“The House of thewhat?” Lindsay replied, amused. “Is that some kind of freemasonry club?”
“Something like that,” Nicol agreed vaguely. “My uncle was a warden or secretary—some kind of officer anyway.”
Just then, Lindsay remembered the paperweight on Nicol’s desk. “What about you?”
Nicol shook his head, smiling faintly. “It’s not my sort of thing. The only reason I’m here is because I called on Mr. Cruikshank this evening to collect the last payment due to my firm for this house—he invited me to stay and said he’d speak to me about it after dinner. What about you? Why are you here?”
“I also have some business to discuss with Mr. Cruikshank.”
“The same business you were discussing with him last time?”
Lindsay smiled blandly. “Yes.”
Nicol opened his mouth to say more—perhaps ask another question—but he was interrupted.
“Mr. Nicol,” Cruikshank called from the top of the table. His voice was thin and querulous, oddly carrying over the deeper general rumble. “My friend Mr. Hadden here was admiring the design of the house and asking how long it would take to acquire one like this for himself. Perhaps ye could enlighten him?”
Nicol leaned forward to look down the length of the table. “I am afraid that presently demand is considerably outstripping supply, Mr. Hadden. My advice is to get your name down for a plot as soon as you might, but it will likely be two years at least, if not longer.”
Hadden was an angry-looking man. His face had a distinctly purplish hue and the buttons of his waistcoat strained for release, as though he was bursting with bad temper.
“Two years!” Hadden exclaimed, his tone incredulous. “What nonsense is this, Mr. Nicol?”
Absurdly, Lindsay felt himself bristle on Nicol’s behalf.
“I can assure you it is the standard waiting time,” Nicol said calmly.
Hadden seemed to go even more purple. When he opened his mouth to say more, Lindsay found himself interjecting. Which was ridiculous when Nicol was plainly quite capable of standing up for himself.
“It’s terribly aggravating, isn’t it?” he said, in his most languid voice. “Mr. Nicol gave me the exact same news just the other day.” He sighed dramatically. “I could have wept.”
Hadden glanced at Lindsay with mingled dislike and distaste, then turned his attention back to Nicol. “Are you not aware, Mr. Nicol, that I am a White Raven?”
Lindsay snorted with amusement at that pronouncement and Hadden sent him another filthy look.
Nicol, who clearly had rather better control of his impulses than Lindsay, didn’t react at all, merely observing, “I assumed as much, Mr. Hadden.”
Hadden glared at him. “Well?” he demanded. “You are indebted to us, are you not?”
Nicol went very still at that and Lindsay glanced at him, intrigued now.
“Myuncle’sdebt to the House has been repaid,” Nicol said coldly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Cruikshank?”
Every guest at the table turned to look at their host.
“Repaid?” Cruikshank said, with a puzzled frown. “I’m not sure I understand ye, Mr. Nicol.”
For several long moments, Nicol just stared him, his own expression disbelieving. Then he said, very slowly and distinctly, “I think you understand me perfectly well. We discussed this. I agreed to move you up the waiting list maintained by my firm, and what’s more, I deducted a considerable sum from the price of this house. That’s more than ample to repay the debt my uncle left.”
Cruikshank gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “I cannae say I recall agreeing the debt would be written off.” Glancing at Nicol, he spotted the other man’s angry expression and quickly added, “Which is not tae say I’m not grateful for the favours ye’ve done me, Mr. Nicol. We Ravens are always very mindful of good turns. But ye see, we dinnae simply write off debts between ourselves—we keep tally o’ everything and then—recognising our mutual obligations—help each other whenever help is needed. ’Tis our way.”
“As you well know,Iam not a member of your House,” Nicol bit out, “Furthermore, you knew I would not have put you at the top of our list or reduced the price, had I not believed that I was repaying that debt. It was plainly understood between us that I was doing that to extinguish any remaining obligation. It is quite dishonourable of you to claim otherwise.”
Cruikshank’s face went red with anger at that blunt accusation.
“I find ye offensive, sir,” he exclaimed. “I am shocked to be spoken to like this by a guest at my own dinner table! In fact, I think I must ask ye—”
Nicol stood, the screech of his chair legs against the polished wooden floor interrupting Cruikshank’s flow. He tossed his napkin on the table and stared directly at his host. “Ask me what?”
