Gentleman Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  “A little. Mostly, I’m craving tea.”

  Wynne smiled. “I’ll make fresh pot, sir.”

  Sitting himself down at the table. Lindsay watched Wynne move around the kitchen. He filled the kettle and laid out place settings then disappeared into the larder, emerging with a loaf of bread, an earthenware jar and half a wrapped cheese. After slicing several large hunks of bread and buttering them generously, he put them on a plate with a sizeable wedge of the cheese and set it all down in front of Lindsay.

  Lindsay smiled gratefully. “You’re a treasure,” he said. The jar contained honey and Lindsay poured a thick stream of it over his bread till it was quite drenched, before taking a big bite, moaning happily around the food. It turned out he was hungrier than he’d realised. Thirsty too. He drank all the tea in the pot, cup after cup of it.

  Once he’d eaten and drunk his fill, and leaned back contentedly in his chair, Wynne spoke again his tone tentative, “May I ask something, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “You ran as a wolf last night.”

  “I did,” Lindsay confirmed. “But that is not a question—what do you want to know?”

  Wynne’s gaze was wary. “It’s not full moon yet.”

  Lindsay stared at him. “Again, not a question.”

  Wynne’s scent spiked, but to his credit he continued. “I remember,” he said, fiddling with his teacup, “you once telling me that it does not do to shift too often in cities. Yet, since we’ve come you’ve already done so three times. Do you think—”

  “Do I think I am being unwise?” Lindsay interrupted.

  Wynne flushed scarlet. “I did not mean to suggest that.”

  “No?” Lindsay sighed and dropped his head back, staring up at the ceiling. It was stained yellow-brown from decades of cooking grease. “The truth is, last night I needed to run. I could not have done otherwise. The moon had nothing to do with it.”

  When he glanced back at Wynne, the man looked concerned, as well he might. Lindsay rarely shifted other than at full moon and never so often as this. But the fact was, the circumstances were unusual. He’d had to dose himself with ’bane to avoid shifting when the moon was full during his journey to Edinburgh—that had left him with a fairly desperate need to shift. And the next two times had both been prompted by his wolf’s reaction to Drew Nicol.

  Lindsay opened his mouth to reassure Wynne but before he could utter a word, there was a loud rapping at the door downstairs.

  “Who’s that?” Lindsay asked. “Are we expecting anyone?”

  Wynne frowned and shook his head. “I’ll go and see.”

  He returned a few minutes later with a guest in tow, a guest whose dear scent had already reached Lindsay’s nose before he’d even entered the kitchen. Lindsay was out of his chair and waiting to greet the man the moment he crossed the threshold.

  “Francis!” he exclaimed happily, yanking his friend into his arms and pressing him close, relishing Francis’s eager return embrace, his wiry arms firm around Lindsay’s back.

  “Lindsay,” Francis breathed into his ear. “Ah, it’s good to see you.”

  “And you.” Lindsay inhaled deeply, letting Francis’s scent fill him. Clean wool with the faintest hint of lanolin. A shepherd scent. A wolf in lamb’s clothing scent.

  Francis laughed, his chuckle muffled by Lindsay’s shoulder. “What a welcome,” he said, pulling back to set a little space between them, so he could look at Lindsay. His expression was fond and happy, his light-brown eyes gleaming with that deep kindness Lindsay loved so well. When he lifted his hand and set it on Lindsay’s cheek, Lindsay stilled obediently, letting Francis look his fill.

  “You seem...” Francis trailed off, frowning slightly, then said, “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course,” Lindsay replied.

  “How go things with Cruikshank?”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Lindsay smiled coaxingly at Wynne. “Could we possibly have some more tea?”

  Wynne nodded, then glanced at Francis. “And something to eat for you, Mr. Neville?”

  “That would be wonderful. Anything you have.” Francis smiled sweetly. “And I wish you’d call me Francis.”

  Wynne looked at Lindsay and Lindsay chuckled. “He won’t do that, my dear. He won’t even call me by name, will you, Wynne?”

  “It doesn’t strike me as appropriate,” Wynne said. “I am your servant after all—and what if I forget myself at a time when I must convince as a high-in-the-instep valet?” He shook his head firmly. “No, best to keep to one form of address so no mistakes can be made.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Francis admitted reluctantly. “Though I’m glad I don’t need a valet.”

  “You should hire one,” Lindsay said, eyeing Francis’s drab grey suit. “Your clothes are truly appalling, my dear.”

  “Perhaps, but they’re easy to get on and off without assistance, so I count myself the luckier of the two of us,” Francis replied dryly. “I mean look at this!” He plucked at the sleeve of Lindsay’s banyan. “It’s hardly practical.”

  “My darling,” Lindsay replied. “One does not wear something as beautiful as this to be practical. One wears it to be utterly exquisite.”

  “Well, you are that,” Francis replied, laughing. He picked up the fresh pot of tea Wynne set on the table in front of him and poured himself a cup.

  “How’s Marguerite?” Lindsay asked.

  “Same as ever,” Francis said, his eyes twinkling. “Grows more beautiful every day.”

  “And Blaireau?”

  Francis’s smile dimmed a little. “He was laid up with a fever for a fortnight shortly after you left. He’s better now, but—slower.” He paused. “You know, my dear, he is four-and-eighty now.”

  Lindsay nodded, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat. “I know.”

  “He’s perfectly content. Content in a way we cannot comprehend. The fact is, he’s reached a point in his life we may never get to.” Francis gave Lindsay a curious look. “In truth, I envy him.”

  Lindsay considered that. He did not precisely envy Blaireau—it was difficult to envy a man his physical deterioration—but yes, there was something Blaireau had that he and Francis did not. Some secret he seemed to know that for all Lindsay’s longer years he was yet to learn. If Francis thought that was a comfort to Lindsay though, he was very much mistaken. That insight would not lessen Lindsay’s grief one iota when the time came. The truth was, every time he made a friend of a mortal, he planted a seed of future grief.

  Glancing across the kitchen, Lindsay’s gaze caught on Wynne slicing bread, and his chest ached. He should never have allowed Wynne to get under his skin. He should have turned him off when they left Rouen.

  Perhaps one day he’d learn his lesson.

  Deliberately changing the subject, Lindsay said, “Did you take care of the Aubrière business?”

  “Oh, yes,” Francis said breezily. “A small investment in some government bonds took care of it.”

  Lindsay stifled a groan. The last thing they should be doing, with the French government falling apart and revolution in the air, was buying bonds—he was amazed Marguerite had countenanced that. Still, she must have agreed and it was, ultimately, her decision. He forced a smile and said lightly, “And so, my dear, we come to the question of what brings you to Edinburgh.”

  “Call it a whim,” Francis said lightly. “I decided to come and see how this Naismith business is going. Besides, I’ve been hankering for a change of scene and it’s a good ten years since I was last here. I like Edinburgh—it’s very egalitarian.”

  Lindsay regarded his friend steadily. He didn’t quite believe that explanation and the slight flush across Francis’s cheeks wasn’t helping to convince him. Perhaps, though, he was merely being careful in front of Wynne.

  “Oh, very egalitarian,” he agreed. “Everyone swills through the same filth, rich and poor alike.”

  Francis laughed. “You can sc
off, but there’s something to be said for it.”

  “Well, it won’t be like this for much longer. Have you seen this “New Town” they’re building?”

  Francis nodded. “It’s very elegant. Very... classical.”

  “Quite so,” Lindsay agreed. “And would you believe our friend Mr. Cruikshank has already moved there?”

  “Really?” Francis seemed surprised.

  “Yes—I was at his new house for dinner last night.” He tried to banish all other thoughts of the previous night, but as soon as he said the words, the memory of Drew overwhelmed him, and he knew his scent must be all over the place.

  Francis’s gaze was careful. At length he said, “What did you make of him?”

  Lindsay blinked, then remembered that Francis was talking about Cruikshank.

  He made a face. “Horrible old miser.”

  Francis nodded, an expression of distaste on his face. “Yes, and worse besides, I think. There’s something really rather malevolent about him.”

  “What was it you called him?” Lindsay said. “A ghoul?”

  Francis nodded. “When I met him, he insisted on showing me his study. Ugh, all those jars—have you seen them?”

  Lindsay remembered the jars on the highest shelf of the crowded room.

  “Yes, but I couldn’t see inside them—they were all musty and out of the way.”

  “Perhaps he lost interest in them over the years,” Francis said. “But when he showed them to me they were his pride and joy. His ‘curiosities’ as he called them—bits of human and animal bodies. One jar has a whole stillborn baby in it.” Francis shuddered. “I realised later that it wasn’t the jars themselves he enjoyed, it was how people reacted to them. That was the ghoulish part. He enjoyed shocking and unsettling me.”

  Lindsay remembered the gleam in the old man’s eyes as he’d shown him the witch-prickers. Yes, he knew what Francis meant.

  Wynne returned to the table then with several platters of food. Pork and egg pie, sliced ham and chicken, buttered bread. Francis filled his plate and began to eat, groaning with pleasure at the first mouthful of pie.

  “This is good,” he said. “It’s not even so very long since I ate, but my damned wolf needs so much feeding! I swear, I’m getting worse as I get older.”

  Lindsay laughed sympathetically. “It’s true,” he agreed. “In fact, I think I need some of that pie too.” He filched a thick slice, chuckling at Francis’s outraged protest, and crammed a big bite into his mouth.

  Within a very short time all the food was gone, only crumbs left on the platters.

  Francis leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach with satisfaction. “Now, tell me everything you’ve been doing since you got here.”

  While Wynne poured them all more tea, Lindsay gave him a summary of the last few days’ events, though he left out the most juicy parts about Drew Nicol, saying only that they’d become acquainted. He could see from Francis’s sharp look that he noticed some change in Lindsay’s scent when he spoke of Drew, but he made no comment and Lindsay was duly grateful.

  “What do you think of the Naismith papers then?” Francis asked when Lindsay was finished. “Are they genuine? Will they assist Mim?”

  “They looked genuine enough to me,” Lindsay said, shrugging. “But I’m no expert. You may have a better sense than I, given you were at least alive when they were written.”

  “Perhaps,” Francis murmured. “Though we may only know for sure once Mim sees them.”

  “Which brings me to my real difficulty—the price. He is asking an outrageous sum and while Marguerite gave me carte blanche, she expects me to drive the best bargain I can. What if they are fake? Or contain nothing of assistance?”

  “It doesn’t sound as though he’s minded to bargain with you,” Francis observed.

  “I believe he has reason to fear the consequences if he lets the other buyer down,” Lindsay said. “The one thing we have in our favour is that he’s greedy. It’s only if he can get us to pay a truly extortionate price that he’s prepared to risk the man’s ire.”

  “Any idea who this buyer is?” Francis asked.

  “Wynne is making enquiries, but so far we’ve discovered nothing.”

  Francis glanced at Wynne.

  “I tried to befriend Cruikshank’s manservant,” Wynne said. “But Mr. Meek is a misanthrope of the first order.”

  Lindsay chuckled. “I did warn you.”

  “You did,” Wynne admitted. “I’m going to try and talk to the maid next. If I can get a chance. Poor girl seems to be rushed off her feet from what I’ve seen, but she may respond to a sympathetic ear.”

  “And a handsome young admirer?” Francis added with a wink.

  Wynne flushed a little.

  “He’s good with women,” Lindsay said with a sly smile in Francis’s direction.

  Francis raised a brow. “Perhaps he understands the mysterious female mind?”

  Wynne’s flush deepened still further, but he managed a careless sort of shrug. “There’s nothing so very mysterious about women.”

  Lindsay chuckled at his offhand tone. “Oh, come on, you’ve met Marguerite.”

  “She’s no more mysterious than you two,” Wynne retorted. “And she’s twice as able.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he paled, realising what he’d just said. “That is. I mean—”

  Lindsay laughed. “Oh, he has the measure of us, Francis!”

  “He does that,” Francis replied. He was smiling, but when he glanced at Wynne, there was a concerned expression on his face. Gently he said, “We all agree she’s a remarkable woman, Mr. Wildsmith—but please, for your own sake, do not forget that she is also a wolf. A centuries-old wolf. You have no conception of how different that makes her from you.”

  Wynne’s expression shuttered. “Of course, sir. I apologise for speaking out of turn.”

  He began to rise from his chair, but Lindsay stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

  “Sit down. And do not get on your dignity with Francis. He only means to be kind. And he’s right, we wolves are like you in many ways, but in others...”

  Wynne sighed. “I know.” He glanced at Francis and sank back down into his chair. “I do know.”

  Francis nodded but his concerned expression did not fade.

  Lindsay said, “Francis, I think you should come with me to see Cruikshank—I’ll tell him I’d like you to look at the papers, to give me your opinion on their authenticity."

  “That makes sense,” Francis said. “He knew me as a collector the last time I was in Edinburgh.”

  “We’ll have to try to make you look older though,” Lindsay said. “You don’t look a day above five-and-twenty.”

  “I’ll wear a wig or powder my hair,” Francis said, shrugging. “He’s not to know I’ve got no grey.”

  “It may take a little more than that”. Lindsay replied, his expression doubtful. “What do you think, Wynne?”

  “We’ll manage something,” Wynne said. “I can do a fair bit with my powder and paint.”

  “That you can,” Lindsay agreed. “Very well. I’ll send a note round to Cruikshank asking if we can call on him tomorrow.”

  LINDSAY AND FRANCIS dined at a cookhouse that evening, gorging themselves on beefsteak and oysters. They lingered over their ale for a good long while, then then headed back to Locke Court, and Lindsay’s best brandy.

  It was a cold, clear night and the moon was ripening, growing ever closer to fullness.

  Francis, dangling his hat from one hand, threw back his head and stared up at the sky.

  “I love nights like this,” he breathed.

  Lindsay followed his gaze. The moon was low tonight, skimming the jagged tops of the crowstepped gables of the tenements.

  His wolf stirred at the sight, and he felt the urge to shift ripple through him again.

  “I want to run,” he said.

  “We could run,” Francis said, a smile in his voice. “Shall we?”
r />   Lindsay knew he should demur. He had already shifted too many times this week. Instead he grinned. “Let’s do it.”

  Francis sighed happily. “It’s a good night for a run—I do like to get the dirt under my paws when I first arrive somewhere new.”

  “I just want to chase something,” Lindsay said, and Francis laughed.

  They were still laughing as they neared Locke Court, arguing lightly over where to go once they shifted, but as they turned into the mouth of the close, a familiar flinty scent teased Lindsay’s nose and he faltered to a halt.

  “What is it?” Francis asked, head canted to one side curiously.

  “Drew Nicol—that man I told you about? The one who I met when I first called on Cruikshank?—he’s been here,” Lindsay replied. His tone was calm, but he knew Francis could likely detect his agitation. Francis had an uncommon ability not merely to scent things, as any wolf could, but to read those scents in all their complexity.

  Now, Francis lifted his nose and inhaled, and Lindsay felt the most absurd bolt of resentment, just at the thought of Francis learning Drew’s intricate, subtle aroma. He shook his head at his own foolishness, disgusted.

  “Come on,” he said roughly, striding to the door and rapping upon it.

  He heard Wynne’s footsteps approaching the door. A moment later, it creaked open, revealing Wynne’s pale face, his index finger laid lightly on his lips in a gesture that counselled silence.

  “Sir,” he whispered. “Mr. Nicol is here. I hope I did not do wrong, but when he called, I thought I should invite him to wait. I can send him away if you—”

  “No, no,” Lindsay interrupted. A surge of joy and satisfaction filled him, and he had to bite the smile from his lips before he added, “You did the right thing, Wynne.”

  Wynne looked relieved and stepped back. “I put him in the parlour and gave him some port wine,” he said as Lindsay brushed past. “He’s been waiting a quarter hour.”

  Lindsay barely heard him—he was already running up the stairs, as though he had the devil at his heels, leaving Francis to trail in his wake. He knew he was being ridiculous—as though Drew might change his mind and decide to jump out the parlour window—but somehow he couldn’t stop himself being absurd. Absurd and obvious.