Page 49 of Provoked
Levering himself out of his chair, he called the other man’s name, though without much hope of a reply. Silence greeted his efforts.
He went to the sideboard, grunting aloud when he bumped his hip painfully into the sharp edge of the table on the way. Once there, he fiddled around for a candle, eventually finding a half-used one. Straightening the wick of the candle stub to a smooth point, he crossed to the fireplace and held it to the white-hot embers to light it. The wick flared, then dimmed a little as he turned the stub upright. The flame flickered from the persistent draught in the room, and David had to guard it with his curved left hand as he checked his rooms. There was no sign of Euan.
In the last room, the bedchamber, he sat down and let out a long sigh. He had no doubt that Euan had gone to face up to Lees. Now David would have to go after him, and at night too.
He washed his face in cold water to wake himself up and pulled his boots on as he considered what to do. What was it Euan told him before he fell asleep? That Lees was staying in a hotel? But which one? He didn’t have so much as a vague direction to go on.
David racked his brains, but all he could come up with was that Balfour might know. Balfour had run after Lees—orHugh, as he’d called him—that last time David had seen him. If Balfour had caught up with Hugh, perhaps he knew where the man was now.
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all David had.
As David shrugged into his coat, he calculated how long it would take to run to Balfour’s house on Queen Street, knock on his door and beg for his help. No matter how quick, and even assuming Balfour would be there, it would be too long. Euan might be an hour ahead of David already and knew exactly where Lees was. But what else could he do? It was this or stay at home and wait for news, andthathe could not do. With no time to waste, David jammed his hat on and left his rooms, setting a path for Balfour’s house.
Despite his concerns about time, he avoided shortcuts, sticking to the better-lit and safer streets. Even these were dim tonight. Thehaar—the cold Edinburgh mist, straight off the sea—had drifted in, and the already dim street lanterns glowed weakly through the ghostly murk. David couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him. Nevertheless, he ran, settling into a steady pace that he knew he could keep up over several miles.
It wasn’t long before he was mounting the steps to Balfour’s house, his breath sawing in and out of his chest. He battered on the glossy door with his fist, taking gulps of air as he waited for an answer.
More than a minute passed. He wondered whether he was going to be ignored and set about a second round of battering, but at last the door opened a crack, and the same footman David had seen on his last visit poked his head out.
“May I help you,” he asked frostily, evincing no sign of recognition.
“I need to see Lord Murdo,” David replied.
“Regretfully, his lordship is not at home.” There was no regret in the man’s gaze, though, rather a superior sort of satisfaction. He was the type that enjoyed refusing people.
And David didn’t believe him. Hecouldn’t.
“I’m quite sure if you ask him, he will agree to see me,” David insisted, moving forward to cross the threshold, his body almost touching the other man now. “Tell him it’s Mr. Lauriston, if you please. And that it’s urgent.” Surprised by David’s sudden assertiveness, the footman stepped backwards momentarily, giving up valuable ground and allowing David to insinuate himself farther into the house. Just as quickly, though, he regrouped, drawing himself up to his full height and barring entrance to the house by bracing his arm against the doorframe.
“Kindly stand back—”
But David refused to retreat. He ducked his head under the footman’s arm and shouted, “Balfour! Balfour, I must see you!”
The footman cursed and brought his arm down, trying to secure David under one burly arm while David tried to thrash out of his grip and shouted for Balfour again.
A voice rang out from upstairs. “What on earth is going on?”
Decisive footsteps descended.
David stilled, letting himself be held. “Balfour, it’s David Lauriston,” he said loudly. “I need to speak to you.”
The feet that made those footsteps—shod in Turkish slippers—were the first thing David actually saw of Balfour, caught as he was, head down, under the footman’s arm. He craned his neck up and found his quarry looking as amused as ever to find him thus secured.
“I have to speak with you,” David said angrily.
“Is that so?” Balfour said. His eyes gleamed, and a smile ghosted over his lips. Then, to Johnston, “Let him go, you dolt.”
Abruptly, the meaty arm holding David loosened. “I told the gentleman you weren’t at home, my lord,” the footman said apologetically. “But he wouldn’t listen!”
David straightened, dusting himself down. He hated that he must be red-faced and sweating now. “Since Lord Murdoishome,” he bit out, “I’m not sure why you’re complaining.”
“He was following orders,” Balfour said flatly. He turned to his servant, adding wearily, “For God’s sake, Johnston, shut the door.”
While the footman hurried to do his bidding, Balfour glanced at David. “Follow me.”
David did as he was bid, shadowing the man down the corridor. Balfour was dressed in an ornate dressing gown, a beautiful thing of pale gold silk with wide black silk cuffs and black embroidery. Luxurious and incomparable. It looked like the sort of garment that should be worn by an emperor or a pasha. It didn’t belong here, in this cold, northern city. Much like Balfour himself.
Balfour led David into a well-lit library. Evidently he’d been working on something at his desk—it was strewn with papers. A half-drunk glass of port sat beside a pile of ledgers.