“I am glad to hear it.”
“However,” Lindsay continued, “I may need some new shoes before I leave. I quite ruined these ones tonight and fine shoes aresoimportant in making an impression, don’t you agree?”
“Lindsay, you can’t wantmoreshoes,” Francis exclaimed, a hint of laugher in his voice. “You must have a dozen pairs already, and Edinburgh’s not Paris, you know. They’ll be calling you a fribble as it is.”
Lindsay opened his mouth to argue but Marguerite forestalled him.
“Lindsay’s right,” she told Francis. “His wardrobe is quite a good investment. As soon as people look at him they assume he’s as rich as Croesus and it does open so many doors.” She narrowed her eyes at Lindsay before adding, “You may go to Monsieur Pascal for new shoes—he owes me a favour. He will give you a good price. But still, be sure to haggle.”
Lindsay grinned. There was his acquisitive darling. “Of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”
Francis rolled his eyes. “She spoils you,” he informed Lindsay, as Marguerite took out her quill and dashed off a few lines. They both watched her sand the wet ink, then fold the sheet and seal it with crimson wax before handing it to Lindsay.
“You’ll have to be quick about it though,” she informed Lindsay. “I need you to leave soon. That note tells Monsieur Pascal to send the bill straight to me since you’ll be gone by the time he issues it.”
Lindsay smiled, but his stomach hollowed with dread at the thought of returning to the country of his birth. When he’d left Scotland, near enough a century ago, he’d been an abject, shrinking cur, unable even to think for himself.
He was terrified of becoming that wretched, crawling creature ever again.
Chapter Two
Two weeks later
Scotland, November1788
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LINDSAY'S ARSE ACHEDlike the very devil.
Sighing, he shifted on the carriage bench, seeking out a more comfortable position and failing to find one. Despite the padded velvet upholstery, the long days of travel were taking their toll, though thankfully, they were now only a dozen or so miles from Edinburgh.
He did not enjoy travelling. It was an altogether inconvenient and tedious business, even when everything went smoothly—and this particular journey wasnotgoing smoothly.
They had been on the road for far too long and should have arrived several days ago, but thanks to storms at sea, lamed horses and an extremely tiresome attempt by brigands to rob them, they were lagging. To make up some time, they’d hired a second coachman, and now they were travelling day and night, pausing only to change the horses.
Lindsay didn’t mind the swift pace so much—indeed he preferred it—but poor Wynne was exhausted. He’d finally fallen into a fitful doze a few minutes ago and now he was slumped on the opposite bench, his body swaying with the movement of the carriage, wig slightly askew.
