“Whyhaveyou come all this way to see me?”
Lindsay laughed softly, amused and oddly sad at the same time, that Nicol would think his own company so undesirable. “I told you before. Despite you glaring at me all the damned time, I rather like you.”
Nicol was plainly unconvinced, his wary frown staying stubbornly in place. Nevertheless, he stepped aside, allowing Lindsay to enter the tenement. “All right, one drink,” he said. “Though it’ll have to be whisky. I have no brandy.”
“I don’t mind whisky,” Lindsay assured him, grinning.
He followed Nicol up flight after flight of stairs, happily trailing in the wake of his delicious scent, excitement unfurling in his gut at the prospect of spending even a little more time with the man. Sternly, he reminded himself of the promise he’d given at Cruikshank’s house.
“We can proceed as though it never happened. I will not speak of it again, if you do not wish me to...”
He must not break that promise.
Finally, they reached Nicol’s floor. Nicol led Lindsay down the corridor and into his rooms, a set of chambers that was considerably smaller than those Lindsay was presently occupying.
“You live alone?” Lindsay asked, as he followed Nicol into a modest, plainly furnished parlour, where a fire was already burning in the grate.
“I do.”
“You have no servant?” He hoped his pleasure at the knowledge they would be alone was not too obvious.
“Not one who lives in. I have a girl who comes in to clean the place for me each day and prepare my dinner.”
Lindsay nodded and looked around. Despite the fire, it was not a cosy room, being quite devoid of any trinkets or other homely items. There were several framed pictures on the walls, but they were all of buildings and gardens. There was nothing personal at all, not so much as a miniature or an embroidered sampler. In particular, there was no sign of Nicol’s late wife.
“Is whisky all right?” Nicol asked. “If you hate it, I have some ale or Madeira.”
“Whisky is perfect.”
“Very well,” Nicol said stiffly. “Sit down. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Lindsay sat down in a narrow armchair. Several books were piled up on the occasional table beside him and he examined the titles. Mathematics, philosophy and architecture. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.
“This is a rather serious collection,” he said when Nicol returned. “No scandalous novels.”
Nicol shrugged. “I’m a serious man,” he said, setting a pair of pewter cups, a bottle of whisky and a jug of water on the table. “You must have realised that by now.” He poured two measures of spirit.
“No water for me,” Lindsay said when Nicol lifted the earthenware jug.
Nicol shrugged and splashed some water into his own cup, then settled himself into a chair.
“Youarea serious man,” Lindsay said, “But even you must have your lighter moments. No one can be serious all the time, after all.” He toyed with the ribbon of his quizzing glass. “No more than anyone can be always be a fribble.”
“You think not?” Nicol replied, raising a dark blond brow. “I must say, I find it difficult to imagineyouever being serious.”
Lindsay sent Nicol a cool glance. He had the distinct impression he was being insulted, or at the least, underestimated. Neither possibility pleased him. “Are you suggesting I’m a perpetual fribble?”
Nicol had the grace to flush a little at that. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to. What else is a man who is never serious?”
“Not necessarily a fribble,” Nicol argued, his tone defensive. “Perhaps just someone who has had... an easy passage through life.”
Lindsay eyed him, part amused, part irritated. “You think that’s what I am?” he asked. “Someone who’s had aneasy passagethrough life?”
“Aren’t you?” Nicol countered. His flinty gaze was penetrating, as though he was trying to puzzle Lindsay out.
For a moment, Lindsay wished he could tear his mask off and let this man really see him. See everything. His true age, his mended wounds, the growling beast inside him.Impossible. With effort, he suppressed the unfamiliar desire to reveal himself, instead saying lightly, “Who is to say what an easy life is?”
