They were still laughing as they neared Locke Court, arguing lightly over where to go once they shifted, but as they turned into the mouth of the close, a familiar flinty scent teased Lindsay’s nose and he faltered to a halt.
“What is it?” Francis asked, head canted to one side curiously.
“Drew Nicol—that man I told you about? The one who I met when I first called on Cruikshank?—he’s been here,” Lindsay replied. His tone was calm, but he knew Francis could likely detect his agitation. Francis had an uncommon ability not merely to scent things, as any wolf could, but to read those scents in all their complexity.
Now, Francis lifted his nose and inhaled, and Lindsay felt the most absurd bolt of resentment, just at the thought of Francis learning Drew’s intricate, subtle aroma. He shook his head at his own foolishness, disgusted.
“Come on,” he said roughly, striding to the door and rapping upon it.
He heard Wynne’s footsteps approaching the door. A moment later, it creaked open, revealing Wynne’s pale face, his index finger laid lightly on his lips in a gesture that counselled silence.
“Sir,” he whispered. “Mr. Nicol is here. I hope I did not do wrong, but when he called, I thought I should invite him to wait. I can send him away if you—”
“No, no,” Lindsay interrupted. A surge of joy and satisfaction filled him, and he had to bite the smile from his lips before he added, “You did the right thing, Wynne.”
Wynne looked relieved and stepped back. “I put him in the parlour and gave him some port wine,” he said as Lindsay brushed past. “He’s been waiting a quarter hour.”
Lindsay barely heard him—he was already running up the stairs, as though he had the devil at his heels, leaving Francis to trail in his wake. He knew he was being ridiculous—as though Drew might change his mind and decide to jump out the parlour window—but somehow he couldn’t stop himself being absurd. Absurd and obvious.
Entering his rooms, he strode towards the parlour, heart thudding with excitement. The very blood in his veins thrummed with a vivid joy that he objectively knew should be a cause for dismay, but in that moment, all he could do was surge onwards.
Throwing the parlour door open, he stepped into the room and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Drew. He was standing at the fireplace, staring into the flames with a melancholy expression, a glass of dark wine in his hand. At Lindsay’s sudden entrance, he jerked around.
“Lindsay—”
The sound of his name—his given name—on the man’s lips made Lindsay’s beast rumble its pleasure. His smile felt helpless. Uncontrollable.
“Drew.” He moved further into the room. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Drew stared at him, seeming surprised. Had Lindsay’s warm welcome taken him aback? If so, Lindsay could hardly blame him after the way he’d stormed out of Drew’s rooms last night. But no, it was more than that. Drew’s gaze, wide and startled, was travelling over Lindsay’s body.
“You look... different,” he said at last, his voice husky.
Lindsay glanced down at his body. He’d dressed in plain clothes this evening and his face was free of all cosmetics. His hair had escaped the ribbon holding it at his nape earlier and was now loose about his face, and he wore riding boots instead of the high-heeled shoes Nicol was used to.
Feeling oddly naked, he gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I’m not at all prince-like this evening. I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“I—no, of course not,” Drew stammered, dragging his gaze back up to Lindsay’s face. “I hope you don’t mind me calling so late,” he added. “After last night, I felt I should—”
A new voice interrupted him. “Good evening.”
Drew broke off and they both glanced at the doorway where the newcomer—Francis—stood. He walked towards them, a polite smile on his lips. “I hope I’m not interrupting?” Holding out his hand to Drew, he introduced himself. “Francis Neville. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr.—?”
“Nicol.” Drew’s wary gaze flitted over Francis’s attractive face, then shifted between Francis and Lindsay assessingly.
Lindsay opened his mouth to speak but Francis beat him to it.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Francis said warmly. “Any friend of Lindsay’s is a friend of mine.” Ostensibly, he addressed the comment to Drew, but he looked at Lindsay too, including them both in his smile. God damn Francis and his easy manners. In all the years Lindsay had known him, he’d been friend to everyone and lover to no one. Lindsay couldn’t count the number of times the man’s amiable demeanour had been misconstrued, and it seemed from Drew’s expression that he was misinterpreting it right now, probably wondering if the man was Lindsay’s lover.
It didn’t help that Francis was lovely to look at, a slight, delicate beauty despite his boring dress sense. When he and Lindsay were together, speculation was inevitable, though of course Francis was almost always absurdly blind to it. Two and half centuries old and still as innocent as a country maid—in some ways, at least.
“Francis,” Lindsay said, his tone somewhat strangled. “Do you suppose I might have a word with Mr. Nicol in private?”
“Of course, my dear,” Francis said. “Are we still... going out? Later, I mean?” His eyebrows rose in enquiry.
Drew frowned, glancing at Lindsay. “If you have another commitment—”
“No, no,” Lindsay said quickly. “We were considering going out, but it’s nothing that can’t be postponed.”
