“Who’s there?”
Nicol.
That was Nicol’s voice. Firm and forbidding.
Lindsay stilled and looked up—it was four full floors up to those open shutters and the shadowed head above him.
“Is that you, Somervi—?” Nicol broke off without completing Lindsay’s name but Lindsay knew that was what he’d been about to say. Yet there was no way he could have seen Lindsay down here, was there? Probably not even his outline.
So why had he spoken Lindsay’s name?
A few moments of silence passed, then Nicol said, more quietly, “Is anyone down there?”
Heart thudding, Lindsay stepped forward, letting his heels click audibly on the ground. Then he spoke, keeping his voice soft, too quiet to disturb the other householders. “It’s me. Somerville. May I come in?”
Nicol said nothing. He must be wondering how he had known—or rather sensed—who stood at the front door of his tenement. After all, that was what Lindsay was wondering.
“Mr. Nicol?” he said again, into the silence. At that, the shadowy head disappeared and the shutter banged closed. An iron bolt grated home, securing the window.
Hell.
Disappointment soured Lindsay’s stomach as he realised he had been dismissed. Beyond that, a more disturbing truth simmered, but it was not one he was willing to face up to yet.
As he turned to leave, though, a sudden noise made him pause.
Footsteps, behind the solid front door. Then the metallic grind and roll of locks tumbling. The squeak of iron hinges. Lindsay wheeled around.
Nicol stood in the open doorway, his gaze troubled.
“Why are you here?” he said. “What do you want?”
Chapter Twelve
“Well,” Lindsay said, adopting a light tone. “I wouldn’t mind a brandy.”
He stepped forward into the ring of dim light emitted by Nicol’s candle. “Perhaps we could continue our conversation from dinner? We didn’t get much of chance to talk before you stormed out.”
Nicol frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but Lindsay jumped in before he could utter a word, sensing a rejection was coming. “If you’ve no brandy, I’ll take whatever else you have—I’m not fussy.” He smiled winningly and hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
“It’s rather late—” Nicol began. His tone was reluctant, but his gaze ate Lindsay up, lingering on his mouth.
Oh, yes.
“Just one brandy?” Lindsay murmured. “Or whatever you have. Come on, Nicol. I’ve come all this way to see you.”
Nicol’s frown deepened. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why have you come all this way to see me?”
Lindsay laughed softly, amused and oddly sad at the same time, that Nicol would think his own company so undesirable. “I told you before. Despite you glaring at me all the damned time, I rather like you.”
Nicol was plainly unconvinced, his wary frown staying stubbornly in place. Nevertheless, he stepped aside, allowing Lindsay to enter the tenement. “All right, one drink,” he said. “Though it’ll have to be whisky. I have no brandy.”
“I don’t mind whisky,” Lindsay assured him, grinning.
He followed Nicol up flight after flight of stairs, happily trailing in the wake of his delicious scent, excitement unfurling in his gut at the prospect of spending even a little more time with the man. Sternly, he reminded himself of the promise he’d given at Cruikshank’s house.
“We can proceed as though it never happened. I will not speak of it again, if you do not wish me to...”
He must not break that promise.
Finally, they reached Nicol’s floor. Nicol led Lindsay down the corridor and into his rooms, a set of chambers that was considerably smaller than those Lindsay was presently occupying.
“You live alone?” Lindsay asked, as he followed Nicol into a modest, plainly furnished parlour, where a fire was already burning in the grate.
“I do.”
“You have no servant?” He hoped his pleasure at the knowledge they would be alone was not too obvious.
“Not one who lives in. I have a girl who comes in to clean the place for me each day and prepare my dinner.”
Lindsay nodded and looked around. Despite the fire, it was not a cosy room, being quite devoid of any trinkets or other homely items. There were several framed pictures on the walls, but they were all of buildings and gardens. There was nothing personal at all, not so much as a miniature or an embroidered sampler. In particular, there was no sign of Nicol’s late wife.
“Is whisky all right?” Nicol asked. “If you hate it, I have some ale or Madeira.”
“Whisky is perfect.”
“Very well,” Nicol said stiffly. “Sit down. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Lindsay sat down in a narrow armchair. Several books were piled up on the occasional table beside him and he examined the titles. Mathematics, philosophy and architecture. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.
“This is a rather serious collection,” he said when Nicol returned. “No scandalous novels.”
Nicol shrugged. “I’m a serious man,” he said, setting a pair of pewter cups, a bottle of whisky and a jug of water on the table. “You must have realised that by now.” He poured two measures of spirit.
“No water for me,” Lindsay said when Nicol lifted the earthenware jug.
Nicol shrugged and splashed some water into his own cup, then settled himself into a chair.
“You are a serious man,” Lindsay said, “But even you must have your lighter moments. No one can be serious all the time, after all.” He toyed with the ribbon of his quizzing glass. “No more than anyone can be always be a fribble.”
“You think not?” Nicol replied, raising a dark blond brow. “I must say, I find it difficult to imagine you ever being serious.”
Lindsay sent Nicol a cool glance. He had the distinct impression he was being insulted, or at the least, underestimated. Neither possibility pleased him. “Are you suggesting I’m a perpetual fribble?”
Nicol had the grace to flush a little at that. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to. What else is a man who is never serious?”
“Not necessarily a fribble,” Nicol argued, his tone defensive. “Perhaps just someone who has had... an easy passage through life.”
Lindsay eyed him, part amused, part irritated. “You think that’s what I am?” he asked. “Someone who’s had an easy passage through life?”
“Aren’t you?” Nicol countered. His flinty gaze was penetrating, as though he was trying to puzzle Lindsay out.
For a moment, Lindsay wished he could tear his mask off and let this man really see him. See everything. His true age, his mended wounds, the growling beast inside him. Impossible. With effort, he suppressed the unfamiliar desire to reveal himself, instead saying lightly, “Who is to say what an easy life is?”
Nicol dropped his gaze to his whisky. “Who indeed,” he murmured, and took another sip.
“So,” Lindsay said, determinedly changing the subject, “that was quite a scene at Cruikshank’s dinner. What was it all about?”
Nicol’s brows knotted at the reminder. Shaking his head, he said shortly, “He misled me.”
“How so?”
Nicol rubbed one hand wearily over his face. “The debt he referred to—we agreed settlement terms on it and now he pretends we did not.”
“Did you not have the terms put in writing?”
“There was no need,” Nicol said. “It was not that kind of debt. I am not legally liable for it, but I consider it a debt of honour. I made my feelings on that known to Cruikshank, and that I intended to repay him. In saying what he did tonight, he has defamed me in front of all those men,” He frowned unhappily. “Now, they will say I am a dishonourable scoundrel who does not meet his obligations.”
“You said at Cruikshank’s house it was your uncle’s debt.”
<
br /> Nicol nodded. “My parents died when I was a boy. It was my uncle who educated and established me in life. He died a number of years ago.”
“So this debt was a debt on his estate?”
“Yes, though it was one he incurred on my behalf—which is why I considered it my responsibility. I’d been offered partnership by my firm, you see. The offer was conditional upon my making a capital contribution and”—he broke off, waving his hand in a vague gesture—“meeting other... conditions.”
Lindsay wondered what those other conditions were. He might’ve asked, but Nicol was speaking again.
“My uncle told me he would advance me the capital I needed. I believed he had the funds—he had been a moderately successful merchant. It was only when he died that I learned he’d borrowed the funds and at an absurdly high rate of interest. God knows why he agreed to such a thing—perhaps he believed he would not require to repay the interest, or perhaps he was just desperate by then.”
“Either way, it was not a debt of your making.”
“No,” Nicol agreed. “But the funds advanced my career. It would have been dishonourable to walk away from the debt on the grounds it was my uncle’s responsibility when I was still benefitting from it.”
Yet that was exactly what many men would have done, Lindsay was quite sure.
“So, you told Cruikshank you would accept responsibility for the debt.”
Nicol nodded unhappily. “I did not have the means to settle it immediately—the money I’d invested in the firm was tied up in land and building works—but he was not impatient to be repaid. He said he was happy to wait.”
“I imagine he’s the sort that likes it when a man is indebted to him.”
Nicol met Lindsay’s gaze, his own bleak. “You have the measure of him. He bided his time till the rush began on houses in the New Town. Then he turned up on my doorstep saying it was time to honour the loan. He told me I could do so by putting him to the top of my firm’s waiting list and giving him a preferential price.” He shrugged. “In truth, I was relieved. I hated owing him the debt. It didn’t even matter to me that what he got was worth more than the loan and interest together. I just wanted to be rid of that obligation.”
“But tonight he denied the loan had been repaid.”
Nicol made a rough sound of disbelief. “I’m such a fool. I should have seen this coming. I already knew that he wanted more from me. He’d asked me repeatedly to join the House and become angry when I’d refused the invitation. But I knew if I agreed, I’d be obliged to grant favours to him and his cronies for the rest of my life.”
“You’d get favours in exchange,” Lindsay pointed out reasonably.
Nicol shook his head, his jaw tight. “I know, but it’s not worth it. I’ve spent my whole life owing things to other people. And finally, finally I thought I was getting close to being free.”
“What do you mean?” Lindsay asked, his voice soft and curious.
Nicol threw back the rest of his whisky. He was silent for so long that Lindsay was about to give up and change the subject. But then Nicol began to talk again.
“First, it was my uncle. He didn’t ask to be landed with a child, but he still did his best for me. He did everything in his power to set me up with a good living, but it was always on condition that I accepted his advice as to my future.”
“You didn’t choose to be an architect then?”
Nicol gave a dry little laugh. “I wanted to be an artist. My uncle decided that architecture was a more sensible path.” He paused. “Don’t misunderstand me, I enjoy what I do now, but it was not my choice. I took up this career because he was paying for my education and I was obliged to him.”
Lindsay regarded him silently for a while. “And who else have you felt obliged to?” he said. “You said your uncle was the first—were there others?”
A muscle ticked in Nicol’s jaw and he reached for the bottle. “More whisky?”
Lindsay shook his head and watched as Nicol refilled his own cup, a large measure with no water to dilute it this time. He threw the spirit back in one mouthful and carefully set the cup down.
“I didn’t only have to invest money when I joined my firm,” he said, after a brief silence. “I was required—that is, I agreed, to marry the daughter of the senior partner.”
Lindsay’s gut twisted at Nicol’s bleak expression. “Your marriage was arranged?”
Nicol nodded.
“Was it—were you happy together?”
“No.”
Only that. No.
Lindsay had a thousand questions on his lips. He wanted to know what caused the sick misery he saw in Nicol’s gaze, but how could he ask? How could he press down on what was clearly a painful wound? But even as he sat there, in an agony of indecision, the matter was taken out of his hands. Through stiff lips Nicol said hoarsely, “I was a terrible husband.”
“I’m sure you—”
“I was,” Nicol insisted and dropped his head into his hands.
Lindsay stared at his downbent head, the neatly combed hair in its simple queue, gleaming barley-gold in the flickering firelight.
“What did you do that was so bad?” Lindsay wanted to bite his tongue off as soon as the words escaped—what was he thinking prying like that?—but Nicol didn’t seem offended. He lifted his head out of his hands, though he kept his gaze on the floor, and began to speak.
“She liked me well enough when we were first introduced, but once we were married, she discovered how serious and dull I was. As for me, I found her...” He winced, self-loathing in his eyes. “I found her... annoying. She was young, you see, and I was not very patient with her. Soon enough, I was staying away as much as I could. I told myself it was what she wanted too. But then, after she died—” His voice gave out and he stopped for a moment before continuing. “After she died, I found her diary.” He glanced up then and his grey-blue gaze was fierce. “She was—desperately lonely. So unhappy. I made her feel that way.”
“Nicol—”
Nicol ignored the interruption, pressing on almost desperately. “I hadn’t wanted to marry her,” he said. “I was obliged to do so. To me, she was a price that I paid to take a step up in the world. And then—that night...” He trailed off.
“The night she died?”
Nicol nodded, closing his eyes. “She went into labour and it went badly. I’d not been particularly interested in the prospect of becoming a father, so I’d not really expected to feel anything. But when the baby came and they gave her to me—such a little scrap—I couldn’t stop looking at her. She was so tiny and perfect and fragile.”
Lindsay swallowed against the lump in his throat, watching this man who’d seemed so grim and unemotional till now, unravelling before him. The pain in his eyes was stark as he recounted his story.
“They’d given me the baby to hold while they tried to help Katie—she was bleeding badly—but they couldn’t save her. And then they couldn’t save the baby either. When the wet-nurse came, she wouldn’t suckle. She died that same night.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lindsay breathed.
Nicol didn’t seem to hear him. “Weeks later, I found Katie’s diary. It was then I understood what I’d done. How very unhappy I’d made her.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Lindsay said.
Nicol took a deep, shuddering breath and rubbed his hands over his face, visibly pulling himself back together. Eventually he set his hands on his knees and met Lindsay’s gaze.
“I do my blame myself though,” he admitted, his voice calmer now. “I felt like a prisoner in that marriage, but I was too blind to see that she was a prisoner too. And the worst of it is, there’s nothing to be done about it. Not now. Not ever.” He shook his head then. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I never talk about it.” He reached for the whisky bottle again and this time Lindsay let him refill his cup too, refraining from pointing out that Nicol had only invited him in for one drink.
Lind
say sipped his replenished whisky, watching Nicol over the rim of his cup. A pall of grim sorrow hung over the man.
Gently, Lindsay changed the subject. “So,” he said. “What do you plan to do about Cruikshank now?”
Nicol glanced up. “There’s not much I can do about his lies other than deny them. He has no legal recourse against me for my uncle’s loan so there’s no question of him raising a case against me. As for his obligations to my firm, he still owes us the final payment for the works to the new house—seventy-six pounds to be precise—and I mean to get it from him. I will plague him personally till he pays up and if he refuses, I will take him to court.” He sighed. “I can only hope the judge is not a White Raven too. One of the gentlemen at tonight’s dinner is a sheriff and another sits in the Court of Session. Any case that came before either of them would be doomed to failure.”
“Ah,” Lindsay said, his tone heavy with understanding. He wished he could say something to reassure Nicol that all would be well, but he remembered too well Cruikshank’s blank, watchful gaze on the closed door after Nicol had stormed out of the dinner. Somehow, he felt sure that Cruikshank meant to make Nicol’s life difficult over this.
For a minute or two, they sat in oddly companionable silence, sipping their whisky. Then Nicol said, “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What is your business with Cruikshank?”
Lindsay considered how to answer that. At length he decided the truth—or part of it—could be safely shared.
“He has a set of papers in his possession that I want. They were written by a man called Thomas Naismith two hundred years ago at the height of the witch trials.”
Nicol looked almost comically surprised. “You are interested in history?”
Lindsay’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Does that surprise you?”
Nicol flushed. “I don’t mean to offend you, but yes, it does rather.”
Lindsay laughed. “At least you’re honest,” he said. “And in truth, the papers are not for me. They’re for a very dear friend of mine.”
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