by Lily Maxton
He liked stories, though. His mother used to tell tales—not often, but occasionally, when the work was done early and she wasn’t too tired. He and his siblings had gathered at her feet as though she’d held the world in her hands while she wove stories of bocan hauntings or kelpies that came from the sea and dragged their unsuspecting rider to a watery grave.
Scottish tales were not for the faint of heart.
Ian remembered they’d all been scared senseless, and they’d loved every second of it. He missed those stories, sometimes.
Now, though, the memory wasn’t a happy one; now it caught at his chest like a barbed hook and refused to let go. It was a pain he’d grown used to over the years. It was not quite as fresh and deep and raw as it had once been, but it had never really left—an ever-constant reminder.
“I just read a new book called The Adventures of Constable Whitley,” Georgina was saying. “And I’ve heard it’s doing quite well. Have you come across it?”
“Oh,” Mr. Worthington said. It was the sort of oh that didn’t simply mean oh, Ian could tell. “I have.”
“Did you not enjoy it?” Frances asked.
“It was a bit far-fetched. A bumbling constable who sees ghosts?”
“It was meant to be entertaining, I believe,” Robert said.
Georgina looked at her brother. “You didn’t tell me you’d read it.”
Townsend’s expression seemed an odd mix between exasperated and uneasy. “It must have slipped my mind.”
“But there is a difference between entertainment and downright silliness, wouldn’t you agree?” Mr. Worthington asked.
“I don’t think a little silliness ever hurt anyone.”
“And if there are ghosts in a story, then it’s a gothic story,” Worthington continued, warming to his critique. “There are certain expectations in that. But this author tries to be both comedic and have true gothic elements. You can’t just combine these things as you wish. You must choose one.”
Mr. Worthington certainly had some lofty ideals when it came to his reading material. It sounded tiresome to Ian.
“And then the romance,” he lamented.
“The romance?” Townsend said evenly.
“The dialogue was…tawdry.”
“Tawdry?” Townsend repeated.
“The author would have done better to try to show some real emotion through careful restraint. Not these vulgarly expressive lines about stars and hearts and every other comparison under the sun.”
“That might be true,” Georgina conceded, “but I thought it was quite enjoyable.”
“What did you say the author’s name was?” Miss Hale asked.
“Russell Hightower,” Georgina said.
“I doubt it’s a real name,” Mr. Worthington said. “Authors of that type tend not to lend their real name to their works. I daresay for something light and forgettable, it’s acceptable.” Mr. Worthington continued, “It is simply not to my preference.”
Ian watched as Townsend savagely speared a piece of haddock with his fork. He didn’t seem upset, exactly, but at least bothered by Mr. Worthington’s opinion on the book. Which Ian thought was pointless. Worthington sounded like a man who liked to hear himself talk, no matter how inane his thoughts were, and why should Townsend care about his opinion on it anyway? Didn’t he have better things to worry about?
Ian answered that question for himself. No, Townsend probably didn’t have better things to worry about, so he occupied himself with trivial matters instead.
As if Ian had spoken aloud, Townsend looked up and caught his gaze, a furrow in his brow. For a second, Ian was startled, trapped by those dark, deep eyes. Snared in something unknowable.
He jerked his gaze back to his own plate and realized that he’d been doing the exact same thing Townsend had done—observing him, studying him. And right then Townsend had looked like he was doing it to Ian again. Trying to puzzle him out.
He was suddenly angry, with Townsend, with himself.
He never should have come down to breakfast. He’d forgotten about the guests until it was too late. They were of the same sort, the Worthingtons and the Townsends—genteel with crisp English accents and a penchant for discussing books and other things Ian didn’t know anything about.
This was why he preferred being alone. Eating with the Worthingtons and Townsends, listening to a conversation he couldn’t have taken part in, even if he’d wanted to…it was just one more place Ian didn’t belong. One more reminder that he didn’t fit.
But he didn’t care. They could have their breakfasts and their conversations.
Ian Cameron belonged only to himself.
Chapter Three
Robert Townsend hadn’t told a soul that he was the author of The Adventures of Constable Whitley.
It wasn’t that he was ashamed, exactly. He had always wanted to be a writer, from the moment he’d opened a book and felt transported. He’d always been happiest with pen to paper, thinking maybe, somewhere, he might entertain someone.
His father, his scientific, logical father, had read one of his youthful attempts at an adventure story and cocked his head, confusion clear in his furrowed brow. He’d said a few reassuring, commonplace, tepid things—it was quite enjoyable, you show potential, etc., etc., and so on—and handed it back with that same air of puzzlement, as if wondering how he could have produced a son who would want to write romantic adventure tales instead of learning something useful.
His mother might have enjoyed it more, but he’d never had the courage to show it to her after that.
He’d never shown anyone, until he’d decided to go to a publisher while he was in Edinburgh—he figured he’d spent enough time on the stupid book, he might as well see if he had what it took to be a writer. That first manuscript had been rejected, but the publisher had been positive and he’d taken their suggestions to heart. Then, thinking not much would come of it, he’d gone to the same publisher after he’d written the manuscript that would turn into The Adventures of Constable Whitley.
Somehow, miraculously, it had been accepted. Somehow, even more miraculously, it had sold well enough to be a printed a second time, and then a third, and now the publisher had written to him about continuing the constable’s adventures.
Robert was pleased, and more than a little shocked, and through no clear planning of his own, his status as a published writer had become a secret. He didn’t know how to tell his family that he was Russell Hightower—the author of a book that was, depending on which critic one asked, either ludicrous, far-fetched, or a downright insult to the world of literature.
If even Georgina, who enjoyed stories about pirates and buried treasure, could admit The Adventures of Constable Whitley was far-fetched, he had no idea how Eleanor, the scientist, or Theo, who scoffed at all things frivolous, would respond.
So it wasn’t that he was ashamed. He was proud of what he’d accomplished. It was just, if they did think the book was silly, he’d rather not know.
He kept delaying the news, telling himself he would talk to them eventually, that he must—because he hated keeping secrets from the people he was closest to—but then the moments came and went and he never grasped them.
He was, quite possibly, a coward.
He was, at the moment, letting his mind drift too much.
“It’s your turn, Mr. Townsend,” Miss Worthington said with a slight smile.
He turned his attention back to the cards splayed in his hand. “Forgive me.”
He, Miss Worthington, Georgina, and Frances were playing whist in the library while the elder Worthingtons perused the bookshelves. The rain pattered softly against the windows, slipping down like tears instead of lashing at the glass in anger.
He wondered what Cameron was doing. Then he wondered why he was wondering at all.
“Will Mr. Cameron be joining us again?” Miss Worthington asked.
Robert jolted, nearly dropping his cards. For a moment, he thought he’d said somethin
g out loud, but she was simply watching him with vague curiosity. “I doubt it. He’s probably busy keeping track of the accounts.”
He might be getting restless, though, being confined to the indoors. Robert had noticed Cameron preferred a more tactile approach to his work than most factors. He would go to the tenants and the quarrymen often to see what they needed, helping them mend roofs and other broken things, though that wasn’t technically part of his position. The bastard probably wrangled stray sheep and cattle while he was at it just to show off his physical prowess—
“You don’t suppose Mr. and Miss Hale got lost, do you?” Frances asked, slicing into his thoughts. Which was a good thing, considering the direction they’d been headed.
He glanced at the mantel clock and then set his cards facedown on the table. “I’ll fetch them. Don’t peek at my cards. Yes, I am looking at you, Aunt Frances.”
She shot him an innocent smile, which he didn’t believe for a second. He walked down the quiet corridor; the candles in the wall sconces made it look like shadows were being chased by light across the floor.
At the drawing room door, the sound of hushed voices made him automatically stop to listen. He wasn’t eavesdropping, though. Well, he supposed he was eavesdropping, but it was unintentional. And people whispering behind shut doors was suspicious.
Or perhaps he only found it suspicious because he’d stayed up late last night working on the next volume of Constable Whitley’s adventures.
He heard Mr. Hale’s voice first. “Are you certain you didn’t lose it?”
“I may be a bit absentminded,” came Miss Hale’s offended whisper, “but that was my favorite bracelet!”
“Then what exactly are you saying?”
“Someone must have stolen it,” she said.
Robert stiffened. He didn’t think she was accusing her traveling companions of thievery. Which put the blame on either Robert and his family, or their servants.
“That’s a serious accusation,” her brother said quietly.
“This is a serious matter!”
“Will you at least wait and see if it turns up? You’ll only cause a stir, and what if you did misplace it?”
There was a pause, and then a heavy sigh. “Very well. But if I haven’t found it soon, I’ll know that someone took it, and I won’t go quietly.”
A prickle of foreboding crawled up Robert’s spine. He hoped the bracelet turned up on its own. He had no doubt that Miss Hale had misplaced it, but that didn’t mean she would find it again, and the last thing their already eccentric family needed leveled at them was an accusation of thieving. And by a travel writer, too. Theo would probably read all about it in Worthington’s memoir and then promptly have an apoplexy.
And it would be Robert’s fault. Robert’s failure.
He’d narrowly avoided disaster in Edinburgh; he had to do better this time, be better. He wouldn’t let his siblings down.
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He tried his best for a casual smile when Miss Hale appeared.
“I was sent to find you. We’re playing cards, if you are interested.”
“Oh, of course!”
He led the way back, speaking to the pair jovially, though inside, he couldn’t quite fight his unease.
…
The next day, Mr. Worthington was so subdued, face so downcast, that Robert knew immediately something unpleasant had happened. Worthington stood in the middle of the drawing room, his wife beside him, and Robert and Georgina faced them. It felt like they were on trial, though Mr. Worthington had only said there was an urgent matter they needed to discuss.
“This is a difficult thing to speak of, particularly given your kindness to us these past few days. But,” he said, “some of our possessions have gone missing.”
Some of their possessions? It was more than just Miss Hale’s bracelet, then. The unease Robert had felt before surged back with new strength.
Georgina frowned. “What’s gone missing?”
“A bracelet. A pair of gloves. A handkerchief.” He paused.
Mrs. Worthington’s face flushed a deep red, but she said, “Silk stockings.” Her gaze remained glued to the floor.
Robert wouldn’t have taken the matronly Mrs. Worthington as someone who would buy something like silk stockings. But then, he supposed there was no telling what someone was like in their private life.
“That is unfortunate,” Robert said. “Do you think they were lost somehow?”
Mr. Worthington made a strange noise. “I do not see how so many disparate things would simply go missing.”
Robert met the man’s gaze. He knew where this was headed. But that didn’t mean he liked it. And he was not so amiable that he would remain unperturbed by the kind of insinuation Worthington was making about his family. “Then what is your accusation?”
Worthington blinked. Cleared his throat. “I am not accusing you, you understand. But, of course, there is the chance that one of your servants…”
“The only servants currently here are two housemaids and the cook, two of whom have been here for years, and one the daughter of a tenant family whom we highly respect.”
“And the factor,” Mrs. Worthington said.
Robert jerked his head toward her a little too quickly, uncomprehending. “The factor?”
“Mr. Cameron,” she prompted.
“Mr. Cameron is no more a thief than…than…an elderly grandmother.” Robert could only blame himself for the awkward silence that followed that sentiment. He was possibly better at metaphors when he had some time to think about them.
“Er…why is that?” Mrs. Worthington asked.
“You’ve seen the man. He’s like a workhorse; I doubt he’s ever taken anything for free in his life.”
First an elderly grandmother, now a workhorse. Now he was mixing metaphors, and he wasn’t certain he was even making sense.
But the truth was, he didn’t truly know Cameron. He didn’t know the first thing about him. Just because he looked like the sort who was tiresomely honorable didn’t mean he was. Maybe Robert’s impression was wrong.
Mr. Worthington was starting to look frustrated. “If you don’t deal with this yourselves, we’ll have no choice but to take matters to the authorities.”
“There is no need for that,” Georgina said, alarmed.
“What would you have us do, search their rooms?” Robert asked.
When the Worthingtons remained silent, he realized that was exactly what they wanted him to do. Oh, good God. He’d rather try to strangle a wild boar with his bare hands than go through Ian Cameron’s room.
He could just picture that cold, disdainful stare while he fumbled through the man’s belongings.
But he didn’t know what else would appease them.
He and Georgina exchanged a worried glance. Searching the servants’ rooms felt like a betrayal of their trust. A betrayal of the trust he had in them. But what was the alternative—the Worthingtons calling on the nearest sheriff, who might send someone to search the rooms anyway, and then writing all about their dreadful ordeal with the wicked Townsend family in their book?
He tried to imagine what Theo would do in his place. He was the head of the family. He would have made the decision and known he was doing the right thing, because that was simply how Theo was. Sure, strong, a leader.
Robert had never led anyone or anything in his life.
What decision would Theo make if he was in this position?
Robert didn’t know. His gut twisted as the Worthingtons watched him. As his sister watched him.
“Very well,” he finally said. But unlike Theo, he had no sense of conviction, no idea if his choice was the right one or the wrong one.
They went to the cook’s room first—with so few servants and such a large space, each had their own private chamber. The Worthingtons didn’t go into the room themselves but waited nearby in the hallway. Robert wasn’t sure how to take this…it could mean they trusted Robert and
Georgina to report anything they found. It could also mean they didn’t trust them quite enough to let them resolve the matter entirely on their own. Robert decided not to dwell on it.
The cook’s room was small, with a plain bed and mattress and a washstand. A small window looked out onto the rain-drenched moors. It didn’t take much searching to determine that the cook didn’t have any of the stolen items. The pit of unease and guilt in Robert’s stomach seemed to grow heavier. But he and Georgina continued on.
Then they went to Catriona’s room, and next, Jane’s.
There was nothing in either room. But he hadn’t expected to find anything, either.
He found himself hesitating outside Cameron’s door. The other servants had household duties to attend to during the day, but most of the time, Cameron spent his days outside. Robert wasn’t sure what he did when he was confined to the castle because of heavy rain. Was he in his room right now?
Georgina seemed to sense his unease. She knocked softly, and when no answer came, pushed inside.
Robert instantly felt like he was trespassing. Even more so than he had in the other servants’ rooms, for some reason. Cameron’s room was tidy, but Robert soon realized this was not necessarily by choice but because Cameron had so few possessions. Some clothes in the wardrobe, though not many. A small trunk by the bed that couldn’t possibly fit very much.
He could have bought more for himself, on his salary. Robert wondered why he didn’t as he thought about his own bedchamber. His own wardrobe had five different cravats, a dozen waistcoats, several pairs of boots and shoes. His desk was piled high with as many books as it could contain, and he had a bit of an addiction to quills. (He was quite adamant that an author should never find themselves lacking a good quill.)
And aside from those things, there were a dozen trinkets he’d collected throughout the years—pocket watches or silver toothpick cases or comfit boxes or things that had been given to him as gifts. Robert’s own room looked like a place that was well lived in.
Cameron’s room looked like a place meant for leaving. Robert knew it was a guest room, but weren’t these all of the possessions Cameron had rescued from the fire? He’d told Georgina he’d managed to save everything.
