Page 20 of Master Wolf

Maker and made, they watched one another, forever bonded no matter how much they might wish otherwise, the tension between them thick as physical ropes.

Drew could not stand to witness it, the crawling, horrible intimacy of it.

He turned away.

A moment later, Francis spoke.

“Go, Drew,” he said gently. “Go to Paris. I will follow as soon as I can.”

Chapter Six

The present

Edinburgh,November 1820

The carriage tookDrew and Marguerite through the Old Town on their way to Albany Street where Lindsay and Wynne Wildsmith were staying.

Drew stared out the carriage window at the extraordinary squalor—worse now than when Drew had left it almost thirty years before. Back then, all life had been here, rich and poor alike. Now it seemed that everyone was poor. From tiny, barely clad bairns playing in the sewers, to bare-breasted drunk women singing bawdy songs, to rough, surly men sloping through the shadows, conducting the devil’s business.

Drew found himself remembering the first time he’d met Lindsay. He’d told Lindsay he was an architect, one of the designers of the planned New Town. They’d spoken of what would happen to the poor of the city once the New Town was built. Lindsay had said that as soon as the wealthy left, the Old Town would go to rack and ruin.

Drew had argued with him, but Lindsay had been right.

Christ, but that seemed a lifetime ago now.

Drew couldn’t help but be relieved when the carriage crossed the North Bridge, leaving the cluttered slums behind. Soon they were driving through new and unfamiliar streets—and some strangely familiar ones that he’d had a part in designing himself. They were pristine, devoid of beggars and noisy hawkers.

Within a very few minutes, they were turning onto Albany Street and the carriage was slowing.

Oh God, he was about to see Lindsay Somerville for the first time in twelve years. His chest felt as tight as though a great rock was crushing it.

“Are you awake, mon cher?” Marguerite said, interrupting his thoughts. “We are here. You might at least pretend to help me down.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, and climbed out of the carriage, pulling down the steps and offering Marguerite his hand, which she delicately laid her own in before lightly stepping down.

By the time she’d alighted, the door of the townhouse was open and Wynne Wildsmith stood there, elegant in a dark blue coat, fawn breeches and polished Hessian boots. Once upon a time, Wynne would have been opening that door in his role as Lindsay’s manservant, but not these days. Now he only played that role when it suited them to pretend. For the most part they presented themselves to the world as what they were: companions and friends—though Wynne looked like the older of them now.

Wynne had changed a great deal since those early days. He had been a willowy youth when Drew first met him, in his early twenties. He’d been Lindsay’s valet then, and a most unprepossessing young man. But as the years had passed, he’d grown in both physical confidence and character, his slender body filling out and his slightly anxious reserve gradually transforming into a quiet strength. In the twelve years since Drew had last seen him, he seemed to have developed something else, a certain presence and poise.

And clearly, Drew thought, as he mounted the steps to meet him, he had also learned in those years to mask his scent. Disconcertingly, Drew could detect nothing from him. He glanced at Marguerite but she was watching Wynne—and he her, his gaze steady.

“Mim,” he said simply when she reached him, and Drew’s eyes widened at his use of that intimate pet name that he’d only ever heard Francis use before now—or Lindsay occasionally, though she always told him off for it. Marguerite didn’t scold Wynne, though. She raised a hand and laid it on his cheek in a gesture so tender, Drew didn’t know where to look.

For a moment Wynne closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his eyes were sad, and then Marguerite was walking past him, into the house.

It was only then that Wynne seemed even to notice Drew, and he did not appear happy to see him. “I was not expecting you,” he said, frowning. “And neither is Lindsay. Why are you here?”

“Marguerite asked me to come with her,” Drew said shortly.

“I see.” Wynne stepped aside, an odd reluctance in his movements even as he gestured at Drew to enter. “You’d better come in then,” he said. “Lindsay’s sleeping just now at any rate.”

“Is it not rather early for him to be abed?” Marguerite asked. She had halted a few steps beyond them.

“He sleeps a great deal just now,” Wynne replied in a neutral tone. His eyes betrayed him though—the pain in them was clear.

For a time, Drew had wondered whether Wynne was in love with Lindsay. Even before Drew’s transformation, when first he’d met Wynne, he’d sensed something between them. A closeness that was unusual for a master and servant. He’d even felt a faint jealousy over their obvious intimacy, envying the ease of their friendship and obvious affection for one another while insisting he wanted nothing to do with Lindsay himself. Not even once he’d realised there was nothing loverlike between the two men had that envy entirely vanished.

Once they were all inside the house, Wynne led them up a flight of stairs and into an elegant drawing room. It was illuminated by several branches of candles and a blazing fire. He crossed the room to ring the bell and after a few moments a young man appeared, to whom Wynne gave a few murmured instructions while Marguerite settled herself down on a small sofa and Drew paced to the mantel. He felt too on edge to sit.