Page 42 of Master Wolf

“I rather thought he might be,” Lindsay said. “He’s a wily old fox. If there’s a chance of making some money doing town business, he will be sure to be involved. And yes, he’s here. I saw him on my way in. He’ll be up soon enough, I expect. If we station ourselves near the door, we can get the introduction out of the way as soon as possible and you can start working on charming him—he’s rather susceptible to female charms.” He winked at her, grinning, and the lively twinkle in his eye was achingly familiar. It had infuriated Drew sometimes, that twinkle. The way Lindsay laughed at everything and didn’t take a God-damned thing seriously.

Drew used to think it was sheer frivolity that made Lindsay behave like that. But now, here, he saw something else in it. A kind of courage, an indomitability. Despite everything, that spark of his was still there and Drew felt the strangest…prideto see it.

“What about this Bainbridge fellow?” Drew asked. He even managed to sound halfway normal.

“Bainbridge, yes, Wynne mentioned him,” Lindsay said. “I’ve not met him, but we can track him down when Wynne gets here.” He glanced between Drew and Marguerite. So, how did things go at the City Chambers today? Did you see the skeleton?”

“Briefly,” Marguerite said. “Drew got a better look than I did.” She proceeded to recount the events of the day, making Lindsay laugh with her account of bewitching the unfortunate Mr. Muir.

“You siren,” he said fondly. “Did you have him snuffling about your ankles like a little pig?” His dark eyes gleamed with humour and appreciation.

Such a charmer, Drew thought helplessly. He’d thought as much during their very first meeting thirty-odd years ago when Drew had first clapped eyes on him, a vision in a pink striped coat and Nile green knee breeches. He smiled, remembering that colourful coat, and Lindsay’s carefully teased hair and made-up face. He’d looked like the worst sort of popinjay and yet some part of Drew had known even then there was more to Lindsay Somerville than met the eye.

“What was it like?” Lindsay asked him now. When Drew met his gaze blankly, he prompted, “The skeleton?”

It took Drew a moment to realise that he was asking about Cruikshank’s bones.

He cleared his throat. “Odd. Misshapen. Plainly not human.” He paused. “Difficult to explain away.”

Lindsay nodded, understanding. The shadows under his eyes were dusky violet smudges and there were grooves at the side of his mouth that spoke of pain. It hurt Drew to see that, a deep twisting pain that made his wolf whimper.

“Ah now, here we are,” Lindsay said, his voice low. “Begg is coming.”

Drew looked up to see a large, florid man entering the ballroom. His suit seemed barely to contain him, the buttons of his gold-embroidered waistcoat straining over his barrel chest and capacious stomach. His cravat points were high, forcing him to lift his jowly chin, and the folds of his fussily tied neckcloth frothed about his fat neck. His face was as pink as an end of boiled ham and his journey up the stairs had left him with a sheen of sweat that he began to mop away with a large handkerchief, taking care not to touch his hair, which was sparse and carefully combed to cover as much of his head as possible.

At his side was another man, his opposite in every way. He was around the same height as the large man, but his sparse leanness made him seem shorter somehow. He was neat and inconspicuous—the sort of man who went unnoticed, everything about him average and unremarkable. Mouse-brown hair, pale eyes, nondescript features.

Lindsay began to walk towards them. His right hand on the cane was white-knuckled with effort and he moved slowly. Drew glanced at Marguerite and she met his gaze with an expression he thought must mirror his own, a bleak sort of anger in the dark depths.

He offered her his arm. She laid her own upon it and they fell in behind Lindsay.

“Mr. Begg,” Lindsay said as they drew closer to the two men. “How are you this evening?”

“Tolerably well, Mr. Somerville,” Begg said in a slightly strangled sounding voice that made Drew wonder how tight his cravat was. “And you?”

“I can’t complain,” Lindsay said. He gestured in Drew and Marguerite’s direction. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Niven, and his lovely wife.” Turning to Drew he said, “Mr. Begg is a Bailie of the Town Council and—I hope he will not mind me saying so—its unacknowledged leader.”

Mr. Begg evidently did not mind as he smiled in a self-satisfied way.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Begg,” Drew said. “Or should I address you as Bailie Begg?”

Begg gave a gracious inclination of his head. “Mr. Begg will do very well,” he said. “I do not like to stand on ceremony.” He turned to Marguerite then and his eyes gleamed with appreciation, lingering too long on her beautifully framed bosom.

“And Mrs. Niven. You grace us with your beauty this evening.”

Marguerite gave a trill of laughter, saying in a thick accent, “You flatter me, monsieur.”

“You are French, madame?” Begg enquired of her bosom.

“Oui,” she confirmed. “Or perhaps I should say Scots-French now?” She glanced at Drew and gave a coquettish smile.

Drew tried to look suitably enamoured and said. “I should hope so, now that you are married to me. After all, when we first met you introduced yourself as an Italian.”

“Did I?”

“You most certainly did.”

Marguerite glanced at Begg, who managed to drag his eyes briefly upwards. “My first husband was Italian, Monsieur Begg. I was quite heartbroken when he died and had vowed never to marry again, but then, you see, I met Mr. Niven.” She darted a glance at Begg from under her lashes and said breathlessly, “I could not help myself. I am—have always been—ruled by my passionate nature.”