She sniffed and jerked her head castlewards. “Second on the left.”
Her gaze was already drifting past him in search of another customer.
RIGG’S CLOSE WAS JUST as Lindsay had thought it would be, a dark and dingy alleyway that led into a squalid courtyard surrounded by tenements of crumbling stone and blackened timber. The ancient, crooked buildings loomed over a meagre square of cobbles, blocking out any hint of sunlight.
A few children played in the tiny courtyard, gathered round a dirty puddle on which wobbled two paper boats, while a young woman in a threadbare gown and dirty apron scrubbed one of the tenement steps. When Lindsay entered the courtyard, she sat back on her heels to wipe her brow and glance briefly at him, her expression suspicious, before returning to her work.
Lindsay was a little surprised that a man as reputedly wealthy as Cruikshank did not live somewhere more salubrious.
Well, Francis had said that the man was a notorious miser.
The children all turned to look at Lindsay as he strolled past. One, a grubby, rosy little girl, pointed at his shoes and whispered to the other children, “He’s wearin’ lassies’ shoes.”
Lindsay stopped in his tracks and turned to fix his gaze upon her, regarding her steadily. The other children sidled away, leaving her isolated. The girl’s expression grew nervous, but she met his gaze bravely.
“I will have you know, mistress,” he said loftily, “that I am not wearing ladies’ shoes. These are the finest gentlemen’s shoes that money can buy. I bought them in Paris. Do you know where Paris is?”
She considered his question for several long moments. Then she said, almost defiantly though her high voice quivered, “You’re wearin’ rouge like a lassie an’ all.”
He laughed at that, amused by her boldness. “I am. It’s very fashionable, you know. For ladies and gentlemen. Especially in Paris.”
He winked then and she giggled, eyes sparkling with glee at being included in his joke.
“Now then, Mistress Fashion,” he said, growing businesslike. “Tell me this: where does Mr. Cruikshank live?”
Her eyes widened, but she pointed at the far corner of the courtyard. “O’er there. Top floor. If ye bang the big door at the side, his man’ll answer.”
“Thank you, mistress,” Lindsay said. He pulled a coin out of his pocket, letting her see it before he tossed it to her, smiling approvingly when her small hand snapped up to deftly catch it.
Leaving the children to their game, he crossed the filthy courtyard to the door the girl had pointed out and rapped hard upon it with his cane. A full minute passed before he heard sluggish footsteps descending the stairs inside. When the door opened, it was to reveal a heavyset man with greasy, greying hair and an unshaven, pock-marked face. He wore a shabby brown livery trimmed with braid that looked as though it might once have been gold but was now a dismal greyish yellow. Even the fingernails of the hand which held the door open were black with grime and needed paring.
The man looked Lindsay up and down in a rude manner, then, glowering at him, grunted, “Aye?”
“Mr. Cruikshank is expecting me.” Lindsay said, offering a careless smile. “Kindly tell him Mr. Somerville is arrived to see him.”
The man’s irritated expression did not alter. “Wait here,” he said and closed the door in Lindsay’s face.
Five full minutes passed before he returned.
“The master says ye’re to come in,” the man muttered, opening the door wide this time and gesturing for Lindsay to precede him into the narrow stairwell, before closing and bolting the door shut behind him, then locking it with a key from a heavy ring at his waist.
The stairwell was dank and shadowy, the weak light trickling down from a window further up quite inadequate to the task of illuminating the worn, uneven steps. Having secured the door, Cruikshank’s servant shoved rudely past Lindsay, taking the lead again. “Follow me.”
They ascended three full flights before they finally stopped at another door. The servant took out his ring of keys again to unlock it. It seemed that Hector Cruikshank liked to be secure—this lock was a stout one, the key sizeable. There was some effort needed to turn it and a bit of shoulder heft required to fully open the thick wooden door, but finally it was done, and the servant waved an arm to indicate that Lindsay should lead the way this time.
Though it was still aforenoon, candles glowed in the wall sconces of the hall Lindsay stepped into, cheap tallow ones that gave off a fatty reek. The ancient ceiling was stained brown with the burned-off grease of decades of such illumination.
“Ye’ve tae wait in the parlour,” the servant muttered. He pointed at a door. “He’s got somebody in the study wi’ him just now.”
Lindsay nodded his agreement and strolled into the parlour.
It was an unlovely room, filled with dark wooden furniture from the last century, unsoftened by cushions or coverings. Lindsay selected the least uncomfortable-looking chair and settled back to wait.
A tall, narrow mahogany clock measured Lindsay’s wait with aggravatingly steady tocks. It looked like nothing so much as a coffin leaning against the parlour wall. Lindsay half-expected the front of the case to creak open and a dusty skeleton to fall out.
Five minutes passed, then five more.
Then five more still.
Irritated, Lindsay was considering going in search of Cruikshank’s surly manservant when the door finally opened again.
He rose fluidly to his feet, impatient to be conducted to Cruikshank’s study, only to hesitate when he realised that the man standing in the doorway was neither the manservant nor the elderly Cruikshank himself.
At first, all Lindsay could make out of the man was his outline—tall and broad across the shoulders—and his heady, compelling scent. As Lindsay inhaled that scent, his pulse began to quicken and the strangest sensation overcame him, as though he might black out. Discreetly, he rested his hand on the back of a chair to steady himself.
The man stepped out of the gloom then, fully entering the parlour. He was dressed quite severely, all in black, some rolled-up papers lodged under one arm. All in all, he would have cut quite a grim figure were it not for his strikingly handsome face. His eyes were bright with intelligence, his chin strong and square, and his beautifully carved mouth drew Lindsay’s helpless gaze.
Such a generous, sensual mouth, even with the fine lips pressed together in what looked rather like a disapproving line.
That thought finally roused Lindsay from his daze. Why was the man regarding him with that wary and faintly censorious expression? It was only then that Lindsay remembered what he’d chosen to wear to his interview with Cruikshank.
Stifling a groan, he glanced down at his pale pink stockings and high-heeled shoes, experiencing a moment’s regret over his sartorial choices. A man like this, soberly attired and serious-seeming, would no doubt find Lindsay’s clothing distasteful, and probably a sign of a frivolous nature—if not worse.
Feigning unconcern, Lindsay stepped forward to greet the newcomer. “Good day to you, sir.” He managed to bow with casual elegance and was distantly amazed at how collected he sounded, quite as though this were any ordinary meeting. As though his whole body was not thrumming like a tuning fork in the presence of this fascinating stranger. “Lindsay Somerville, at your service.”
The man blinked once, the only sign he gave of any discomposure, before doffing his hat and offering his hand to Lindsay. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Somerville.” His voice was deep, though he spoke quite quietly. “Drew Nicol.”
As Nicol swept his hat off, Lindsay saw that his hair was the pale gold of barley. Somehow, Lindsay hadn’t expected it to be so fair. Even less had he expected to be gripped by a sudden, inexplicable desire to touch that hair. To thread his fingers into the pale strands and tug the serious, handsome face towards his own. To kiss the unsmiling mouth.
Abruptly, he realised that Nicol was still holding his hand out, waiting for Lindsay to shake it. Lindsay qu
ickly stepped forward to take Nicol’s in a firm grasp. The man’s scent was even better up close. Lindsay wanted to take great gulps of it and had to force himself to breathe normally.
His greedy gaze travelled over Nicol. He’d noticed the man’s beauty immediately, but now he saw Nicol’s face had character too, stubbornness in the set of that firm jaw and fierce intelligence in the blue—no, grey-blue—eyes. The initial hint of censure Lindsay had detected in Nicol’s gaze still lingered there, but there was something else too—in his eyes and in his scent—a sharp note of interest that roused Lindsay’s wolf to preen and stalk within him, sleek and vain, even as his human heart pounded with nerves.
For a long, almost stifling moment their tangled gazes held, and then Nicol seemed to realise he was staring. Mortification burned briefly in his eyes before his gaze shuttered and he quickly drew his hand back, stepping past Lindsay to move further into the parlour. Lindsay still felt the ghost of his touch though, a lingering physical memory of the press of Nicol’s fingers and palm against his own. Closing his hand into a loose fist at his side, he trapped the feeling there, ignoring the baying hound inside him that demanded he take hold of Drew Nicol’s arm and pull his body up against Lindsay’s. His wolf might demand that he act on instinct, but he was in his human form now, and in the human world this sort of attraction could spill into violence as easily as lust. There were many men who could not admit, even to themselves, what such feelings meant.
Lindsay watched Nicol cross the floor of the parlour and pause in front of the only decoration the room boasted: a painting of an overflowing bowl of fruit beside a wine flagon. The colours in the painting were so muted by decades of candle grease that everything was now some shade of drab brown, as though the fruit was going slowly bad. Once a depiction of riotous plenty, now it was a study in neglect—and Nicol was staring at it so hard you’d have thought it contained the secrets of the universe.
Into the silence, Lindsay said, “What a singularly ugly painting.” When Nicol didn’t immediately respond, he added, “Still, it matches the rest of the furnishings at least.”
Nicol finally turned at that, his composure apparently restored. “We all have our own ideas of good taste,” he replied mildly, not meeting Lindsay’s gaze.
For some reason, that bothered Lindsay. He wanted Nicol to look at him, which was an entirely lowering discovery. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a fig about such a thing.
“It’s true that taste is a very individual thing,” Lindsay agreed. “For example, as you can see, I am vastly fond of colour.” He gestured at his own clothing with a flourish of his arms, virtually forcing Nicol to look at him again.
His words were an explicit invitation to Nicol to judge his appearance, and as he stood there he had the dubious satisfaction of seeing the man do just that. As Nicol’s eyes swept down Lindsay’s body, disapproval flashed briefly in his eyes again, though he swiftly masked it. Absurdly, Lindsay was stung and found himself adding waspishly, with a dismissive glance at Nicol’s coat, “Of course, some people prefer no colour at all.”
Nicol raised his brows. “It is possible to enjoy colour without wearing six shades of it at once,” he replied.
Lindsay’s lips twitched at the unexpected display of dry humour. “I deserved that,” he admitted.
“It’s possible,” Nicol agreed. He appeared neither annoyed nor amused, his blank expression giving nothing away, but his scent told Lindsay he was... well, he was something. Intrigued? Irritated?
Lindsay decided to try a change of subject. “So, Mr. Nicol, do I take it you have an appointment to see Mr. Cruikshank today?”
“I’m afraid not,” Nicol replied, “I called by today because I happened to be passing and hoped he might be free. Apparently, though, I will have to wait until he is finished with you.”
“I shall endeavour not to detain him for long,” Lindsay promised. “But how likely is that? What sort of man is he to deal with?”
Nicol blinked, possibly surprised by the bluntness of the question. “You have not met him before?”
Lindsay shook his head. “No. In fact, I am only just arrived in Edinburgh today.”
“You are new to the city then?”
“Not quite entirely new, but it’s been some years since I was here last. I’ve been living on the Continent for a while.”
“I see.” Nicol eyed his clothing again, perhaps reassessing his appearance with the benefit of this new information. Foreign fashions would not be often seen in this corner of the world. “Do you plan to stay long?”
“A month or two,” Lindsay said, with an airy gesture to emphasise the vagueness of his plans. “But we digress—you were about to tell me what to expect from Mr. Cruikshank?”
Nicol gave a slight shrug. “He is business-minded. Drives a hard bargain. Knows what he wants.” Several moments passed before he added, almost as an afterthought, “He appears quite physically infirm, and consequently many people make the mistake of underestimating him, but he has an exceedingly sharp mind.”
“I shall bear that in mind. Thank you.” After a brief pause, Lindsay pointed at the paper cylinder tucked under Nicol’s arm. “Do I take it your business with Cruikshank is concerned with those?”
That was blatant prying and Nicol gave him a look that said as much. “It is,” he agreed, but he offered no further information.
Not to be put off, Lindsay asked another question. “Are they”—Lindsay peered at the papers, his brows stitching together—“drawings?”
“Yes.”
“You are an architect then?”
“Yes.” This time there was a note of exasperation in Nicol’s voice at what was swiftly turning into a cross-examination.
Unmoved, Lindsay continued. “So you are building a house for Mr. Cruikshank?”
Nicol gave a faint sigh, plainly irritated by Lindsay’s constant questions, but resigned now to answering. “Yes, though I actually completed the design some time ago. The building itself is already near complete but there are a few last details to check regarding the interior. That is my business here today.” He gave a tight smile, as though to say Does that answer all your impertinent questions?
Lindsay itched to grab hold of Nicol, to kiss that stiff smile from his appealing mouth. Instead, he doggedly continued the conversation. “Is this house being built in the New Town?”
“Yes,” Nicol said. “Almost all of our work is there. The demand for houses in the New Town is great.”
“Is that so? I’d heard it was proving to be a struggle to sell the plots.”
Nicol shook his head. “At first it was, but this last year or two things have changed, especially since the American War ended. And now that the houses are going up, people begin to see the benefits of moving there.”
“I’m not sure I see what’s so appealing about it,” Lindsay admitted. “It just looks like a muddy plain at the moment.”
He did not miss the sudden gleam of evangelism in Nicol’s gaze.
“There may not be much to see yet,” he said, “but the few houses that have been built are both modern and elegant and far more spacious that anything the city can currently offer. There will be no towering tenements there to block the sky. The air and water will be clean. The streets will be safe at night—”
“All right,” Lindsay interrupted, chuckling. “I admit, that all sounds delightful. But what about the rest of the city? Won’t it just be left to go to rack and ruin?”
“Of course not,” Nicol replied earnestly. “The New Town will only house a proportion of the city’s residents. The rest will stay here, but they will benefit from the departure of their neighbours as there is presently a great deal of overcrowding in all of the tenements. Once a few people move away, the overcrowding will ease, allowing those in poorer accommodations to move into better apartments. And with the demand for those apartments reduced, the rents should likewise go down.”
“But it will be the wealthiest who leave, w
ill it not?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And with the wealthiest townspeople gone, the shopkeepers and tradesmen who serve them will likely follow?”
“Perhaps,” Nicol agreed. “In time.”
“So, what happens then? Surely the existing buildings and roads will begin to deteriorate? For who will be left to pay for such common works once the wealthier residents are gone?”
Nicol’s gaze glinted with what looked like appreciation at that question, and Lindsay felt an odd stab of satisfaction at having provoked his interest despite his previous unwillingness to converse.
“It will be a gradual process, no doubt,” Nicol said, his growing animation indicating that this was a subject close to his heart. “But I believe that if people are given a better place to live and real hope for the future, they will work to improve themselves and to make a better life for their families. The first step is to eliminate the worst of the overcrowding, but it is only the first step. The next—”
He broke off when the door opened.
Lindsay turned, frowning, to see Cruikshank’s insolent manservant standing in the doorway, scowling at them.
“Mr. Somerville,” the man said flatly, “Mr. Cruikshank will see ye now.”
God damn it.
Lindsay did not want his conversation with Nicol to end. He wanted to hear what Nicol had been about to say, to see more of that unexpected fervour. Irritably, Lindsay nodded an acknowledgement in the servant’s direction before turning back to Nicol. “Perhaps we could continue our conversation another time?”
“Perhaps,” Nicol said, non-committal.
Lindsay stood his ground. “I could call by your offices,” he said, then raising a brow, added, “I believe I may have a fancy for one of your New Town houses myself.”
Nicol met his gaze. His expression was difficult to read, his scent even more so. The silence was becoming awkward when he finally said, “I fear there would be little point, Mr. Somerville. We presently have a waiting list of about two years and you said earlier you only expect to be in town a few months at most.”
Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet Book 1) Page 5
