Francis raised a brow. “Perhaps he understands the mysterious female mind?”
Wynne’s flush deepened still further, but he managed a careless sort of shrug. “There’s nothing so very mysterious about women.”
Lindsay chuckled at his offhand tone. “Oh, come on, you’ve met Marguerite.”
“She’s no more mysterious than you two,” Wynne retorted. “And she’s twice as able.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he paled, realising what he’d just said. “That is. I mean—”
Lindsay laughed. “Oh, he has the measure of us, Francis!”
“He does that,” Francis replied. He was smiling, but when he glanced at Wynne, there was a concerned expression on his face. Gently he said, “We all agree she’s a remarkable woman, Mr. Wildsmith—but please, for your own sake, do not forget that she is also a wolf. A centuries-old wolf. You have no conception of how different that makes her from you.”
Wynne’s expression shuttered. “Of course, sir. I apologise for speaking out of turn.”
He began to rise from his chair, but Lindsay stopped him with a hand on his forearm.
“Sit down. And do not get on your dignity with Francis. He only means to be kind. And he’s right, we wolves are like you in many ways, but in others...”
Wynne sighed. “I know.” He glanced at Francis and sank back down into his chair. “I do know.”
Francis nodded but his concerned expression did not fade.
Lindsay said, “Francis, I think you should come with me to see Cruikshank—I’ll tell him I’d like you to look at the papers, to give me your opinion on their authenticity."
“That makes sense,” Francis said. “He knew me as a collector the last time I was in Edinburgh.”
“We’ll have to try to make you look older though,” Lindsay said. “You don’t look a day above five-and-twenty.”
“I’ll wear a wig or powder my hair,” Francis said, shrugging. “He’s not to know I’ve got no grey.”
“It may take a little more than that”. Lindsay replied, his expression doubtful. “What do you think, Wynne?”
“We’ll manage something,” Wynne said. “I can do a fair bit with my powder and paint.”
“That you can,” Lindsay agreed. “Very well. I’ll send a note round to Cruikshank asking if we can call on him tomorrow.”
––––––––
LINDSAY AND FRANCISdined at a cookhouse that evening, gorging themselves on beefsteak and oysters. They lingered over their ale for a good long while, then then headed back to Locke Court, and Lindsay’s best brandy.
It was a cold, clear night and the moon was ripening, growing ever closer to fullness.
Francis, dangling his hat from one hand, threw back his head and stared up at the sky.
“I love nights like this,” he breathed.
Lindsay followed his gaze. The moon was low tonight, skimming the jagged tops of the crowstepped gables of the tenements.
His wolf stirred at the sight, and he felt the urge to shift ripple through him again.
“I want to run,” he said.
“We could run,” Francis said, a smile in his voice. “Shall we?”
Lindsay knew he should demur. He had already shifted too many times this week. Instead he grinned. “Let’s do it.”
Francis sighed happily. “It’s a good night for a run—I do like to get the dirt under my paws when I first arrive somewhere new.”
“I just want to chase something,” Lindsay said, and Francis laughed.
