Provoked (18 page)

Euan ate the food quickly without uttering another word. He broke the tops off the eggs, fingers trembling, and scooped out the creamy insides, washing it all down with the ale.

“Good?” David asked when he was done, topping up his own glass.

Euan nodded. “Aye. It’s been a while since I last ate.”

“Or slept, by the look of you.”

Euan gave a soft, humourless laugh, which David took as an affirmation.

“So, you came to tell me you’ve found Lees?”

“I promised to tell you before I faced him, didn’t I?” There was an edge of resentment in his tone.

“Yes, and I’m glad you did,” David said gravely. “How did you find him?”

Euan leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. “It all went to plan. I followed the girl to her home on Saturday night, then set about finding a place to watch the house from.”

“Where?”

“One of the nearby houses is empty.” His mouth stretched into a sneering sort of smile, eyes still closed. “Rich people who live in London most of the time.”

David was taken aback by his bitter tone but kept his own voice neutral. “You broke in?”

“No, it’s locked up fast as you like. I just climbed over the railings and sheltered in front of the kitchen door.”

“Outside? Christ man, it’s been raining on and off all week and bloody freezing besides!”

“It wasn’t so bad. The steps to the front door sheltered me from the rain, and I had my coat to sleep in.”

“Just a coat? Euan, you could’ve frozen to death!”

“There’s plenty have worse,” Euan replied, opening his eyes and settling his cool gaze on David. “Plenty. Are you getting so used to fancy folk you don’t see that anymore?”

“Of course not,” David protested, but he knew there was an element of truth in Euan’s slur. When David had first come to the city, he’d been shocked by the widespread poverty. Now he was inured to it all—the beggars, the prostitutes, the dirty, ragged poor of the city. He walked by them every day and, for the most part, ignored their pleas. It was impossible to do otherwise if you were to get on with life. Impossible to help everyone. Anyone.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Euan continued. “I had a good hiding place to watch from and catch up on my sleep when I couldn’t stay awake any longer. It took a few days, but eventually, today, he came. Like he was answering my prayers.”

“It’s definitely him?”

“Aye. I’d know him anywhere. He looks like that other one, from the assembly, but you wouldn’t mistake either of them for the other, once you see them properly. They’re alike, but not
that
alike.” He smiled then, almost dreamily. “I followed him when he came out from visiting his lass. I was that tired and hungry, Davy, and it felt like he’d never stop walking. But eventually he went back to where he’s staying. You should see it. It calls itself a hotel but it’s nothing better than a whore’s den, from what I seen.”

“So now you know where he lives.”

“That I do. I came straight here after. I meant to tell you and go back without waiting. But—” He broke off.

“But?”

Euan dropped his head back against the chair, and his eyelids fell again, purplish and puffy from lack of sleep. “I was so tired…” He sighed.

“You were right to stop,” David said, his voice low and soothing. “You needed to eat and rest. No one can keep going so long without food or sleep.”

By the time David had finished his short speech, Euan had dropped off, his jaw slackening, mouth falling open to let out the slow, regular breaths of sleep. He was gone so suddenly, so thoroughly, he must’ve been tired enough to fall asleep standing up.

David refilled his whisky glass.

He sat in his armchair and watched the younger man sleep for a long time, while the logs in the fireplace burned down to white ash and the spirit in the bottle dwindled.

He was relieved Euan had come to him, that he had this chance to talk with the lad before the confrontation. He’d never be able persuade Euan to give up on his quest to face up to Lees, but he could at least go with him. Lees wouldn’t be able to dispatch two of them, he hoped.

In his heart of hearts, David hadn’t believed it would ever come to this. Euan’s plan had seemed hopeless to him at the beginning. Unlikely. God, but he regretted that arrogance. Not only had he been wrong, he’d become pivotal to Euan’s plan. It was David who had found Isabella Galbraith. David who had been the means of Euan locating his quarry.

If Lees harmed Euan—killed him even—David would be responsible.

“Why does everythin’ have to be black or white, wi’ you, son?”

That was what his mother used to say to him after he fought with the old man.

“Ye’re just like each other. Unbendin’ as bloody oak trees.”

Was he unbending?

What was it Balfour had called him?
An idealist.

That sounded better, but it meant the same thing, didn’t it? An absolutist? A man so wedded to his principles he couldn’t accept there were shades of grey?

No, that wasn’t it. David knew very well there were shades of grey. He just didn’t feel they applied to him. For good or ill, he’d never been able to give himself an easy way out. And he wouldn’t now.

If Euan was harmed on this wild quest of his, it would be on David’s soul.

Chapter Fourteen

It was his neck that woke him.

A deep pain. David stirred and winced, the ache sharp when he moved the head that had lolled awkwardly as he slept.

He’d fallen asleep in his chair. Had he been drinking again?

The candles had burned down while he was unconscious. Now the only light came from a ghost of a fire in the grate. Its weak glow touched the edges of the furniture, just enough for David to make out the terrain of the room.

In the time it took him to shift in his chair, blink his eyes and assess the state of his head—clear and pain-free; he couldn’t have drunk that much—he remembered. Opening the door to Euan. Feeding him and listening to him.

David’s eyes shifted to the other armchair. He wasn’t surprised to see it was empty but still cursed under his breath. He hadn’t intended to sleep. He hadn’t even thought he was particularly tired. His own fault, though, for drinking and allowing his eyes to close.

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—or
Hugh
, 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, and
that
he 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. The
haar
—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. He
couldn’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 Murdo
is
home,” 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.

Balfour took up his seat behind the desk again and gestured to David to take the smaller chair on the other side, putting him in the position of a petitioner. Well, he couldn’t really complain; he
was
a petitioner, after all. Or was about to be.

“So, Lauriston, what do you want?” Balfour leaned back in his chair, half smiling, his dark gaze steady.

David took a deep breath. “I hardly know where to start,” he began.

“Goodness me! David Lauriston stumped for words? Now that does surprise me.”

David stared at him, taken aback by Balfour’s words, or rather by the faint sneer underlying them. Balfour returned his look with no more than a raised eyebrow.

“All right, then,” David said after a long pause. “I’ll get straight to the point, if I may. The other day, after I met you outside Miss Galbraith’s home, you saw a man in the street, and you ran after him. I think I know who that man is.” At Balfour’s frown, he shrugged. “That is to say, I don’t know
precisely
who he is, but I believe he’s a government agent.”

Despite how provocative that statement was, Balfour’s expression didn’t change much at all. One eyebrow lifted, by the smallest degree. Nothing more.

“I see,” he said at length. “Pray, go on.”

“He is, in fact, the man I spoke of on the night we dined with the Chalmers. The man who infiltrated the weavers’ ranks. The man who brought about the events that resulted in all those executions and transportations.”

Balfour’s gaze was steady. “Is that right?”

“It is. And he is—at this very moment—being pursued by a man with revenge in mind.”

Balfour’s gaze sharpened, his studied unconcern dissipating. “You?”

The question took David so much by surprise that he started. “No, of course not!”

“Then who?”

“A friend of mine. A brother of one of the transported men. He came to me to ask me to help him find this man. And, somewhat unwittingly, I did.”

Balfour frowned. “You helped him unwittingly?”

“My friend approached me weeks ago, telling me that the man he was looking for was in love with a young woman whose father I might know. He thought the young woman was the key to finding this man—I thought he was being naïve. I was certain that no agent of the Crown would be so foolish as to disclose secrets about himself that would enable him to be so easily found.” David sighed. “I agreed to help him because I thought that, when he ultimately failed, as I was sure he would do, he would return to his studies.”