Gentleman Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  He wished he had a name for it.

  “He is always most particular about appointments, sir! I’m quite sure he wouldn’t—” The clerk was trotting behind Lindsay, his tone almost pleading. Really, Lindsay felt like a scoundrel, taking advantage of him so.

  “Please don’t worry,” Lindsay soothed carelessly without looking back. He made for the door he now knew would lead to his quarry. “I assure you, Mr. Nicol will be delighted to see me. As you can see, I know the way.”

  Without pausing to knock, he swept into Nicol’s office, closing the door firmly on the clerk’s startled face before turning and leaning back against wood.

  The fair head of the man sitting at the desk in the middle of the room snapped up at his entrance.

  “For Christ’s sake, Hugh. I told you I—” And then he broke off, his scowl transforming to an expression of astonishment. For one glorious moment, Nicol’s grey-blue gaze travelled over Lindsay with what looked very like stunned admiration—Lindsay had to wonder if the man had even recognised him without the curls and rouge—but a moment later his scowl was firmly back in place and his words made it clear he knew exactly who Lindsay was.

  “Mr. Somerville? How the devil did you get in here?”

  “And good day to you too,” Lindsay drawled, levering himself away from the door and strolling forward till he stood in front of Nicol’s desk.

  Nicol had been poring over a sizeable plan, two corners of which were being held down by matching brass paperweights, and a third by a book. The fourth corner curled up towards the centre of the desk.

  Lindsay lifted one of the brass paperweights and examined it. The corner of the drawing he released was adjacent to the other free corner, resulting in fully half the drawing rolling in towards the centre of the desk. Nicol cursed and shot out an arm to catch the paper, smoothing it back down across the expanse of polished wood. He scowled at Lindsay even harder.

  “Would you kindly put that down?” he gritted out.

  Lindsay ignored him, examining the paperweight idly. It was a two-headed bird of prey, its sharp claws curled around the blade of a sword. Lindsay recognised the symbol.

  “Are you a freemason?” he asked, holding it up in inquiry.

  “What? No. That was my uncle’s,” Nicol replied distractedly, before repeating crossly, “How did you get in here?”

  “Your clerk let me in,” Lindsay replied. “Though you mustn’t blame him. He’s barely out of leading strings.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the paperweight to Nicol, who snatched it out of the air and set it down on his desk with a bang.

  Lindsay offered a mischievous smile and added in a confiding tone, “I’m afraid I rather bullied my way past him.”

  Nicol’s scowl only deepened.

  Such an angry fellow, Lindsay thought. If only he’d unfurrow those fair brows and let the tightness in his jaw relax. And perhaps eat a little more—his face, though startlingly handsome, was a little too angular.

  “You won’t scold him for it, will you?” Lindsay asked silkily, fingertips just resting on the edge of Nicol’s desk. He was watching Nicol carefully, conscious of his body’s reaction to the man even as he did so. His heart was already racing in response to Nicol’s heady scent, desire spiking in him.

  He could see that he was not alone in his reaction. Nicol was not indifferent to him. His grey-blue eyes darkened as Lindsay drew closer and his scent sharpened. Lindsay might not know for certain what the change of scent meant, but he was willing to wager the man felt some level of attraction. Though whether Nicol was the sort of man to give into that attraction or to fight it remained to be seen.

  Nicol dropped his gaze to his desk, busying himself with rolling up the plan he’d been poring over. “Hugh won’t get a scolding,” he said. “However, I can see he needs a lesson in how to deal with forceful characters.”

  Lindsay laughed at that, making Nicol glance at him suspiciously, as though he thought Lindsay might be laughing at him.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit?” Lindsay asked. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like me, Mr. Nicol.”

  Interestingly, Nicol coloured at that, a faint pinkness washing over his cheekbones. It made Lindsay want to see that same pinkness washing up over his chest and throat —preferably in response to Lindsay touching his body. And God, that thought was making him hard. He shifted, subtly adjusting himself, and did not miss Nicol’s gaze jerking down to his crotch then quickly back up again.

  “Fine,” Nicol said stiffly, gesturing at a chair that stood against the wall. “Have a seat, but I’d be obliged if you’d get to the purpose of this call. I don’t have all day.”

  Lindsay fetched the chair, setting it down on the opposite side of Nicol’s desk before gracefully lowering himself into it and crossing his legs slowly, enjoying Nicol’s furtive glance at his shapely calves.

  “I hear,” he began, “that your services are much in demand.”

  Nicol eyed him suspiciously. “As I told you at Mr. Cruikshank’s, my partners and I are indeed fortunate to be very busy at this time.”

  “From what I can gather,” Lindsay said smoothly, “your services in particular are in demand.”

  He’d wondered if Nicol would be flattered by his interest, by Lindsay having taken the trouble to seek out information about him before coming here; but if anything, Nicol appeared irritated.

  “My partners are equally well-qualified,” he replied tightly. “I can assure you that all of our clients receive the very best service.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Lindsay murmured—and he didn’t, given that it sounded as though Nicol did most of the work. In making enquiries, Wynne had learned, from one of Nicol’s clerks, that the two senior partners, Abernethy and Gibb, did little these days. The general view, it seemed, was that they’d made a canny move when they’d taken on the talented and hardworking Drew Nicol as a partner.

  Leaning back in his chair, Lindsay stretched his legs out before him, enjoying the way Nicol’s gaze once again flickered helplessly towards this display, then quickly away.

  “So,” Lindsay continued, “If we assume for a moment that I want a house in the New Town designed by you, tell me: how long will I have to wait?”

  Nicol considered that, his eyes moving over Lindsay’s face as though he was trying to discern how serious Lindsay was. He was silent for so long, Lindsay thought he wasn’t going to answer, but at last, he said, “Two to three years, perhaps longer, depending on how selective you are about the particular plot and design.”

  Did he think that would put Lindsay off? Lindsay almost laughed. Two to three years—hell, a decade—was the merest blink of an eye to Lindsay and his kind. Not to mention that property was always an attractive investment. Income-bearing, easily explained... and not going anywhere.

  “Obviously, I should like it as soon as possible,” he said, “But if I must wait, so be it.”

  Nicol’s gaze narrowed slightly. “If you’re serious about this, you’re welcome to look at the plots we have available. If one takes your fancy, we can take a deposit on it. If not, we will let you know when additional plots come up.”

  “Can I see them today?” Lindsay asked, pleased by the prospect of prolonging their meeting.

  Nicol shrugged. “Yes. Now, if you like.”

  Lindsay smiled. “Now would be perfect.”

  “Very well. I’ll call for Hugh. He can take you there directly.”

  Hugh?

  When Nicol reached for the bell on the corner of his desk, Lindsay shot out his hand, seizing the man’s wrist before he reached it. Nicol’s gaze snapped up, his surprise at the unexpected contact evident.

  “I don’t want your clerk to show me,” Lindsay said. “I want you, Mr. Nicol.”

  Nicol’s expression, at first stunned, became annoyed. He gave off a tangled knot of scents that was difficult to read, but Lindsay didn’t drop his gaze. This moment felt critical somehow, something important hanging in the balance bet
ween them.

  After a moment, Nicol dropped his gaze to Lindsay’s hand on his wrist and tugged, forcing Lindsay to release him.

  As Lindsay lifted his hand from Nicol’s, he noticed for the first time, the band of gold on Nicol’s third finger.

  The sight made his heart stutter in his chest.

  “You’re married,” he observed, staring at the slim gold band. He sounded perfectly calm, but he was aware it was an odd comment to make in the midst of an already odd conversation.

  “Widowed actually,” Nicol replied, adding hoarsely, “My wife passed away four years ago.”

  For a moment, Lindsay couldn’t reply—the grief in Nicol’s blue-grey eyes affected him viscerally—he couldn’t tell if the pain in his chest was sorrow or jealousy.

  At last he managed to get out stiffly, “My condolences.”

  Nicol nodded.

  After a few silent moments, Nicol gave a sigh. Then he said quietly, “If you really want, I will take you to see the plots. I do warn you though, the ground is filthy and I fear the mud will ruin your shoes. It may be better to do this another day, when you are more sensibly shod.”

  “No, no,” Lindsay replied. He wasn’t sure why Nicol had relented, but he wasn’t about to let this chance pass him by. “Let us strike while the iron is hot, Mr. Nicol. I will take my chances with the mud.”

  Chapter Six

  “And so,” Lindsay said, as he stepped delicately through another filthy puddle. “This is the ‘New Town’ I’ve heard so much about.”

  Nicol glanced at him over his shoulder, coming to a halt when he saw how far Lindsay was lagging behind. Nicol’s sturdy leather boots were far more suitable for the quagmire they were presently traversing than Lindsay’s once beautiful but now sadly besmirched shoes.

  “Building houses is a messy business,” Nicol said calmly as he waited for Lindsay to catch up with him.

  “I see that,” Lindsay replied dryly. He searched the ground for a safe spot on which to set his next step.

  “If you’re hoping I’ll set a cloak down to spare your ridiculous shoes, I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment.”

  Lindsay looked up. “You mean you won’t be my Sir Walter Raleigh?” he asked, pouting prettily.

  Nicol’s handsome face flushed and he gave an embarrassed sort of laugh. “No, of course not.”

  “Pity,” Lindsay said regretfully. “I think I’d make a ravishing Good Queen Bess.” He batted his eyelashes at Nicol, who hurriedly turned away.

  “Well, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to get your shoes dirty,” he said, striding away again and leaving Lindsay to follow. “I did warn you.”

  Lindsay sighed, accepting that there really was no way of doing this without getting filthy. He set off after Nicol again, trying not to shudder as his feet sank buckle-deep into the mud. Ahead of them, he could see a crew of working men, clambering around a maze of foundations and part-built walls, teams of them shifting huge stones with workhorses, while others set the blocks in place. All of them labouring and straining.

  Stonemasons. Hard men who did hard work.

  A man of around fifty, who appeared to be overseeing the men, waved at Nicol as he approached. He was smiling at Nicol, and Lindsay could see it was a genuine smile. Lindsay hung back as Nicol stepped forward, watching as Nicol shook the older man’s hand and clapped his shoulder, his bearing friendly and respectful. Once they’d greeted one another, Nicol removed his tricorn hat, raking one hand through his thick fair hair. He was listening to the overseer intently and even smiled briefly at something he said, his usual grim countenance briefly lightening, filling Lindsay with a strange and burning envy. He wanted to be the one to make Nicol smile like that. More, he wanted to make him laugh. Make his eyes glint with interest and warm with desire.

  Ah, Christ.

  As though he sensed Lindsay’s attention on him, Nicol glanced his way, pale gaze steady as Lindsay picked his way over the wet ground.

  “How are you faring, Mr. Somerville?” he called out as Lindsay drew closer. He glanced down at Lindsay’s mud-caked shoes and raised a brow.

  “Go on,” Lindsay said crossly. “Say, ‘I told you so.’ I know you want to.” Without waiting for an answer, Lindsay turned to the older man and held out his hand. “Lindsay Somerville. Pleased to meet you, Mr.—?”

  The man blinked at his familiar tone—no doubt he’d been expecting to be ignored or at the very least talked down to by Nicol’s finely dressed companion.

  “Paterson, sir,” he said, then seemed to collect himself, hurriedly wiping his own hand on his rough breeches before raising it to accept the one Lindsay had offered.

  His palm was very rough, with thick callouses, but his handshake was careful, almost delicate, as though he was worried about besmirching Lindsay.

  “Mr. Paterson is the master stonemason here,” Nicol said. “All of our houses are built from Craigleith sandstone. He sees to it that we have the best-dressed stone in the New Town.”

  There was a protective note in Nicol’s voice—a warning, Lindsay apprehended, that he should not think of patronising or belittling Paterson, which was fair enough, given how many men of Lindsay’s apparent wealth and status would do just that.

  Lindsay smiled at Paterson. “I daresay you’ll have a lot of work on just now.”

  “Aye,” Paterson said, “and for the next fifty years I reckon. We’ve a whole city to build, thanks to this gentleman and his like.” He began to cough then, making a signal of apology with one hand as he turned away, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief which he held over his mouth till the brief fit passed.

  “’Scuse me,” he mumbled when he turned back, tucking the handkerchief away.

  Nicol appeared troubled. “Your chest is bad again?”

  Paterson made a dismissive gesture. “It’s just a cough.”

  “You’ve not been working the stone in the sheds again, have you?” Nicol asked, his brow furrowed. “You need to take that work outside. The dust from this stone—”

  “Dinnae fuss,” Paterson said, smiling at Nicol to soften the words. “We were workin’ in the sheds durin’ that bad weather spell, but we’ll get out in the fresh air now.”

  “See that you do,” Nicol said grimly. He turned to Lindsay then. “So, Mr. Somerville. Shall I show you our available plots?”

  Lindsay blinked, then glanced around. “You mean these are not the new plots?”

  Nicol gave a sharp bark of laughter. “God, no. These are already sold. They will be finished much sooner than the ones I mentioned to you.” He clapped Paterson on the shoulder again. “I’ll be by again on Thursday.”

  “Aye,” Paterson said, then glanced at Lindsay, offering a respectful nod. “Good day to you, Mr. Somerville.”

  “And to you, Mr. Paterson.”

  “Come on,” Nicol said, striding on. “It’s this way.”

  Lindsay hurried after him, wincing as his shoes sank into the mud again, his foot pulling free with a dispiriting squelch.

  Nicol led him past a score of plots after that. The buildings were all of a similar design, a neoclassical elegance to them, each proportion pleasing to the eye, everything regular and symmetrical.

  “These buildings are very handsome, I must say,” Lindsay said truthfully. “Are they as beautiful inside?”

  Nicol nodded. “As elegant as you could wish. The cabinetmakers and haberdashers of Edinburgh are run off their feet with business.”

  As they walked further on, the building activity began to peter out, each structure diminishing in size the further they went.

  “We’re walking along what will eventually be the street in front of these houses,” Nicol explained, gesturing ahead of himself in a straight line. “These houses have been built north to south but the houses on the plots I’m taking you to now will be built east to west.”

  They continued onwards, leaving all the workmen behind, till finally they reached a large untouched area of muddy ground. Other
than a few wooden pegs roughly marking the plot boundaries, there was no sign of any activity.

  “Here we are,” Nicol said. “What do you think, Mr. Somerville?”

  Lindsay regarded his surroundings. At last he said, faintly, “Lovely. Which bit of mud would be mine?”

  Nicol gave a short bark of laughter, surprising Lindsay—and Nicol too by the look of him. Their gazes met and briefly held, then Nicol flushed a little and turned away, giving Lindsay his back.

  After a moment, he cleared his throat and gestured at the ground in front of him. “This section here will take six townhouses and the street will cross with the one we were just walking along. The Council’s plan is that most of the buildings will be constructed in a pattern of squares and straight lines.”

  “It sounds elegant,” Lindsay observed, “if simple.”

  “Quite so,” Nicol agreed. He appeared well-satisfied. “Elegant and modern.”

  “You approve,” Lindsay observed.

  Nicol turned back to face him then. “I do,” he said, smiling. “It’s a simple, rational design that suits the classical style of my buildings. Their beauty is, after all, in their lines and proportions.”

  As he spoke of his work, Nicol’s wariness subtly eased.

  “That is what you are selling then?” Lindsay said, “A vision of rational elegance?”

  “I suppose so. Is that what you are looking to buy?”

  Lindsay grinned. “Possibly. Join me for dinner tonight, and we can discuss the matter further.”

  Nicol’s wary look promptly returned. “I—that is, what do you want to discuss?”

  Lindsay could have kicked himself. In his eagerness to see Nicol again, he had been clumsy. Entirely lacking in subtlety.

  Forcing an insouciant shrug, Lindsay said, “I’m interested in taking a plot but I’d like to discuss further your vision for how all this”—he gestured at the empty ground—“will ultimately look. We may as well discuss it over dinner. I could certainly do with the company. I barely know anyone in Edinburgh.” He offered an apologetic smile. “You’d be doing me a favour.”