Enlightened (12 page)

“Come on,” Murdo said, touching David’s elbow. Realising he’d become absorbed in his own thoughts, David gave a self-conscious laugh and followed Murdo up the steps to the house.

The door was opened by a thin little man with bright, watchful eyes, sallow skin and neatly combed iron-grey hair—Liddle, Murdo called him. The man bowed to Murdo, welcoming him home in a quiet, precise voice.

“This is Mr. Lauriston,” Murdo advised his butler. “My new secretary.”

Liddle bowed to David, his expression devoid of curiosity. David fought the urge to bow back, settling for inclining his head more respectfully than was probably strictly proper.

The butler turned back to Murdo. “Shall I prepare the Blue Room for Mr. Lauriston, my lord?”

“No,” Murdo said. “The Green.”

David’s gaze flickered between the two men. Liddle merely nodded at Murdo’s instruction, and already David could see that the man was far too discreet to react in any way to anything he heard. But David wondered if he’d detected a ripple of interest. Something, perhaps about the way the man studiously
didn’t
look at David in response to Murdo’s order. A brief glance might have been expected had Murdo merely agreed with the servant’s suggestion, mightn’t it? Or perhaps David was being oversensitive? Perhaps Liddle truly thought nothing of it?

“We’ll take some refreshments in the drawing room just now,” Murdo informed the butler, resting his hand at the small of David’s back and urging him forward. David felt that hand like a brand, a prickle of discomfort going up his spine as he wondered what the butler made of them.

Already David could see that this house was quite unlike the one in Edinburgh. The Edinburgh house was plush and masculine, with solid, comfortable furniture. This was far more elegant and far more formal, everything sharp and bright and hard-edged. The drawing room that Murdo led David into was twice the size of an ordinary room. The fireplace was huge, carved from white marble, and the walls were pale blue up to the picture rail, the expensive wallpaper reflecting the light like frost. Above the picture rail, everything was white. David looked up, his eyes drawn first to the ornate cornicing, and then to the crystal chandelier that hung from the plaster ceiling rose, its droplets sparkling like ice. It was a beautiful room, but cold. Even the furniture was cold, upholstered in spotless, ivory satin, making David conscious of his crumpled, dusty travel clothes.

“Stop fretting and sit down,” Murdo said, sounding amused. He had already settled himself into the largest armchair in the room, by the fireplace. After a moment, David crossed to the sofa opposite Murdo, dusting off the tails of his coat before carefully lowering himself down.

“How’s your leg?”

“Not too bad,” David replied. In truth, his leg ached but talking about his injury was beginning to bore him.

“Perhaps it’s done you a bit of good to rest it,” Murdo said. “You may have been overdoing the exercise.”

“I feel better when I exercise it though,” David replied. “I’ll be glad to get back to walking again.” He yawned broadly, and a moment later, Murdo did too, making them both grin. “My sleepiness is catching,” David observed.

“Perhaps we should have an afternoon nap?” Murdo suggested, cocking a suggestive brow, the corner of his generous mouth twitching appealingly.

David sighed with genuine regret. “I should really go over to Blackfriars as soon as I can,” he said, adding after a pause, “I’ll walk over there this afternoon.”

Murdo’s grin faded at that, but he didn’t protest. “At least take the carriage,” he said. “It’s miles away, and you don’t know London at all.”

“It’s only a couple of miles. It’ll take me an hour at most, and in truth I’d like to see a bit of the city on foot. I promise to take my cane.”

“I’ll come with you, then.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” David murmured. Euan was living in the same house as Elizabeth, and even though Murdo had indirectly helped Elizabeth escape from Kinnell, the last occasion on which the two men had seen one another was two years before, when Euan had been holding a gun to David’s head. Despite everything that had happened since then, David suspected that Murdo still didn’t trust Euan and that he wouldn’t trouble to hide his feelings. David would have enough to deal with, giving Elizabeth the news about her father, without having to worry about anything else.

Murdo pressed his lips together. David could tell he was desperate to say something—probably to try to lay down the law—but was somehow managing to stop himself. Over the months they’d spent together at Laverock House, Murdo had come to realise that he couldn’t make David do what he wanted with either verbal demands or coercion, and seeing his lover’s reluctant acceptance of that was amusing and oddly touching.

David stayed deliberately quiet for a while, allowing Murdo to simmer in peace, while his own mind drifted ahead to what he would say to Elizabeth and Euan about Chalmers. How did one break news like that? He considered and discarded a dozen different openings.

Eventually, a footman entered the dining room bearing a heavily loaded tray, which Murdo ordered him to place on the table before dismissing the man.

“If you’re going to insist on going over to Blackfriars before dinner, at least eat something first,” Murdo said, putting a buttered crumpet and a slice of seed cake on a delicate china plate and handing it to David.

David grinned as he accepted the plate, amused by the oddly domestic gesture.

“And you can stop laughing,” Murdo added through gritted teeth.

To reward him for his restraint, David ate two more crumpets and a second slice of cake, silently noting Murdo’s quiet satisfaction with puzzled amusement.

When he was done, he leaned back in his chair and yawned so widely he felt his jaw might crack. When he straightened again, Murdo was smiling at him, an odd expression in his dark eyes.

“You’re tired,” Murdo observed.

“I doubt I slept more than four hours last night,” David admitted. “But I’ll catch up tonight.”

Murdo watched him for a moment. “I know you’re keen to get going, but you’d benefit from a short nap first. Why don’t you go up to your bedchamber? I won’t join you, and I’ll make sure you’re woken in an hour.”

David opened his mouth to protest, only to yawn hugely again. “That might be an idea,” he admitted, and Murdo reached for the bellpull.

Within a minute or two, Liddle was back. He carried a silver tray bearing a thick bundle of correspondence for Murdo.

“You called, my lord?” he said quietly as he placed the tray on a small table at Murdo’s right hand.

“Yes, would you show Mr. Lauriston to his chamber?”

“Of course, my lord.” The butler turned to David. “Would you follow me, sir?”

David rose stiffly from his chair, his knee protesting a bit as he reached for his cane.

“And make sure you rub that leg down,” Murdo said firmly, making David’s cheeks heat as he wondered what Liddle thought of that comment.

Liddle led David upstairs—just one flight, thankfully—and down a short corridor.

“Your bedchamber, sir,” the servant said in his quiet, precise voice, standing aside to allow David to precede him, adding, “His Lordship’s is next door.”

David’s cheeks warmed at that comment, but he said nothing, merely walked into the middle of the room, where his open trunk stood.

“Your clothes have been pressed and put away, sir. I trust that meets with your approval?”

David turned, smiling politely. “Yes, thank you.” The first time that had happened, David had found it mortifying—the thought of a servant putting away his drawers and shaving things for him—but he’d grown used to it now. It was how things were done.

The butler inclined his head and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

David’s first thought was to wonder why it was called the Green Room. The walls were hung with yellow silk wallpaper, and the satin bedcover was yellow too. There was no green anywhere that he could see.

The room felt stuffy to him. He went to the window to lift the sash, and the busy sounds of the city poured in—the rumble of carriages, the clatter of horses’ hooves. He pulled the drapes closed over the open window, and they stirred in the breeze, doing nothing to muffle the noise from the street below.

Stripping down to his drawers, David folded back the rich satin bedcover, exposing the sheets and blankets below, and crawled inside. Although he found it difficult to sleep during the day, he was exhausted, and he closed his eyes with every expectation of drifting off. But sleep wouldn’t come. He lay there, listening to the clock ticking, his traitorous body refusing to succumb as ten, then twenty, then thirty minutes passed. Eventually, he swore and sat up, swinging his legs out of the bed, reasoning that he may as well go straight to see Elizabeth.

After crossing the room to the armoire, he poured water into the porcelain basin and briskly washed himself before fetching fresh clothes from the wardrobe, grateful that the creases had already been pressed out of them. Once dressed, he studied his face in the mirror, rubbing a hand over his cheeks. He’d shaved that morning at the inn, and although there was a faint roughness of new growth that dragged at his fingertips, he’d get away without shaving again. His too-long hair was tumbling into his eyes, though, and he reached for his jar of pomade to tame it, finger-combing a generous dab of the waxy, resin-scented stuff through his thick, dark-red locks.

When he looked at his reflection in the glass, he was briefly shocked. He’d donned his best black suit of clothes and—for once—exercised some care in the tying of his neckcloth. Between that and his ruthlessly tamed hair, he looked like…well, like the old David Lauriston. A quiet, measured professional man. A bookish sort. Dry and studious, not a bit of passion in him. Not at all like a man who donned his lover’s worn-out breeches to go fishing and let his hair grow so long that it hung in his eyes. Not like a man who loved someone of his own sex. No one would think such a thing of the respectable gentleman in the looking glass.

He was still considering his reflection, a frown marring his brow, when a great rapping came from the street below. David went to the window and twitched the curtain aside to peer down. There was a gentleman standing at the top of the steps, a gold-topped cane—presumably the instrument of that loud knocking—in his hand.

David couldn’t make out much of the man from his vantage point, only the top of his black hat and a general impression of elegance and wealth. A moment later, the front door swung open, and the man was admitted.

David waited a few minutes before he went downstairs, enough time for the visitor to be shown into Murdo’s presence so that David could slip away without having to be introduced. Once he was satisfied he’d allowed enough time to pass, he put on his hat, picked up his cane and left his bedchamber.

His strategy didn’t quite work out. When he reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed the hallway, he discovered that the drawing room door was wide open and that Murdo and his visitor stood just inside the threshold, facing each other. Murdo, the taller of the two, had his arms crossed over his broad chest, a belligerent expression on his face, while his visitor spoke in a low, driven tone, his words indistinct. At the sound of David’s cane tapping on the floor, they both turned their heads, and for the briefest instant, before he shielded his expression, Murdo looked horror-stricken.

Shaken by that, David turned his attention to the visitor, quickly realising that if the man wasn’t Murdo’s father, he had to be another close relative. He was tall and broad, like Murdo, with the same thick hair—once dark, now streaked with grey—and black, flashing eyes. They shared the same shape of head, the same determined chin, but there were differences too. Murdo must have gotten his quick smile and the appealing glint of humour in his ink-black gaze from his mother, because this man had no humour about him at all. Everything about him had a downward cast—the outer corners of his eyes, his long nose, the thin slash of his mouth. It was a forbidding face and, right now, a sneering one.

“Is this him, Murdoch?” the man asked, his gaze raking David from head to toe. “Your latest catamite? The one you’ve been so reluctant to part yourself from?” His voice dripped with contempt.

The sudden, unexpected insult shocked David like a physical blow, and his gaze snapped to Murdo, who looked so furious David was sure he was about to lose his formidable temper. To David’s surprise, though, he pressed his lips together, keeping himself in check, even as a faint flush across his cheekbones and the flaring of nostrils betrayed his agitation.

“I know you have no manners, Father,” Murdo said, “but Mr. Lauriston—my
secretary—
is a guest in this house, and I will thank you to show him the respect he deserves.”

“Your secretary,” the earl repeated, his tone frankly disbelieving. Then he shook his head and brushed past Murdo, walking farther into the room and sitting himself down on the same chair Murdo had selected earlier. It was the chair, David realised, of the master of the house, occupying as it did the dominant position in the room.

Murdo turned to David. “Go and see your friend,” he said quietly. “Liddle will arrange the carriage for you.”

“There’s no need for Mr. Lauriston to leave,” the earl said behind him in a carrying, cut-glass voice. “I’m not here to discuss matters of state, Murdoch. Nothing I have to say to you needs to be said in private. In fact—”