Chapter 29

 

‘I do not like leaving you alone here.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ It was the following morning and they were standing together in the central lobby of the bagnio, his hands on her waist, her hands flat against his chest. They were both dressed but only he was wearing his cloak. There was a dim light coming into the lobby from the lantern in the bedroom, enough for them to see each other.

‘You have to go first, while it is still dark. We cannot risk leaving together. Especially not once it’s broad daylight. I cannot leave before then. ’Twould look very strange if I arrived home before 10 of the clock.’

He sighed into her hair. ‘I know all that. I still don’t like it. Lock the door behind me. The minute I leave.’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t like the gate to the bagnio garden not being locked either.’

‘Who would open it? I’ll be fine,’ she said again.

‘What will you do till it’s the right time for you to leave?’

Her voice was warm. ‘Maybe I’ll sit on the edge of the divan and think about everything we did here yesterday evening and last night.’

‘Oh,’ he murmured, his voice as warm and intimate as hers. ‘Don’t forget what we did first thing this morning. I liked how you woke me up.’

She dropped her eyes. ‘I lay there for ages wondering if I should.’

‘Didn’t want me to think you were too bold?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking up again. ‘Was I – too bold, I mean?’

‘You were a delight. You are a delight. Shall I tell you something? I was awake from the first touch. Thought I’d pretend to still be asleep for a little while longer, lie there and enjoy the moment.’

She hit him. Not very hard. Making him laugh.

‘You can wake me up by that method anytime you like, Miss Rankeillor. I also liked how you finally told me what your shameless thoughts were.’

‘I liked how you acted them out. I can still feel … certain sensations … in certain places.’

‘I hope you are not sore. In certain places.’

‘Not sore. I have what you might call an … awareness.’

‘Then I shall spend my day thinking about your body remembering mine.’

She kissed him for that. ‘Although I don’t believe a word of it. You’ll spend the day doing your duty. You always do. Go,’ she urged. Before dawn breaks.’

‘One question before I leave. When can we do this again?’

 

A few hours later, halfway through a chilly but sunny morning, Arthur Menzies obeyed a discreet request from one of the footmen at Eastfield to go to the kitchen door. A man stood a yard or two away from it beside a horse and well-laden cart. In one hand he held the animal’s bridle, in the other a letter.

‘Mr Jamieson?’ he queried, using an alias Arthur Menzies often went by when he was on business for The Association.

Edmonstone nodded towards the letter. ‘That for me?’

‘Aye. I’m instructed to wait till you read it. In case you want to send a reply.’

Arthur Menzies unfolded the letter and quickly scanned it. The story it told was couched in careful language but he understood what was being said. It confirmed his own thoughts, those same suspicions which been growing inside his own head. He looked up.

‘You had this from the lady’s own hand?’

‘Via another trusted hand. I am to take any reply directly to her.’ He lifted his chin, indicating the contents of his cart. ‘Later on today, when I deliver these carrots and neeps.’

‘Then give her this message. I shall do what I can as soon I can.’

Watching as the man climbed up onto the cart and gave his horse the command to walk on, Arthur Menzies crushed the letter into his fist. He would throw it on the fire as soon as he went back into the house.

As soon as I can. He needed to make some preparations first, work out how best to get at the truth, establish once and for all which side Robert Catto was on. He’d have to get the arrogant bastard alone, none of the ruffians of the Town Guard standing by ready to do his bidding. The agony of the kicking doled out to him and Cosmo at the Assembly Rooms had passed. The humiliation rankled still. It always would.

Turning the tables on Robert Catto might be a tall order. The man was so sure of himself. Nor did Edmonstone have any doubt the man could handle himself in a fight. Yet surely there had to be some way of putting him at a disadvantage. He must have a weak spot, an Achilles heel.

Charlotte’s voice rang around his head, ranting about Robert Catto, ranting about Kirsty Rankeillor, about having seen the two of them together. About how she was sure they had a fancy for each other. Now there was a thought. Maybe the surgeon-apothecary’s daughter was Catto’s weak spot. If he could get her on her own, she could be his route to finding out the truth about Catto.

A surge of pure malice coursed through Arthur Menzies. He would do what he had to do for the sake of the Cause. If there were some sport to be found in it, so much the better.

Rage against his confinement here at Eastfield though he might, it could be dangerous for him to head for Edinburgh now. Even if he found himself some shabby clothes and avoided the drawing rooms and supper parties of the well-off, his was a well-kent face in the oyster cellars and taverns in the less salubrious parts of the town. He might easily be spotted and his presence reported.

Catto had made it clear he expected him to stay at Eastfield until he told him otherwise. That rankled too. Who did the bastard think he was to command a messenger for The Association? Whoever the hell his father might be.

As soon as I can. Edmonstone frowned, thinking it through. He could not risk leaving Eastfield yet awhile but he could dispatch a messenger of his own, have him scout out the lie of the land, gather what information he could. The brute of an overseer would do his bidding for a few coins.

After an evening which seemed to go on forever, on the alert for any awkward questions even though none had come, Christian was sitting up in bed holding the quilted roll in which she kept her pins. The wee silver luckenbooth was there now too, wrapped in a handkerchief to keep it from being scratched by the pins. It was of exquisite workmanship. Robert Catto had chosen well.

He was also off his head, of course. Clearly, so was she.

Lucy the cat was padding up the bed towards her. With her free hand, Christian tickled the little creature’s furry head before putting the luckenbooth away and slipping the quilted roll under her pillow.

She thought about what he had said today about wanting to draw her ‘as you look now.’ Her hair loose about her shoulders, her breasts half bared. Swinging her legs over the side of the high bed, she stood up and walked across to the desk in the window embrasure where she kept a set of drawing materials. Taking them over to her dressing table, she slid the free-standing oval mirror which stood on it towards herself.

She sat for a moment, listening until she was as sure as she could be that everyone else in the house was fast asleep. Shrugging out of her wrapper, she loosened the neck of her nightgown, pulling it down over her shoulders and breasts, adjusting it as he had done.

Artistically draped. Like a beauty in an Italian painting.

Once she had a self-portrait in front of her she returned to her artist’s desk and slid the drawing into a sheaf of other sketches. They included the one she’d made of him when he had fallen asleep in front of the library fire here at Infirmary Street. She took it out and studied it for a moment.

He had looked very peaceful that evening, relaxed and loose-limbed in the firelight, his sarcastic mouth stilled. She had offered to make him a copy of the drawing. She would make him a copy of the one she had just drawn too, a belated birthday present.

A thought flew into her head. How she would love to make a drawing of him entirely naked. Without an artistically draped fall of cloth. She laughed, clapping one hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Would he let her? She could always tell him what was sauce for the gander should also be sauce for the goose.

She had looked her fill today. Clearly amused, he had lain back and let her do it.

‘You seem to be enjoying looking at the male organs of generation on a living body. There are less formal words for them, you know.’

‘I do know. And I am. Enjoying looking. Very much. I dinna like this, though.’

She reached her hand out to the trace the scar on his thigh.

‘How did you come by it?’

‘A musket ball fired by some misbegotten French bastard.’

‘At Dettingen? I wondered if you had fought there. How long did it take you to recover from the wound?’

‘Let us not talk of tiresome things.’

‘I’ll just keep looking, then.’

‘Good. I am finding it rather … stimulating.’

She giggled. ‘So I see— Oh, what are you doing?’

For, so quickly she had no time to react, he had turned over and whirled her over too, pinning her beneath him.

‘Enough looking,’ he murmured.

 

Going back to bed, she blew out her candle, licked her fingers and pinched the wick to make sure it was out. She slid down the bed, pulled the covers up and turned onto her side. Purring gently, Lucy settled herself into the small of her back. Lulled by the rhythm, Christian gave herself over to more memories of the night before.

She slid one hand under the pillow, resting it on the quilted roll which now held the luckenbooth brooch.

Hope. She would hold on to hope for as long as it lasted. As she would stay for as long as she could in their own world, the one where all things were possible.