Lindsay’s frustration at that evasive response was equalled only by his disappointment that Drew Nicol seemed not to want to see him again. Which was absurd, when the last thing he ought to be doing was getting distracted by a handsome man. Nevertheless, he found himself smiling flirtatiously as he said, “True, but I do plan to return to Edinburgh one day, and besides, property is an excellent investment.”
Nicol did not answer, but his scent sharpened again. It was a scent that made Lindsay’s wolf rise in him, his beast lifting its head, curious and demanding.
And Christ but it made his prick rise too.
“Mr. Somerville,” the manservant prompted from the doorway, with heavy emphasis. “Mr. Cruikshank is waiting.”
Lindsay ignored him. To Nicol—who had not replied—he said, “I will ask Mr. Cruikshank for your direction, Mr. Nicol.”
Nicol said nothing, but he dipped his head in acknowledgement of Lindsay’s words, his blue-grey gaze wary.
Chapter Four
As Lindsay followed Cruikshank’s manservant down the short corridor and into another gloomy chamber, he tried to put Drew Nicol from his mind, ignoring his wolf’s grumbling.
“The master will be back in a minute,” the servant said. “Ye can sit if ye like.” And with that, he left.
Lindsay examined his surroundings. He had been shown into a small, crowded study, dominated by an enormous desk hewn from the same black wood as the furniture in the parlour and carved in the same formal Jacobean style.
One wall of the room was lined with shelves, most of which were crammed with books, but the top three rows held a variety of curiosities. On the very top shelf stood a row of glass jars of varying sizes—the contents of which were unidentifiable from Lindsay’s vantage point—and a portable wooden chest with strap hinges and sturdy locks. The shelf below was taken up by porcelain, an absurd quantity of the stuff and much of it looking quite dusty. Lindsay spotted at least half a dozen very fine pieces amongst scores of far less remarkable ones. None of the pieces were shown to advantage by their crowded placement. Indeed, they all looked rather... forgotten. The third shelf contained a bewildering array of objects of all shapes and sizes: snuffboxes, bottles, packets of papers, some mathematical instruments. Lindsay’s eye was caught by a set of silver bodkins in a velvet-lined case. Stepping closer, he examined them: ornate mother-of-pearl handles and long silver needles gleaming against the plush black fabric. It struck him as odd that Cruikshank was displaying such domestic items.
“So, Mr. Somerville,” a high, thin voice said behind him. “Ye’ve come to see me.”
Turning to meet the owner of the voice, Lindsay was faced with a wiry old man standing in the open doorway, his thin frame made smaller by his round-shouldered posture.
The man shuffled into the study. He wore no wig and his head was almost entirely bald, just a few straggly puffs of white hair above each ear. His brown eyes were curiously round, his brow grooved with deep lines, and his thin lips were turned down mournfully. He looked like nothing so much as a little old monkey.
“Mr. Cruikshank, I presume,” Lindsay replied, stepping forward to greet his host.
The old man’s gait was slow and halting. He wore a drab brown banyan that swamped him, baggy woollen stockings on his thin legs and a pair of Turkish slippers on his feet, the once dark red brocade faded to pink. When Lindsay took his hand, it felt like a handful of fallen leaves, dry and papery, no strength in his grip at all.
He smelled of mouldering paper and dust. The smell of the crypt.
“Welcome,” he said. For several moments, he inspected Lindsay, his gaze travelling from the top of Lindsay’s powdered head to the tips of his elegantly shod feet. Then he added in a wondering tone, “Is this how the gentlemen are dressing in London these days?”
“Only the most elegant ones,” Lindsay said.
Cruikshank gave a wheezy chuckle, then pointed at the silver bodkins Lindsay had been examining. “Ye were admiring my witch prickers, I see.”
“Witch prickers?”
The old man sent him a sly, amused look. “The witchfinders used them,” he said. He gave Lindsay a broad wink and added, “The handles are hollow.”
“Really?” Lindsay feigned ignorance, though he knew of what the old man spoke. “To what end?”
“The witchfinder would appear as though he was plunging the needle into the accused’s flesh, but the spike was actually going into the handle. Having no wound or blood after being pricked with such a long, sharp needle was viewed as a sign of guilt.” Cruikshank’s eyes gleamed. “That set was reputedly made for a famous witchfinder called George Cargill. They say he was a friend of the King himself—James the Sixth, that is.”
Cargill. That was the name of the witchfinder Thomas Naismith had been following.
Lindsay gave no sign of recognition at the name. “Well, King James was certainly interested in finding witches,” he observed neutrally.
“That he was,” Cruikshank agreed. He waved at one of the chairs. “Sit yerself down, Mr. Somerville, and I will do likewise. I am no’ very good on my feet these days.”
Lindsay nodded and settled into the chair in front of the desk while Cruikshank hobbled round to the other side.
The chair was horribly uncomfortable, the backrest made up of barley-twist spindles that dug into his spine when he leaned against it. It was a style of furniture familiar to Lindsay from his childhood days, making him feel at once at home and discomfited. These rooms were not so very different from the ones Lindsay had grown up in, only a few closes away.
Cruikshank’s desk was covered in paper. There were books piled up on the left-hand side, all open and bristling with thin strips of paper that appeared to be marking pages of significance. In the middle of the desk lay another book in which Cruikshank had evidently been writing. His pen and an inkpot lay on a blotter beside it. The writing on the page was small and spidery. An economical hand, but not a tidy one. The ink on the page was smeared in places, and in a way that made Lindsay wonder whether Cruikshank was left-handed.
Cruikshank finally reached his own chair, then slowly, arthritically, lowered himself into it, letting out a soft, pained grunt when his skinny rump touched the seat.
He looked up then, fixing his mournful gaze on Lindsay, and said, “So, Mr. Somerville. I had a letter from one of my correspondents, George Fenton, telling me ye would be calling on me. He has vouched for ye as a man of means and a serious collector. So, tell me. What is it ye want from me?”
Lindsay offered his most winning smile. “You have quite the reputation, Mr. Cruikshank—I’m told you are the man to come to when one is seeking... unusual items. That is what I collect, you see. The most unusual. The rarest. I aim to have the most envied collection in all of Europe.”
Cruikshank’s gaze was shrewd. “I may have happened upon a few rare objects in my time.”
“Come now,” Lindsay replied. “Don’t be modest. Your reputation as a man of both learning and resourcefulness is well known.”
Cruikshank’s expression didn’t alter, but his scent did, if only slightly, a tinge of something new threading through the paper-dust aroma. Not for the first time, Lindsay wished he had Francis’s ability to intuit what such subtle scent changes meant, but he was only able to detect the changes themselves, not what they signified.
“I thank ye for the kind words, Mr. Somerville,” Cruikshank said in his dry, wheezy voice, “But I regret that yer own reputation is rather less well known, at least to me. Other than Mr. Fenton, no one I know has heard of ye.”
Lindsay glared at him. “I may not have been collecting for so long as some of your other clients,” he said loftily, “But I can assure you that I have already acquired a number of highly desirable items. What’s more I have the means to acquire many more, which I daresay is more than many of your associates can say!”
Cruikshank’s eyes widened a little at this display of offended pride, and he said hastily, “Come now, Mr. Somerville.
I intended no offence.”
Lindsay regarded him for a long moment, then gave a tight nod. “Very well.”
“Good, good,” Cruikshank replied. “Now, tell me. What item is it ye seek?”
Lindsay leaned back in his chair. Crossing his legs, he admired the elegant silver buckle on his right shoe and said, “I wish to acquire a set of papers. They belonged to a man called Thomas Naismith. I’ve heard a rumour you may know where they are.”
Cruikshank didn’t immediately respond, but sat there, watching Lindsay with his little, round monkey eyes, his expression quite unreadable. At last he said, “I already have the Naismith papers, but I suspect ye knew that.”
Lindsay was a little surprised, both by Cruikshank’s ready admission and his directness regarding his suspicions as to Lindsay’s state of knowledge. However, he only smiled and said, “I’d heard you might do. And that if you didn’t, you would in any case be the best man to ask how to find them.”
Cruikshank did not respond to that, but sat very still in his chair, watching Lindsay. At last, he said, “I acquired Thomas Naismith’s papers at the request of a particular client, Mr. Somerville. They are already spoken for.”
Lindsay let his smile deepen and become confiding. “If they are only spoken for, they have not yet been handed over. You still have them in your possession, yes?”
Cruikshank nodded,
“Then you may still decide to sell them to me.” Lindsay pointed out. He offered a complacent smile and said, “I am a very wealthy man, Mr. Cruikshank, and I do not like to lose out on something I have set my heart on. I am prepared to pay you very handsomely.”
“I already have an agreement with my client,” Cruikshank said, but Lindsay noticed that the fingers of his right hand were tapping out a betraying tattoo on the arm of his chair. He was considering the matter.
“Who is your client?” Lindsay asked.
Cruikshank shook his head. “I cannae tell ye that,” he said, with a smile that indicated Lindsay was being impudent and they both knew it.
Lindsay shrugged and said with deliberate arrogance, “Well, whoever he is, I very much doubt he can pay what I can.” He lifted his hand to toy with the quizzing glass that hung around his neck and had the satisfaction of seeing Cruikshank’s gaze going to the expensive rings that winked on his fingers.
At length, Cruikshank said slowly, “My client is a powerful man, Mr. Somerville. I wouldnae like tae cross him.”
Yet still his fingertips drummed on the armrest of his chair as he considered.
Lindsay canted his head to one side, letting his smile grow playful. “Let us not flog this to death. I make no bones about it, Mr. Cruikshank: I am serious about these papers. I’ll want to see them before I buy, of course, but why don’t you tell me what sum it would take to persuade you to part with them?”
Cruikshank’s gaze did not move from Lindsay’s face. He pressed his thin lips together so hard, he looked as though he had no mouth at all. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he said softly, “Ye wouldnae pay five hundred English guineas for them, I’ll wager.”
There was a dull gleam of avarice in his gaze.
It was a truly outrageous sum for the scribbles of some long-dead scandal sheet printer.
Lindsay leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk. “I might,” he said. “Let me see them and I will tell you.”
Cruikshank visibly swallowed. Had Lindsay surprised him with his willingness to consider paying so exorbitant a price? It was very likely a great deal more than Cruikshank’s current client was prepared to pay. Yet still he hesitated. Did he fear the consequences of breaking the agreement he had reached?
“Oh come on, at least show me them,” Lindsay wheedled. “I may agree to your price, but you can’t expect me to do so sight unseen.”
“No,” Cruikshank said slowly. “I wouldnae expect that, but to be frank, I’m no’ sure I’m prepared to consider an offer from ye at all, Mr. Somerville. It’s something I need to think on.” He leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin. “And there’s little point showing ye the papers if I decide not to sell them tae ye, is there?”
Lindsay did not like the direction the conversation was taking.
“How about this,” he said. “I should dearly like to see the papers—even if you decide not to sell them to me. So, I will pay you a viewing fee, just to look at them. Shall we say... fifty guineas?”
“A viewing fee?” Cruikshank repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Fifty guineas, just to examine them?”
“I still hope to buy them,” Lindsay added quickly. “If we can come to terms after I’ve seen them, all to the good—and the viewing fee will count towards the price in that event. If not, at least I’ll have had the opportunity to peruse them.”
Cruikshank said quickly, “It would have to be under my supervision.”
“Of course.”
“And only the first packet. There are six packets in all, but—I have to be careful, ye understand.”
Lindsay hesitated, but at length he nodded. Sight of one packet should hopefully be enough to satisfy himself as to the authenticity of the papers and give him some notion as to the contents. “All right.”
The old man considered that in silence, fingertips tapping on the arm of his chair. At last he said, almost reluctantly, “Very well, Mr. Somerville. The papers are not here. These rooms are too small and not secure enough to keep my whole collection in, so I keep a number of items with my bank. However, I can arrange to have them fetched. Call upon me again in”—he frowned, thinking—“better make it three days’ time, and I will allow ye the opportunity to view the first packet. If ye still wish to acquire them at that stage—and I am minded to consider an offer from ye—we can discuss whether terms can be reached.”
The thought of having to wait three days was aggravating, but Lindsay showed no sign of his frustration, merely saying in mild tones, “Very well. I will call upon you again on Thursday afternoon to see the papers, if that will suit?”
“It should suit well enough.” Cruikshank reached for the bell and moments later, the door to the study opened, revealing Cruikshank’s manservant.
“Meek,” Cruikshank said, “Mr. Somerville here will be calling on me again on Thursday afternoon. Ye are to be sure tae show him in as soon as he arrives, no matter what I am doing or who I am with, understood?”
Meek scowled and crossed his arms. “Thursday willnae do,” he answered flatly. It seemed he had no more respect for Cruikshank than he did for anyone else. “That’s the day we’re flittin’ tae the new house. Ye’ll no’ be here to receive anyone.”
“Aye,” Cruikshank muttered, “I forgot about that.” He looked up at Meek. “What day is the semblie for the Order?”
“The next day. The Friday,” Meek confirmed, looking none too pleased. “But—”
Cruikshank cut him off with a wave of his hand and Meek fell into a resentful silence. “Well, Mr. Somerville. As it happens, I’m putting on a dinner at my new house on Friday for the members of my club. If ye’d care to join us, you can examine the first packet of papers after dinner—for a viewing fee of fifty guineas. I cannae promise ye more than that.” He paused. “Shall I see you then?”
Lindsay’s smile was wide. “You shall, Mr. Cruikshank. What time should I arrive?”
Chapter Five
Lindsay spent the next two days reacquainting himself with the city and calling upon several of Francis’s acquaintances. Despite it being over a decade since Francis had last set foot in Edinburgh, he’d kept a number of his old friendships warm and had provided Lindsay with several letters of introduction. The obligatory visits were tedious, of course, but valuable. When one went somewhere new, it was useful to make as many connections as possible. As a result of his visits, Lindsay was assured he’d receive invitations to dine and promised a temporary membership to a gentlemen’s club for the duration of his stay.
Having conducted all of his duty visits and with still a full day b
efore the supper party at Cruikshank’s new house, Lindsay found himself brooding over whether to call upon Drew Nicol.
Nicol had preyed on his mind more or less constantly since their brief meeting in Cruikshank’s parlour. However, after leaving Cruikshank’s, Lindsay had talked himself out of pursuing any further acquaintance with the man. Lindsay was, after all, in Edinburgh for one reason only. Nicol could only prove to be a distraction from his purpose.
And yet, Lindsay could not put the man from his mind. He tasked Wynne with finding out Nicol’s direction, then, once he had the information, brooded over what to do with it.
By the time Thursday morning rolled around, he’d had enough of his own swithering. What harm would a brief call do, after all? Most likely he’d find himself wondering why he’d found the man so alluring in the first place.
He dressed for the occasion with care, remembering that hint of disapproval in Nicol’s gaze. A small part of him wanted to provoke Nicol with another outrageous ensemble, while another part yearned to show the man he was no mere Macaroni. In the end, he chose a slightly more restrained suit, a sage green velvet coat with matching breeches, a waistcoat of pale gold silk embroidered with tiny flowers, and his favourite red-heeled shoes. He left off cosmetics and tied his hair in a modest queue, secured with a plain ribbon. Even his jewellery was simpler, a cravat pin of jade set in gold, and a single gold serpent ring with tiny jade eyes that he slid onto his index finger before setting off.
Nicol’s firm, Messrs. Abernethy, Guthrie & Nicol, had its offices on Bank Street, a short walk from Locke Court. When Lindsay reached his destination, he paused outside to briefly study the building in which Nicol worked. It was of a style very familiar to him from his youth: tall and thin with serried ranks of windows and steep, crowstepped gables. Not Nicol’s favoured style, he’d wager. This was mightily old-fashioned compared to the buildings Nicol designed.
Stepping up to the front door, Lindsay rapped the heavy wood with his cane. The door was promptly answered by a gangly youth, a boy of perhaps eighteen or so. He was all bony wrists and elbows and spots, and his slightly alarmed air made Lindsay suspect he was a very new junior clerk.
Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet Book 1) Page 6
