CHAPTER ONE
Thursday, 1st August, 1822
The Advocates’ Library, Parliament House, Edinburgh, Scotland
David Lauriston wasn’t so immersed in his reading of Viscount Stair’s Institutions that he didn’t notice how stiff his neck had grown from bending over the massive volume, but he kept reading anyway.
“The Affection of the Property and Chastity of Women, and Animosity and Jealousie that ariseth in Men naturally upon the Breach thereof, doth evince, that by Law of Nature, every man ought to content himself with his own Wife and Women ought not to be common; for as no man can endure the communication of his own, so it must necessarily follow, that he should not encroach on another’s Property.”
That was all very well, David thought, but where did it leave his latest client, Annie Findlay? The victim of a bigamist who had died intestate, leaving her with nothing but household debts and a baby to raise, neither Annie nor the child had any claim on his sizeable estate.
Perhaps, David thought, the claim would better be raised by Annie’s father? A claim against John Kerr’s estate for the cost of looking after Annie and the child? He made a quick note of that thought and returned to his reading.
“Working hard, Lauriston?”
David jerked his head up, making his interrogator chuckle.
“Chalmers,” he said, huffing out a laugh before adding in a faintly panicked tone, “Good lord, what time is it?”
“Half past four,” Chalmers answered, lowering himself slowly into the chair on the other side of David’s desk. He smiled, but his expression was tight with pain, and David felt a pang of concern for his mentor. Chalmers had been unwell in the spring and still wasn’t recovered. He seemed permanently tired and had lost weight, his plump jowls turning into loose bags of skin that hung from his jaw, giving him a mournful appearance.
“Have you time for a word about the quarry case?” Chalmers asked.
“I have to get to the tailor before five,” David said, “but I’ve a few minutes.” Generally David worked side by side with Chalmers on their cases, but the quarry case was one that had come in when Chalmers was bedridden, and David had ended up doing the lion’s share of work on it.
“I won’t take up your time. It’s just that Baxter approached me a short while ago. He wants a word—about settling, I think. I wondered if you would speak to him? Tomorrow would be fine.”
David darted a curious glance at Chalmers. He’d worked with the man on quite a few cases over the last two years, and the one thing Chalmers never delegated was settlement negotiation, a skill in which he was unsurpassed. David knew he should be pleased to be trusted with this task, but concern for the older man outweighed any pleasure he’d otherwise have felt.
“Yes, that’s fine,” he said mildly. “I’ll look him up in the morning. Any particular approach you’d like me to take?”
“You’re better placed to decide than I,” Chalmers said. “You’ve run the case on your own, and you know it inside out. I don’t know it well enough to comment.”
“Of course you do. We spoke about it just the other day—”
Chalmers held up his hand to stop David, giving him a stern look. “Please, don’t pretend. We both know I’ve let you do all the work. So much so that there’s practically nothing I can charge the client a fee for.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of your reputation,” David replied, half-serious, half-teasing. “That’s what you told me when we began working together, do you remember? They pay for the name.” David grinned and Chalmers gave a return smile, but it was wan, and it disappeared altogether when he braced himself to stand, his expression tightening with an expectation of pain.
David stretched out a hand and laid it on the other man’s forearm. “Are you all right? You seem a little tired—is there anything I can take off your shoulders?”
Chalmers tried to make his smile reassuring, but somehow it just made him look sad. “I’m fine,” he said. “I just miss having Elizabeth and Catherine at home. And being ill didn’t help, of course.”
“You shouldn’t overtax yourself. You need to get well.”
“I’m better than I was. Though I’ll admit, I couldn’t have coped without you. You’ve become my right-hand man, lad. And I’m very grateful to you. You do know that, don’t you?”
David shook his head, embarrassed. “It’s been no hardship. You know I wanted the work. Needed it, actually.”
“Don’t play down what you’ve done. I know the hours you’ve put in, lad. I know how much you lifted off me.” Chalmers sat back, pasting a better smile on his face and squaring his shoulders, trying to throw off the melancholy that was his constant companion these days. “So, what’s so important that you need to be at the tailor by five?”
David took the hint. The serious discussion was over. He assumed a disgusted expression, more for Chalmers’s amusement than anything else. “A fitting for some new clothes for the King’s visit. The Dean’s determined no one will show up the faculty. Apparently my usual sober clothing won’t do—I’ve to be decked out in patriotic blue and white.”
The whole of Edinburgh had been at fever pitch these last weeks over the proposed visit of King George—the first visit by a monarch to Scotland since Charles the Second. Initially little more than a rumour no one believed, it had recently been confirmed that the King would indeed be arriving in less than two weeks. Sir Walter Scott, the “Wizard of the North”, whose novels the King adored, had been put in charge of the preparations for the visit, and somehow he’d managed to strike a mood of extraordinary and unprecedented patriotism amongst the city’s solid and sensible burghers.
“Well, of course you must be properly attired!” Chalmers chuckled, a gallant attempt at his old good humour. “Haven’t you been listening to Sir Walter? We’ve all to be properly costumed for the grand spectacle.”
Sir Walter’s lingering passion was for all things highland—albeit the highlanders of his imagination were not Jacobites but loyal British subjects who would readily bow the knee to King George. His dearest wish was to see as many of the population attired in highland dress as possible and the city’s tailors, costumers and silversmiths were doing a roaring trade in kilts, sporrans and sgian dubhs to meet the demand. They were also doing a roaring trade in the other officially sanctioned costume of blue coat, white trousers and saltire cockade. This less showy and distinctly lowland costume was the one that David would be reluctantly adopting.
“I’m surprised you’re able to get something at this stage,” Chalmers said. “Someone told me the other day he couldn’t even get an appointment with a tailor.”
“I still might not get the clothes in time,” David said glumly. “But he said he might be able to do something for me. Though if I don’t make this fitting, I haven’t a hope, so I’d better be off.”
“Then on your way, Lauriston. We can’t have you disgracing the faculty or Sir Walter, can we?”
It wanted ten minutes till five o’clock when David reached the tailor’s. He was on time, thankfully, if only just. But when he pushed at the door, he found it locked.
Frowning, he rang the bell. When there was no answer, he rang it again, pulling the rope several times, but still no one came. Stepping away from the door, he went to the window and peered in through one of the small, thick panes. The shop was gloomy, but he saw the dim outline of a figure moving around.
“Hello there!” he called, rapping sharply at the glass. “Let me in, will you? I’ve a fitting arranged.”
The figure moved forward into the light, and David could see now that it was a young lad, the tailor’s assistant, presumably. A few steps from the door, he froze and looked over his shoulder towards the back of the shop, then glanced back at David and gave a helpless shrug.
Angry now, David rapped at the glass again. “I’ve an appointment!” he cried. “You can check—the name’s David Lauriston. Mr. Riddell knows all about it.”
The boy gave another shrug, his expression apologetic, then scuttled off. Was he going to see Mr. Riddell? Or was he just escaping?
Damn. David hadn’t a hope of getting a suit made to Sir Walter’s ridiculous specifications if Mr. Riddell didn’t see him today.
He rapped the door sharply with his knuckles and rang the bell again, but after several minutes of this, it was beginning to look hopeless. Furious, he turned from the door, ready to stalk off, when the scrape of a key in the lock made him turn back.
The door opened, and a boy’s anxious face poked out. “Mr. Lauriston?”
David stepped forward. “Yes.”
“You’re to come in, sir, please.” The boy opened the door a little more, though not by much, as though he feared a multitude might storm the gates.
With an exasperated sigh, David stepped past him, frowning to find the shop floor empty.
“Where is Mr. Riddell?”
“He’s in the back, sir,” the boy whispered, “with a customer. A lord, sir!”
A lord. A peer who had sailed in and stolen David’s appointment.
“Is that why the door was locked?” he demanded, frowning.
“Yes, sir. He came an hour ago wanting to order new clothes, so Mr. Riddell bade me lock up and turn anyone else away.”
“Despite their appointments?”
The lad nodded and eyed the back shop nervously. “Aye, but when you kept knocking, I went back and told Mr. Riddell you wouldn’t go, and the lordship, he said to let you in if you have an appointment.”
“So I have the man who stole my appointment to thank for it being kept after all?” David didn’t know whether to resent the man or not. “I certainly don’t have your master to thank for it, do I?”
“I shouldn’t have told you,” the boy said, flushing. “Mr. Riddell always says I prattle on too much.” He swallowed, perhaps contemplating the scold he’d get for his loose tongue.
David sighed. “I won’t say anything—so long as Mr. Riddell honours my appointment, I don’t much care. But I need this new suit before the King comes.”
The boy sagged with relief. “Thank you, sir. May I trouble you to take your coat off, then? Mr. Riddell asked me to start taking your measurements.”
“Very well,” David said and took a step towards the back shop.
“No!” the lad protested, colouring again when David turned to look at him in surprise. “There’s only one room back there, and Mr. Riddell’s seeing to his lordship in there. We’ll have to do it here.”
“In the front shop?” David said disbelieving. “Where anyone might walk in?”
“The door’s locked, sir, and you only need take your coat and boots off, if you please.”
“Very well.” David sighed impatiently, lifting his hands to unbutton his coat.
Flashing a grateful smile, the lad scuttled off to find his measuring tape and notebook. Soon he was taking every conceivable measurement of David’s body: the length of each arm, its circumference in three separate places, the breadth of his shoulders, the line that ran from his armpit to his waist. The lad had just dropped to his knees to measure David’s inside leg, when the rumble of low voices, then footsteps, signalled that Mr. Riddell and his aristocratic customer had completed their business and were about to come into the front shop.
Although he was very far from undressed, David felt exposed standing in the middle of the front shop, being measured in his stockinged feet. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the approaching men, readying himself to say something. A quip to disguise his discomfort, and perhaps to make his displeasure known: Please excuse my state of undress; it is so difficult to find a tailor at the moment, a man has to take what he can get. Unless he is a peer, of course…
Mr. Riddell was the first to emerge through the connecting door—short, stocky and grey-headed, a measuring tape round his neck and the lapel of his coat glittering with pins. The other man was just behind him, and when he came through the doorway, he paused, his gaze raking the room till he found David. And smiled. A big, generous smile that dimpled one of his cheeks and made his dark eyes flash with infectious good humour.
Murdo Balfour.
“Mr. Lauriston.” His smile deepened. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Only then did David realise that he had frozen and that his mouth was hanging open.
“Balfour—” he said.
He was almost surprised to hear his own voice uttering the name. Or rather breathing it, disbelieving. Rooted to the spot, he stared at the other man for long moments, his heart racing.
When they’d parted, two full years ago, Balfour had kissed David so angrily, David’s lip had broken and bled.
“Don’t wish me happiness, damn you…”
For days after, there had been a mark. When it was gone, David had almost missed it.
“I see you’re being—measured up,” Balfour said, interrupting David’s swirling thoughts. He managed to make the ordinary observation sound almost indecent, and infuriatingly, David felt heat invade his cheeks.
“Yes,” he said shortly, feeling entirely at a disadvantage.
Balfour’s smile widened, as though David had said something amusing. “Will you be long?” he asked. “Perhaps after you’re finished, we could go to a tavern and you can tell me what you’ve been up to since I last saw you?”
David’s heart kicked. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” he said. He’d intended it to come out as a refusal, but somehow he found himself glancing at the tailor questioningly.
Mr. Riddell paused for a moment, then held out his hand to his wide-eyed assistant. The boy seemed to understand what he wanted. He put his notebook in the tailor’s hand and waited while the older man scanned the scribbled measurements.
“Is your gentleman having the blue and white?” Mr. Riddell asked the boy quietly.
“Yes sir.”
He turned to face Balfour. “We won’t be above another ten minutes, if that’s acceptable to your lordship.”
If it was acceptable to his lordship? David bristled and glared at the tailor, but Balfour rewarded him with a condescending smile.
“That sounds ideal,” Balfour said. “May I wait here while you finish?”
“Of course, my lord,” Mr. Riddell replied, bowing obsequiously. “Please take a seat.”
Balfour did so, settling his big, elegantly clad body into a chair at the side of the room.
David opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He had no doubt Balfour would find David objecting to his presence in the room like a virginal maiden protecting her modesty highly amusing. And surely there would only be one or two more measurements? Perhaps a few garments to try on? It was scarcely worth arguing over, so, pressing his lips together, he nodded at the tailor’s assistant.
The lad stepped forward and proceeded to take the rest of David’s measurements, calling them out to Mr. Riddell who scratched them onto the notebook. Despite his awareness of the man sitting not ten feet away, David gave his attention determinedly to the tailor, keeping his gaze averted from Balfour even after Mr. Riddell bustled through to the back of the shop. When the tailor returned, he had a loosely tacked blue coat and a white waistcoat that looked to be all but finished draped over his arm.
“I know you’re in a hurry, sir,” the tailor said as he displayed the garments to David. “This waistcoat should fit you, barring a stitch here and there. I made it up for another gentleman last week, but he wasn’t able to pay for it. As for the coat, the pieces were cut for a much larger gentleman who died before I could make it up, God rest his soul. If you’re willing to take these, I can have them made up for you with whatever else you’re needing by Monday, Tuesday at the latest. If you want new ones made from scratch, it’ll be a fortnight.”
When David tried on the garments, he was pleased to discover that Mr. Riddell was right about the waistcoat. It was a perfect fit. The coat felt huge, but within a few minutes, Mr. Riddell had marked the necessary alterations with chalk and fixed a few pins in place. Once he was satisfied, he eased the garment carefully from David’s body and handed it to his assistant, who bore it gently through to the back shop.
“I’ll make a note of your order at the desk, sir,” the tailor said, his gaze flickering to Balfour, then away again. “When you’re ready.”
David had felt the weight of Balfour’s gaze on him all through his dealings with the tailor, and sure enough, when he turned his head it was to find Balfour watching him attentively, his dark eyes glittering and his wide mouth unsmiling, for once. For an instant, their gazes locked and held and, for that instant, David couldn’t breathe. He was reminded of Balfour’s tendency to flout certain social rules. Especially the small, silent rules; the ones that weren’t written down anywhere but were nevertheless known.
Like the rule that a man should not look at another man the way Balfour was looking at him now. Watchful. Appreciative.
The rattle of a drawer reminded David where he was, and heat flooded his cheeks again. He could imagine the rush of colour, livid against his pale complexion. The curse of the redhead. David’s propensity for blushing was a source of constant consternation to him, his embarrassment over the pinkening of his cheeks only making them burn more.
Tearing his gaze from Balfour, he began to search the floor for his boots. His heart was thudding as he pulled them on, then donned his black waistcoat and coat. He almost always wore black: black trousers, black boots, even black gloves and hat. He knew he would feel odd in the blue and white of his new clothes.
The whole time David was dressing, he ignored Balfour, but he could feel the other man’s attention, a prickle of awareness rippling over his skin like a caress. It was a familiar feeling, transporting him back to that time two years before, when they’d first met in the dining room of a backwater inn. To his shame, the memory made his cock stiffen in his breeches, and he had to turn away from Balfour to hide his physical reaction, spending far longer than was necessary buttoning up his coat.
Once his erection had subsided, he turned towards Mr. Riddell. The tailor stood behind the desk waiting for him, his dour face expressionless. His order book was already open, David’s name and the date written there in a painstaking copperplate hand. David ordered the coat and waistcoat. Offered the choice of white or nankeen trousers, he chose one of each. He shook his head when the man offered new shirts, stockings, a low-crowned hat, all of which items he already had, thankfully. He took a cockade, though, in the requisite blue and white. The saltire colours, as prescribed by Sir Walter. He felt silly ordering such a patriotic thing in front of Balfour, but the Dean had let him know in no uncertain terms what was expected of him.
“Will that be all, sir?” Mr. Riddell asked at last.
“Yes, thank you,” David replied, trying not to wince when the total was read—just shy of seven pounds of hard-earned fees. Daylight robbery! Thrown away on a suit of clothes he didn’t even want.
He paid a deposit of two pounds and arranged to call in again on Monday afternoon. It occurred to him that the King might even have arrived in Scotland by then—he’d have his patriotic clothes just in time.
When he turned back to Balfour, the other man was standing and donning his hat.
“Are you ready for ale now?”
“I’d rather have a dram.”
Balfour quirked a brow at him. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”