Lindsay reached for the satchel again and drew out the bundle of simple clothes tucked inside. With each garment he donned, he became a little more the man, and a little less the beast.
At last, pulling on a pair of worn leather boots, he was fully human again.
He was not at all far from the city, thank God, and Wynne would be there already, installed in their rented rooms and probably unpacking.
Poor Wynne. He’d likely be beside himself by now, wondering when Lindsay would appear. Probably wearing holes in the carpets with his pacing. Ah well, Lindsay would be there soon enough.
The sun had risen fully now, though its glory was hidden by a layer of soft grey clouds, and the morning air was sharp and cold. Lindsay was very familiar with that greyness, and with the spare, northerly air. The familiarity of it was oddly disconcerting, like putting on shoes and finding them already moulded to your feet inside. Part of him wanted to soak in every familiar sight and sound and smell, to let this feeling of home fill up every empty space inside him. But another part of him—the slave part, the cur—urged him to flee. To run while he could, before Duncan MacCormaic found him.
Lindsay knew that was not a rational way to think. Duncan was in Spain, heading for France now. Lindsay had come to Scotland precisely because he was safer here than in Paris.
But he did not—could not—feel safe.
Lindsay ascended the final steep rise of the Caldtoun Hill, stopping at the crest to gaze down at the vista below. It had once been a very familiar view, but now he barely recognised it.
Long ago, when he’d been a boy, he and his brother used to come up this hill to play. They’d climb over the crumbling wall at the back of their close then scramble down the steep, muddy bank to the stinking shallows of the Nor’loch. They kept a leaky old barge there—little better than a raft really—for crossing the stagnant, filthy water. When they reached the other side, they’d stash the barge in a hidey-hole, then scamper through the fields till they reached the village at the foot of the hill. A scrambling run took them to the summit, and from there, they’d look down at this very same vista, at the great black crag of the Castle Rock and the body of water—the Nor’loch—that stretched before it.
Now half the Nor’loch was gone and the drained part was naught but mud flats, littered with centuries of mouldering rubbish.
When he and his brother were boys, they could smell the Nor’loch, even from here. The filthy water used to stink like the devil’s own privy. The tanners and dyers had used it for their noxious trades, and everyone threw their waste in it. Back then, it was where they’d tested witches—mostly unprotected women, stripped to their thin shifts and dooked in the filthy waters. There had been executions by drowning too. People nailed in barrels and chests and thrown right in to drown in their makeshift coffins. Oh, the misery those waters had seen. Lindsay and his brother had been convinced it teemed with ghosts.
But now... now much of the water was gone, and at the edge of the exposed, muddy ground the wooden frame of a pump squatted, its massive timber arm slumped in the silt, awaiting its masters’ return for another day’s work. To the north of the mud flats, new buildings had already begun to spring up, all sharp, symmetrical edges, the newly quarried sandstone bright in the dawn’s light. And from those few finished buildings spread signs of further industry, half-built walls and deep ditches ready for foundations to be laid.
This, then, was Edinburgh’s “New Town.”
Francis had been here when the town’s Council had come up with the ambitious plan. The city was vastly overcrowded so they’d decided they would drain the ground to the north and construct new houses there, a battalion of modern, elegant ones, each built to exacting requirements. This new town would be grand and elegant. It would draw the wealthy Scots back from London with their money and their business.
When Lindsay had first heard of the plan, years ago now, he’d been sceptical. Would so many people want to buy new houses in Edinburgh? Would London exiles really return? At first, it seemed that his scepticism had been well founded. There had been reportedly little interest in buying plots, particularly after the run on the banks in ’72, but looking down, it seemed there was some appetite for the plan. Standing here in the dawn light, with all these signs of burgeoning industry before him, Lindsay could finally see the possibility of it. Already, more than half the Nor’loch was gone and elegant houses had begun sprouting up like daffodils in spring, bright and new. There was a great bridge too, long and poker-straight, linking this newborn place to its mother’s dark and wretched womb to the south. Old town and new; two sides of the same city.
Lindsay stood on the crest of the hill for long minutes, gazing out at the familiar skyline of his old home and at the modern city it was giving birth to. Briefly, excitement flickered in him, but he suppressed the feeling quickly and ruthlessly. The fate of this place did not matter to him. He wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter, a few weeks, a couple of months at most, then back to the Continent.
He’d leave this parochial little country behind him without an ounce of regret.
And with any luck, he’d never have to return.
Chapter Three
Lindsay was very glad of the stout boots he wore as he walked to the bridge he’d spied from the summit of the Caldtoun Hill. By the time he reached it, the boots were ankle-deep in mud from his feet sinking into the soft, wet ground, over and over.
Thankfully, the bridge itself was free of mud. It led him right into the bustling heart of the city, delivering him to the middle of the High Street, the long, knobbly spine of the city that stretched from the Castle at one end to Holyrood Palace at the other. Between those royal houses dwelt every type of person imaginable, from the highest peer in the land to the meanest pauper.
The familiar reek that had teased at Lindsay’s nostrils in the carriage last night was very strong now, close to overwhelming. It was a scent that was rich with life in a way that made Lindsay’s hunkered-down beast stir within him again, interested.
It wasn’t just the smell that was familiar. The High Street was as busy as ever, a tangled throng of townspeople going about their business, hawking goods, gossiping, bartering and debating—all under the same grey sky as when Lindsay had been a boy, and in the same clipped, brusque voices. The mode of dress may have changed, but it looked as though little else had.
Wynne had rented comfortable apartments at Locke’s Court for their stay. It was a good address, just off the Canongate, and perfect for the sort of idle, wealthy gentleman Lindsay generally pretended to be. He headed that way, already dreaming of hot coffee and something hearty to eat.
Briefly, as he neared St. Mary’s Street, he paused, discombobulated. It took him a moment to understand why—until he realised that he was standing where the Nether Bow gate used to be—but was no longer. Now there was no physical barrier between the Canongate and the rest of the town.
Despite the gate being gone, there was still a noticeable change when Lindsay entered the Canongate proper. The crowds thinned, growing quieter and more polite, and there were fewer hawkers here. Even the sedan chairmen were quiet, their chairs neatly lined up in readiness as they waited for custom.
The inhabitants of the Canongate were easy to spot: finely dressed and well-spoken. Lindsay, in his present workmanlike attire and with no obvious occupation to explain his presence, stood out, garnering a few wary glances. He was glad when he was able to slip into the close that led to Locke’s Court, escaping further scrutiny.
The close was narrow and gloomy, but it opened out onto a sizeable, well-kept courtyard, empty but for a pair of ladies, strolling towards him, arm-in-arm. They were probably heading for the waiting chairmen outside, their gowns and slippers too fine for walking. As they drew closer, Lindsay noticed their matching suspicious expressions and stepped respectfully out of their path, sweeping off his hat as he made them an elegant leg.
“Good day, ladies,” he murmured as he bowed, glancing
up at them from under his lashes and offering his most charming smile, letting admiration warm his gaze. In an instant, their frowns vanished, one of the women raising her fan to peep at him over the lacy rim while the other nodded a cooler greeting, her concerns apparently assuaged by his fancy manners—or perhaps by his pretty face. He watched them pass him by, then disappear into the close, their wide skirts brushing the dank walls.
Once they were out of sight, he discreetly nosed the air, searching for Wynne’s scent. After a moment, he had it and followed it to a stout wooden door on the south side of the courtyard. He rapped the door loudly, and a minute later it swung open, revealing Wynne himself, still wearing last evening’s clothes and looking exhausted and rumpled.
Wynne’s expression, at first taut with anxiety, slackened with relief at the sight of Lindsay, and for one brief moment, he closed his eyes. “Thank God,” he breathed. “You’re back.”
Lindsay’s chuckle was soft. Apologetic. “Poor Wynne. Were you up all night?”
Wynne opened his eyes again. “I could not sleep, sir.”
“I’m a wretch for worrying you,” Lindsay said, contrite. His usual, rather neutral accent was safely back in place now, the antique Scots dialect carefully buried again.
Wynne shook his head and stepped aside. “Come inside. I’ll have a bath drawn for you and a hot meal fetched—you must be starved.”
Lindsay crossed the threshold but paused there, reaching out to touch the young man’s cheek, urging him to lift his chin and meet Lindsay’s gaze. Wynne flushed faintly.
After searching his servant’s face for several long moments, Lindsay said, “I think you need a bath and food more than I do.”
Wynne tugged out of Lindsay’s gentle grip. “I’m perfectly fine,” he insisted. Then he turned and started down the hallway towards a flight of stairs, adding over his shoulder, “Our apartments are on the next floor.”
Their rooms were elegant and well-proportioned with comfortable furnishings. There were several bedchambers, a good-sized parlour, a small dining room and a kitchen. Wynne had made arrangements for their meals to be delivered each day and for other domestic services to be provided as required. Lindsay, who had come to rely upon his manservant’s excellent organisation, rarely noticed these details, but he was aware, vaguely, that wherever they went, the fireplaces would be cleaned out each day, the linens aired and whenever he wanted to bathe, there would be a tub of hot water. And he was duly grateful.
Entering the parlour, Lindsay crossed the floor to peer out of the window onto the courtyard below. The glass was thick and warped by time, making it difficult to see with any kind of clarity.
“Is it your intention to call on Mr. Cruikshank today, sir?” Wynne asked behind him.
Lindsay turned back to him. “It is. Once I’ve bathed at any rate. I’m perfectly filthy.”
“I’ll have some water brought up,” Wynne said. “Do you wish to sleep for a while first? I can wake you whenever suits.”
Lindsay shook his head. “No, I slept for a time last night—and hunted too, so I’m well-fed and rested. All in all, I’m ready to go and see Mr. Cruikshank without delay.” He fingered his jaw then and, finding it rough, added, “Though I should make myself more presentable. Could you look out my shaving things?”
“Of course, sir.” Wynne executed a short bow, adding as he straightened, “I suspected you’d wish to proceed so I took the liberty of pressing your blue coat and breeches earlier.”
Lindsay smiled. “Thank you, Wynne, but would you mind, pressing another suit for me?”
“Of course not, sir. Which one?”
“The pink stripe coat. With the Nile green breeches, if you please.” When Wynne raised his brows, Lindsay added, “I would like to convey a certain impression to Mr. Cruikshank.”
“Dressed like that, I expect he will consider you to be quite the Macaroni, sir.”
Lindsay grinned. “Indeed. Particularly once you’ve styled my hair and made up my face. I aim to appear to be the vainest of fops, you see. A fool with too much money and easily parted from it.”
Wynne had been too long in Lindsay’s household to find this request remarkable. He merely nodded serenely.
“As you wish, sir.”
JUST OVER TWO HOURS later, Lindsay emerged again from the mouth of Locke’s Court, although this time he was dressed very differently. Whereas earlier, he’d worn the dun breeches and brown drab coat of a working man, now he was eye-catching indeed. His coat was a pink-and-ivory striped affair—very bold, particularly when teamed with the Nile green satin breeches. Clocked stockings of pale pink silk, intricately embroidered with a pattern of twisting leaves, graced his well-shaped calves, and his silver-buckled shoes had fashionably high heels that clacked on the cobbles as he walked.
His face was made up with powder, patches and rouge. One black velvet dot rested just above his upper lip while another graced the opposite cheek, an inch or so below the outer corner of his right eye. The powder he wore was very white, the rouge on his lips and cheeks a deep rose, and several glittering rings winked on his slim fingers. As for his coiffure, well, Wynne had outdone himself, transforming Lindsay’s straight black hair into a stiff cloud of curls and rolls.
All in all, he looked both beautiful and slightly ridiculous as he set off to call upon Mr. Hector Cruikshank. A proud, fashionable peacock of a man.
Cruikshank reportedly lived in Rigg’s Close, and whilst Lindsay wasn’t entirely sure which of the narrow alleyways that led off the High Street that was, he had a general idea of its location; an inkling that it might be one of the grimmer ribs that stretched off the High Street’s long spine.
As he set off through the Canongate, his foppish attire and swaggering gait attracted numerous glances, though no explicit comment. That gradually changed as he progressed further up the High Street, and by the time he’d reached the Tron Kirk, he was garnering whistles and open stares. A woman in a low-cut gown selling oranges eyed him lasciviously, prompting the burly hawker selling meat pies beside her to remark, “If it’s cock yer after, a man that wears mair powder on his face than a lassie is no’ goin’ to make ye happy.”
“Who needs cock?” the woman scoffed, ignoring the glare of a passing clergyman who stalked past like an angry crow, hands tucked behind his back, neat as a pair of folded wings. “He can put that bonny face between ma legs and I’ll be happy enough!”
Lindsay grinned and winked at the woman lewdly as he passed, waggling his tongue suggestively to make her laugh.
It seemed that Edinburgh hadn’t changed so very much—it was the same old soup pot of sybarites and Presbyterians. A soup pot in other ways too, he mused, as he took in the people on the fringes of this busy thoroughfare. Gaunt, barefoot urchins scrabbling for food. Threadbare, hard-faced prostitutes, grimly soliciting. Petty thieves and cheap crooks circling, ear-marked from the pillory and devil-kissed by the executioner’s brand.
The rich and poor of this city lived cheek by jowl, and whilst that infant “New Town” might ultimately change things, for now, everyone shared the same crowded streets. Shared the same buildings too, with the poorest stuck in damp, mean rooms on the lower floors while the wealthy enjoyed more spacious and comfortable accommodations higher up, away from the filth and stink of the street.
As Lindsay drew nearer to the part of the High Street where he thought Rigg’s Close was located —walking as carefully as a cat to avoid the worst of the muck on the ground—he spied, from the very corner of his eye, a youth, unfolding himself from the shadows. Nearly as tall as Lindsay, he was a bit too slender for his height, though he moved with subtle grace, coming up on Lindsay from an oblique angle.
A thief, who thought to make Lindsay his pigeon.
Lindsay let him get close enough to touch before he turned abruptly on his heel and caught the boy’s hand—which was already ghosting over his pocket—in a crushing grip. The boy’s eyes widened briefly but he quickly recovered, casting a sultry look a
t Lindsay from under his sandy lashes and murmuring, “If yer prick’s as fine as yer breeks, sir, I’d fair like a taste o’ it. Would you like to try my mouth? I’ll gi’e you a good price.”
A risky tactic, though perhaps Lindsay’s outrageous garb had persuaded the boy he’d not be offended at such an approach. And perhaps he would have even welcomed it, were it genuine. The boy was a pretty morsel, with a wide, generous mouth that would look very well wrapped about his cock.
As it was, Lindsay only smiled thinly. “I do not think it was my prick you were trying to reach, but my purse.”
“No, sir,” the boy insisted, shaking his head and tugging desperately against Lindsay’s hard grip. “I wasn’t, honestly.”
“Save your lies,” Lindsay said, thrusting the boy away so roughly he stumbled back several steps, only just avoiding falling to the ground. “Lucky for you, I’ve no time to spare today.”
The boy stared at him wide-eyed for an instant, then turned and fled, disappearing into the crowd.
“Ye should’ve called the Guard on him.”
Lindsay turned to face the plump doxy who had spoken. She was leaning on a nearby wall. She raised a painted brow at him and gave one side of her ample bosom a lazy nudge in token advertisement of her wares.
“He’s been driving away half my custom with his thieving and stealing the other half with his arse,” she complained.
Lindsay lifted a negligent shoulder. “Well, he’s a pretty lad.”
“Not as a pretty as you,” the whore assured him, with a wink. “You’re that bonny, I’ll do you half price, if you want. Unless it’s only lads you like?”
Lindsay offered her a small bow. “A charming invitation, ma’am, to be sure, but I’ll have to decline. I have a pressing appointment. Tell me, is Rigg’s Close nearby?”
Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet Book 1) Page 4
