turned to Solomon with a smile. “Thank you, I’d like another glass of champagne.”

Solomon looked down his nose. It would have been more
effective with half-glasses instead of a half mask, but some things couldn’t be helped. “You may get it yourself, my lord,” he said pityingly. “And don’t threaten a member of our staff again. Lady Serena frowns on it.”

The gentleman chuckled incredulously. “My dear boy, I wasn’t
threatening
anybody.”

“Perhaps you don’t care that Lady Serena frowns on it,” Solomon suggested in a mild tone. “But I rather think you care to keep both your ears. Not to mention both of certain other appendages.”

Apollo smiled uneasily, as if he wasn’t sure whether that was a jest and hoped that if he pretended it was, Solomon would go along with it.

Solomon’s borrowed livery jacket was a little too tight across the shoulders. When experimenting before the ball to see whether he could alter it successfully to fit (he couldn’t, since there wasn’t enough extra fabric on the inside seam), he’d discovered that it pulled uncomfortably taut when he brought his hands up to adjust his gloves. He did so now. “Do you understand me?”

Apollo eyed Solomon’s broad shoulders nervously and did not respond.

“I believe I asked you a question.”

He looked away. “Fine! Yes! I understand you!”

Solomon gave him an encouraging smile. “Good. Don’t ever speak to that boy again.” He turned and walked slowly inside. Once out of Apollo’s line of sight, he leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath. A little bubble of hilarity was lodged in the back of his throat.

I intimidated a lord,
he thought incredulously.
I intimidated a lord! Soon I’ll be a full-fledged member of the London underworld.
Now
that
called for cartwheels.

He looked up, and his victorious gaze fell on Lord Smollett, laying siege to an angel not a few feet distant. Her blond hair was piled high on her head and surmounted by a wire halo. Tiny,
feathered wings sprouted from the back of her white muslin gown. Her entire face, with the exception of her eyes, was covered with a golden mask. Lord Smollett rumbled something, and the angel laughed, a husky, musical laugh that, although he had never heard it before, sent shivers down Solomon’s spine.

Solomon knew at once that it must be her. Usually, of course, her severity was feigned, and her laughter was real. But only one woman had ever been able to make Solomon feel like this with just a laugh.

He looked closer, and sure enough, the angel had gray eyes. He grinned evilly and went off to fetch a champagne tray.

When someone—say, Lord Smollett—was taking a full glass of champagne off a tray, Solomon discovered that it only took a very small jostle to make him spill it all down his front.

“I say, Smollett, I’m dashed sorry—haven’t quite got the knack of these trays.” Solomon dabbed at the spreading stain with the napkin he carried over one arm.

“Give me that!” Smollett snatched the napkin and tried to contain the champagne that now graced his waistcoat and breeches. He squinted at Solomon. “Why, if it isn’t the Hatherdasher! No job too menial, eh? But I suppose when the Siren commands—”

Solomon winked conspiratorially. “Don’t let’s talk about Lady Serena just now,” he said in a low voice perfectly calculated to reach Serena’s ears. “Who is
this
diamond?”

She stiffened.

“Haven’t the foggiest. An angel, isn’t she?” Smollett said, and guffawed at his own wit. To Serena he said, “Sorry, m’dear, you’ll have to excuse me for a moment. Have this fellow fetch you something, if you like.” He squelched off toward the gentlemen’s withdrawing room.

“Would you like a glass of champagne, madam?” Solomon asked.

“I would,” she said in sultry tones. The effect was spoiled a little since her words were muffled by her mask, but Solomon’s pulse sped up anyway. “But not on the front of my gown.”

He smiled lazily at her. “I only spill champagne on gentlemen speaking to ladies I particularly wish to meet.”

She brought her feathered fan up in front of her face. “Naughty boy,” she scolded huskily.

“Oh, I’m not a boy.”

“I’m immortal, you all look like boys to me.”

He stepped closer. “You’re not an angel either.”

“Don’t you find my costume convincing?”

“Perhaps I would find it more convincing”—he took another step—“at closer quarters.”

She rapped his knuckles with her fan—but very lightly, no doubt out of concern for the tray of champagne. “I ought to report you to your mistress.”

Solomon couldn’t keep a straight face anymore. “Please don’t. She’s a regular harpy.”

Serena gave a little satisfied sigh and gestured to the champagne tray. Solomon held out a glass. She made no move to take it. “Thank you,” she murmured, and he was about to nod, but she continued meaningfully, “for—” and tilted her head slightly to point toward the balcony. She trailed her feathered fan up his wrist. He shivered violently, sloshing the champagne, but thankfully it did not spill. “You were splendid.”

Now she reached to take the glass, but he didn’t quite release it, brushing their fingers together and stepping closer to whisper in her ear, “I’m sure you’re dying to give me a frank critique of my methods.”

She hummed low in her throat and tilted her head so that his lips almost brushed the magnolia line of her throat. “Cynical child! You were perfect.”

He was bored suddenly. Bored and dying with impatience to hear Serena’s real opinion, expressed in her ordinary voice. He wanted to see her face, see her birthmark creep upward and her lips curve sarcastically. He wanted to hear her laugh, her real laughter and not this husky kittenish purr. He could not quite credit that any man would prefer this. How could you be
comfortable with a woman who told you only what you wanted to hear?