Meek lifted his fist and gave the door three sharp knocks, then, without waiting for permission, threw the door open and announced in aggrieved tones, “Mr. Somerville, sir,” before nodding at Lindsay to enter.
When Lindsay strolled inside the room it was to find a well-proportioned and elegantly furnished dining room in the modern style. There were a dozen or so men around the long table, at the head of which Cruikshank sat, frowning with displeasure. His brown velvet evening coat had an antique look to it and on his head, he wore a nut-brown wig of improbable luxuriance that somehow only made the lines on his little round monkey face look deeper.
There was someone else Lindsay knew at the table. Drew Nicol. As soon as Lindsay discerned his scent, his gaze snapped to him. Nicol looked handsome as the devil tonight, grim expression notwithstanding. His barley-gold hair, caught at his nape with velvet ribbon, gleamed in the candlelight, an affront to his sober attire. He sat at the opposite end of the table from Cruikshank, and the single empty seat was at his side. Lindsay’s immediate rush of pleasure at this development was soon curbed when Nicol gave Lindsay a brief, unfriendly nod.
It seemed that regret had had plenty of time to sink in, which was not terribly surprising, but disappointing nonetheless.
Lindsay returned the nod with an easy smile then turned his head back to his host.
“Good evening, Mr. Cruikshank,” he said, with the briefest of bows. “I do hope you will pardon my tardiness. I hadn’t anticipated you would be sitting down to eat so promptly.”
Cruikshank glared at him. “We’ve been waiting for ye, Mr. Somerville. No doubt it took ye all day tae get dressed?” There were one or two smothered laughs at that. “At any rate, ye’re here now. Sit yersel’ down o’er there, next tae Mr. Nicol, if ye please.”
Not the best of starts, Lindsay thought ruefully.
As he walked to the other end of the table, the general murmur of conversation began again.
––––––––
THE FOOD WAS EXECRABLE. Thin soup, thinner stew, a few scraggly roast fowl, some sort of braised cabbage that tasted entirely of nothing.
The company was, for the most part, awful too. Cruikshank’s guests comprised a collection of pompous magistrates, self-satisfied merchants and a fire-and-brimstone minister who eyed Lindsay with hostile suspicion. Nicol was the only tolerable man present, and so far he’d met Lindsay’s conversational overtures with taut, monosyllabic responses. Lindsay decided he was tired of it.
“You are very quiet, Mr. Nicol,” he said, looking straight at the man. “Have I offended you?” He was speaking too quietly for any of their fellow guests to overhear, but still Nicol’s gaze darted cautiously from side to side before he replied, his own voice equally low.
“Why would I be offended?”
“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea,” Lindsay replied. He poked at the unappetising food on his plate. “But since you’ve scarcely spoken a word to me since I arrived, I have to ask, since otherwise, I can’t account for your behaviour.”
Finally, Nicol looked at him, his gaze stony. “You can think of no reason? Truly?”
Lindsay met his gaze, feigning a surprise he did not feel. “Is this about last night?”
Nicol’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
“Itis,” Lindsay surmised. “Why?”
Nicol flushed. “Well, obviously it’s... awkward.”
Lindsay ignored the pang Nicol’s words caused, giving a negligent shrug. “No need to feel awkward. If you wish, we can proceed as though it never happened. I will not speak of it again, if you do not wish me to.” He pretended interest in his dinner, resisting the urge to watch Nicol’s reaction to his words. But he felt the man’s gaze upon him.
After several too-long moments, Nicol said quietly, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Lindsay merely shrugged again, as though it didn’t matter to him in the least, when in truth it felt as though his heart was bleeding, which was utterly ridiculous and entirely overdramatic, of course, but there it was. It seemed he was moonstruck by Drew Nicol.
“Tell me,” he said, as much to distract himself as Nicol. “Why are you here this evening? I didn’t get the impression the other day that you and Cruikshank were particular friends.” He paused and raised a brow. “Are you hoping to win new business from his guests?”
Nicol grimaced. “Hardly,” he said, then muttered, “One of this lot’s enough.”
“This lot?”
Nicol looked at him, curious. In a low tone he said, “Don’t you know who these men are? Didn’t Cruikshank tell you?”
“No.” Lindsay admitted. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Who are they? Other than the biggest shower of bores I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
That surprised a burst of laughter from Nicol, who looked so startled after, that Lindsay’s own lips quirked.
“Most of them are members of the House of the White Ravens,” Nicol explained, keeping his voice low.
