Chapter Seven
“Do you suppose anyonewill wear rouge at Dalkeiths?” Lindsay asked, peering inside the small pot of ruddy paste he held.
“I doubt it,” Wynne replied. He was working Lindsay’s dark hair into a neat queue. “I’ve barely seen any gentlemen wearing cosmetics.”
“But surely!” Lindsay protested, turning his head to squint up over his shoulder at Wynne. “In the evening? For dinner?”
Wynne just shrugged. “Do you really care if there’s no one else wearing rouge?”
Lindsay considered that. “Not really,” he admitted, turning back to face the mirror. “Besides, I can’t resist shocking Mr. Nicol again. When we first met, I was made up like a Covent Garden whore and on the second occasion, I wasau naturel. Which is rather dull, isn’t it? I think this time, I’ll go for something in between.” Dipping his pinky into the paste to pick up a dab of vermillion, Lindsay touched his fingertip delicately to the apple of his cheek, circling lightly to blend the paste in.
Wynne chuckled. He was tying Lindsay’s queue with black satin ribbon now. Lindsay admired the perfect curls of dark hair Wynne had styled above his ears and the smooth, glossy sweep from hairline to nape, where his queue began. He was eschewing hair powder tonight. As much as he liked a dazzlingly brightcoiffure, he was unwilling to wear sticky powder in his hair in case matters proceeded as he hoped.
Hair powder made such a mess of the bed linens.
He watched Wynne in the glass, fussing with the black ribbon, gaze narrowed in concentration on his task.
Wynne Wildsmith.
They’d met four years ago, when Wynne was a threadbare youth, scraping by on the streets of Rouen. A runaway, Lindsay had later realised, from England. Lindsay wasn’t usually one for picking up waifs and strays, as Francis and Marguerite so often did, but Wynne was different. When Lindsay had stepped in to save the young man from a certain beating and likely worse, he’d found himself first taking the boy home, then offering him temporary employment despite his lack of skills. He’d never intended it to last for more than the fortnight he’d planned to be in Rouen, but when Wynne had discovered Lindsay’s true nature, then proven himself to be as loyal and brave as a man could wish, Lindsay had realised he had found a rare gem.
Their relationship was unusual. Master and servant. Friends. Comrades. For a brief while, Lindsay had wondered if the boy was tender on him, until he’d realised Wynne’s feelings ran rather more along the lines of hero worship. And Wynne had pretty soon been cured of that.
Wynne was certainly capable of romantic feelings though. That much had been obvious, last year in Paris, whenever he looked at Marguerite and thought no one was watching. Poor Wynne. Marguerite was so very dazzling, and he so very ordinary. She had barely noticed him at all.
Of all the forms of love, unrequited love was probably the cruellest.
Lindsay dipped his finger into the rouge pot and tackled his other cheek, then his lips. Wynne had finished his hair now and was crossing the room to fetch the jewel case.
Tonight, Lindsay had chosen to wear lilac and silver, a quite unexceptionable choice were he in Paris or London. But here in Edinburgh he’d likely be viewed with muted horror, like a gaudy parrot let loose to mingle with the pigeons in St. Giles Square.
He grinned at the thought.
“Something amusing you, sir?” Wynne asked as he set down the jewel case and opened it up.
“Just thinking of what the solid burghers of Edinburgh will make of my coat,” he said.
Wynne grinned. “It’s a very fine coat.”
Lindsay peered into the jewel case and extracted an amethyst ring, the stone a near exact match to his coat and big as wren’s egg. He pushed it onto his index finger and regarded his hand. Moon-pale skin, long, slender fingers, carefully buffed nails.
He glanced in the mirror.
He looked like a louche, debauched aristocrat. Affected and bored and yes—he smiled at himself—as handsome as the devil.
He would do very well, he decided.
