Page 29 of Provoked
“You could stay here if you like. I’ve plenty of—”
“No.” Euan’s tone was implacable, his expression all offended pride.
“Fair enough. But the offer stands, if you ever need it.”
Euan insisted on going soon after that, promising to return in a day or two. He slipped out David’s front door and went down the dark stairwell, as insubstantial as a shadow, and as quiet.
David thought of Euan making his way down the steep hill to the Cowgate where it lurked at the bottom of Blair Street. David had started his life in Edinburgh down there, as a student. All life was there, from skilled workers trapped there by the capital’s high rents, to manual labourers and students eking out a living, to the poor and the destitute living in loathsome poverty, stuck away in half rooms and hidey holes.
Euan was walking down the hill of Blair Street right now, down into darkness and filth and rows of rickety tenements that looked like bent old women. What a world away from the New Town, with its grand townhouses and symmetrical architecture. What a world away from all that privilege and power.
David straddled those worlds now. Poised at the top of Blair Street, perched on the edge of the Old Town’s squalor, ready to fly. Desperate to fly. Even as guilt made him look over his shoulder and wonder what he’d lose when he flew, and if he’d ever regret its loss or just be glad to have left it all behind him.
Chapter Nine
“Do you think he’ll be there tonight?” Euan asked while David tied one of his own cravats about the lad’s neck. In the four days since David had last seen him, Euan seemed to have become even more convinced that Balfour must be Lees.
“I don’t know,” David said patiently, adding, “I hope you’re remembering your promise.”
“Of course,” Euan replied. “I won’t do anything rash—not without speaking to you first.”
“That’s good. And you’ll need to keep an open mind too. Murdo Balfour and Lees aren’t necessarily the same man.”
“That too,” Euan said, though he seemed distracted.
“Remember, the key is Isabella Galbraith.” David stepped back to eye Euan’s appearance with a critical eye. “We might be able to gauge something from her reaction to Balfour.”
“Or his reaction to her.”
David shrugged. “Yes, but be alert to other men around her. Don’t only look at Balfour.”
“I won’t—if I get in.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s a public assembly, we have tickets, and you look very respectable. Don’t tug at your cravat.”
Euan dropped his hand. “It feels tight,” he complained. “And these shirt points keep poking my chin.”
David smiled. “If you were a fashionable young gent, you’d think those shirt points far too low. You should see how high some wear them.”
Euan snorted disdainfully. “Well, I’m no’ one of that lot,” he exclaimed, his cultivated accent slipping with his scorn.
“Tonight you are,” David said firmly. “Tonight you’re James Grant, a minister’s son studying in Glasgow and visiting me.”
“I know, I know. But I feel like an idiot,” Euan muttered.
David clapped him on the shoulder. “You look fine.” He looked better than fine, actually. In the tailored clothes of a bookish young gentleman from a decent family, he looked carelessly handsome, if a bit thin, his good looks more obvious now that he was clean and well dressed.
“Come on,” David said, settling his hat on his head. “George Street’s a bit of a walk.”
Thankfully it was a dry night, though cold. They walked briskly, arriving at the Assembly Rooms to find themselves in a crowd of patrons awaiting entry. Young ladies in pastel gowns fluttered around, chattering like a flock of birds while watchful mothers and put-upon fathers looked on. The gentlemen arrived in twos and threes, greeting each other heartily while surreptitiously watching the ladies.
There was no one David knew among the waiting patrons. He and Euan stood side by side, silent amongst the merriment as the crowd moved slowly forward.
Eventually they gained entry to the ballroom. It was a huge room, second only, David had heard, to the Great Room in Bath. It was amazingly bright too, glowing with the flickering light of what looked like hundreds of candles. Candlelight made everything look so much better than it really was, David thought. It softened all the harsh angles of daytime things, hiding imperfections and flattering the plainest faces.
“Come on,” David said, tugging Euan’s arm. “Let’s get something to drink.”
He paid a few coins for two cups of punch—weak, cloudy stuff—while Euan stood stiffly beside him. They sipped it as they watched the entrance to the ballroom for new arrivals.