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?”
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 JUSTas 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 amnotwearing ladies’ shoes. These are the finestgentlemen’sshoes 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 ladiesandgentlemen.Especiallyin 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.”
