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 HOURSlater, 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 at 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.”
