A Scot's Surrender (The Townsends)

by Lily Maxton

  Robert knelt by the trunk and lifted the lid. The brown-and-green plaid was folded on top—he ran his fingers along the heavy wool fabric and then snatched his hand away when he realized to an onlooker it might appear like he was caressing the garment. Which he obviously wasn’t. He was simply admiring the fine craftsmanship.

  He pushed the plaid aside, rather abruptly, and paused when he saw a wooden figurine, whittled into the shape of a fox, with graceful, flowing lines and a sharp, intelligent face. It was beautifully done. He wondered if Cameron had made it himself or if it had been a gift. And then his mind inevitably drifted to whom it might be a gift from.

  Well. It didn’t matter. He was supposed to be looking for stolen goods, not fondling Ian Cameron’s possessions.

  It was simply…the other man was so guarded Robert had never thought he would have any kind of glimpse into his private life. Of course, it wasn’t as if Cameron had allowed this.

  Robert’s stomach tightened.

  He was about to shut the lid when he noticed a long sheet of foolscap with strange markings on it resting at the bottom of the trunk. He stared for a moment, not certain what the dots and lines were, and wondering if that messy, sprawling writing was actually Cameron’s. It seemed so at odds with everything else he’d seen.

  One of the labels read Taurus. Another Cygnus.

  Robert sucked in a breath.

  They were constellations.

  Was Cameron an amateur astronomer? Robert would have thought his feet were planted firmly in the earth; he couldn’t imagine him looking up at the stars. But here was proof, physical and indisputable, that Ian Cameron might be more than he seemed.

  He shut the lid, feeling like the worst sort of trespasser, and stood. He caught a glimpse of a small end table by the bed, and his stomach pitched when he saw a copy of The Adventures of Constable Whitley.

  “Why does he have that?” He only realized he’d asked aloud when Georgina answered.

  “I lent it to him. We were discussing it at breakfast, remember? I thought he might like to read it.”

  It was lying facedown and teetering precariously on the edge of the table, as though Cameron had dropped it there without a second thought and never glanced at it again. He’d felt so indifferent to Robert’s work that he hadn’t even taken the time to place the volume neatly on the table—Robert resisted the urge to go over to the book and straighten it and whisper reassuring things to it.

  “Robert,” Georgina said.

  He turned, recognizing the edge in her voice. She was kneeling on the other side of the bed. Straightening, she withdrew from underneath the bed a pair of stockings, unmistakably silk and a very bright shade of red.

  Robert stared, stunned.

  Georgina pitched her voice low. “Do you think…”

  “No,” he answered, his own voice sounding quiet and far away. “He wouldn’t…” But Robert trailed off. The evidence that he had was right in front of him.

  “It’s a little strange, though, isn’t it?” Georgina whispered. “The rest of the room is so untouched. Why would he steal something and simply leave it under the bed for anyone to find?”

  “Are you saying someone might have put it there?”

  She lifted her shoulder. “I find that just as easy to believe as Mr. Cameron being a thief. Annabel has been friends with him for so long, and she isn’t a poor judge of character.”

  But how well did their sister-in-law know him? Did she know he whittled foxes and made charts of the stars? Robert didn’t think Cameron was capable of thievery, but how could he be sure? Some men were addicted to danger. Some men might have put something they stole in an easily locatable place simply to see if they would be caught.

  Robert certainly didn’t know what thoughts were hidden behind those cool gray eyes.

  A shrill voice sounded from the corridor, and Georgina shoved the stockings back under the bed before pushing to her feet.

  Robert heard a low rumbling murmur and an unmistakable Highland accent, and then Ian Cameron was standing in the doorway, looking rather large and rather foreboding and rather angry. That notch between his eyebrows was back, and his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek.

  The gray of his eyes was like glass shards.

  “What are ye doing in my room?” he asked, voice seething with something dark and angry.

  He certainly wasn’t cold now.

  Chapter Four

  Robert glanced around for exits. But Cameron was blocking the only viable one. He could fling himself out the window, but he might die from the fall…

  He tried to determine which risk had the better odds of survival, a fall from two or three stories or a confrontation with the nearly six-foot, muscle-bound, angry Scotsman in front of him.

  “I’ll just see to Mr. and Mrs. Worthington,” Georgina said, slipping past Cameron.

  She was leaving him? With Cameron? The bloody little traitor!

  Before she left, she gave a pointed look to Robert, but he had no idea what she was trying to say—he was too focused on how Cameron seemed to suck out every spare inch of oxygen from a room when he was mad.

  Robert knew Cameron’s anger wasn’t unwarranted. He knew he’d trespassed. He knew it was an abuse of his authority, even if he hadn’t felt like he’d had any other choice.

  Still, he found himself strangely fascinated by this side of the other man. How could he run so cold and then burn so hot? What did it take to light that spark? Trespassing in his private domain, yes, but what else? What else would push him over?

  Georgina shut the door behind them.

  “What is this?” Cameron growled.

  Robert was a little less fascinated by his anger when he was shut in a room with him. “There has been an incident. The Worthingtons have noticed some of their possessions missing.”

  “Missing?” Cameron caught on quickly, a hard light burning in his eyes. For all his taciturn act, he wasn’t a stupid man. “And ye think ye might find them here?”

  “We did,” Robert said.

  “What?”

  He folded his arms over his chest. He wouldn’t let Cameron intimidate him. People tended to think of Robert as a kind man, and some people associated kindness with weakness. But it wasn’t true. If someone pushed him, he would push back. “Look under the bed.”

  Cameron studied him suspiciously but finally crouched by the bed. He stiffened, face blank, at what he saw when he peered beneath it. Then he drew out a pair of red silk stockings and threw them on the bed like they might be a viper ready to strike.

  “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “No. Did you take them?”

  “No.”

  He seemed sincere. He seemed shocked that he’d even be accused of such a thing.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have thought stealing women’s undergarments was a pastime of yours, but one never can tell.”

  Cameron’s hands clenched, and Robert wondered if he was contemplating strangling him.

  But he couldn’t.

  Ian Cameron was at Robert’s mercy, and he knew it, and Robert could tell he hated it.

  A jolt went through Robert. A savage, biting satisfaction. Robert knew this was not an appropriate reaction to have. He was, possibly, a horrible person.

  Or maybe Cameron should have been nicer to him. All of those olive branches he’d tried to extend after Cameron had taken up residence at Llynmore, all of those jests, met with nothing but a blank stare, all of the man’s indifferent remarks that somehow still cut with condescension.

  Robert was being petty. But Ian Cameron was a coldhearted bastard. Robert could allow himself this small moment of pettiness, couldn’t he?

  “Red doesn’t suit you, though. Clashes with that hair. I would have chosen green, if I were you.”

  Cameron made a harsh noise in the back of his throat. It was the most reaction he’d ever had from Cameron when he’d made a quip. Robert felt his mouth curve.

  “This isna a laughing
matter.”

  “No?” He moved closer to the other man, feeling like he was baiting a bear, but unable to stop himself. When he was within an arm’s length of him, he reached out, a little stunned by his own nerve, and brushed a piece of imaginary lint from Cameron’s shoulder, pulse quickening at the feeling of hard bone and heat beneath his palm.

  “There’s nothing wrong with having a taste for fine silk things, Cameron. But stealing them, on the other hand…stealing I can’t condone.”

  When Cameron’s hand closed around his forearm in a tight, painful grip, Robert wasn’t even surprised. He almost welcomed it. The force of Cameron’s grip pushed him backward a step, and the backs of his knees hit the bed.

  He imagined falling and dragging Cameron with him. He felt Cameron’s hand around his arm like a branding iron. Lust shot through him, fast as quicksilver.

  “I didna steal,” Cameron growled, so close that his hot breath fanned across Robert’s mouth. Robert’s lips parted, and for an instant, they breathed the same breath. “I’m not a thief.”

  His eyes went to the stockings on the bed and then back to Cameron. “It doesn’t look that way.”

  “Townsend.”

  That was all he had to say. Robert’s last name. And it wasn’t even said with any particular pleading…it sounded more obstinate than anything else. But the initial rush of power he’d felt dwindled down to a piercing guilt.

  What was he doing?

  Cameron was a step away from being accused of theft and Robert was toying with him? Maybe Robert thought Cameron deserved to be taken down a peg, but this just felt vindictive, and he’d never thought of himself as a vindictive person.

  Trust Cameron to be the one to bring out that undiscovered side of himself. And trust him to make Robert feel guilty for it the very next second. Why couldn’t he be attracted to someone who didn’t make him feel so many contradictory things?

  Robert sighed heavily. “I know this isn’t a laughing matter.”

  Cameron searched his face. When he found whatever he was looking for, he let go of Robert’s arm, and Robert sat on the bed, already missing the pressure and the heat. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

  “Stealing is a serious offense. If I tell the Worthingtons what we found,” he continued, “they’ll no doubt expect your immediate dismissal, at the very least.”

  “If?”

  Robert lifted an eyebrow.

  “You said if.”

  “I haven’t decided what to do yet. There were other missing items, and we didn’t find those.”

  “I didn’t steal the stockings.”

  Robert was inclined to believe him, but he wished he could be sure. He wished Theo were here—he could take charge, make the tough decisions. Robert could smooth over the tension with quips. That was what he did. That was how he worked.

  He felt useless otherwise. Awkward. Like he was putting on a coat that was too big for him.

  But he needed to start acting like he knew what he was doing and hope the lie turned to truth. He thought about the kinds of things a constable might ask—not Constable Whitley, though, who always asked the wrong things. He straightened, questions and possible motives running through his mind.

  “Does anyone have reason to want to ruin you? Anyone at Llynmore?”

  “No. But someone must, if they put those in my room.” He nodded at the stockings warily, as if just looking at them was a grievance of the worst sort.

  “Maybe they simply didn’t appreciate your genial personality?”

  The look Cameron shot him would have cut glass. Robert smiled mildly in return. He wasn’t one to be deliberately cruel, but he wasn’t past needling him a bit. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it.

  “I’ll take these.” Robert said, folding the stockings and slipping them into his waistcoat. “We need to find out who’s behind this treachery and recover the other missing items. There are only so many people in the house…it shouldn’t be impossible to narrow down the culprits.”

  If it truly wasn’t Cameron, there was no one from his family or servants that he would suspect of such a crime. Which meant it was one of their guests.

  Robert, now that he’d had a little time to think, suspected Miss Hale…she seemed bored enough, and spirited enough, that she might do something like this just to see how everything unfolded.

  “We?” Cameron’s anger was gone. Replaced with ice once more.

  “I’m certainly not thrilled by it, either, but you, an employee of my family, were targeted, and I’m currently the head of the house. I feel it’s best if we work together.”

  Cameron looked like he was going to argue.

  Robert cut him off. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. In light of my brother’s absence, you are, essentially, my employee. An accusation against you is an accusation against me and my family. If we have to work together to put this right, then so be it. I am not so fastidious that I can’t put aside our dislike of each other for a short time. Are you?”

  Robert’s voice was strong, steady, firm, despite the racing beat of his heart. Thank God.

  Cameron’s mouth opened, and then closed again. Something flitted across his expression. Something other than anger. Other than ice. There and then gone.

  He finally gave one curt nod. Or something that barely passed for a nod. It was the slightest inclination of his head, as though it pained him to show too much deference to Robert.

  This is surely the start of a beautiful friendship, Robert thought drily.

  Chapter Five

  Ian felt like his life was unraveling. He hadn’t known this deep pit of despair in a long time. Not since over a decade ago, when he’d left his parents’ home and been forced to survive alone. Even then, even desperate and hungry and pathetic, he’d never stolen. Everything he’d earned, he’d earned for himself—he hadn’t simply taken it.

  Now, to be accused, to be blamed, to have someone deliberately try to ruin his good name—he wanted to smash something into pieces.

  And being under Robert Townsend’s thumb was salt on the wound. He could tell the other man was enjoying every second of his discomfort.

  If he weren’t at Robert Townsend’s mercy, if Townsend hadn’t reminded him he was the head of the household during Lord Arden’s absence, Ian would have told him exactly what he thought of him.

  But he was at Townsend’s mercy. Currently Townsend was the only thing standing between Ian and a formal accusation of thievery.

  Ian had been surprised at how quickly Townsend had rallied in light of the circumstances, at how he’d stood his ground against Ian. At how he’d even dared to provoke him—retaliation for all of the times Ian had ignored his existence, Ian assumed.

  It almost…almost…made him respect the man a little.

  “I told the Worthingtons that I didn’t find anything but that I’d keep looking,” Townsend said.

  “Did they seem satisfied?” Georgina asked.

  “For now, I suppose. I was adamant that I was taking the matter seriously. But I don’t know what will happen if we can’t discover the items.” He glanced across the table at Ian. It was late—everyone else had retired for the night—and he sat with Georgina and Townsend in the library. Townsend’s eyes were weary, but not unfocused. His hair was tousled from running his hand through it, and his cravat was partly undone.

  In the half light of candle flame and fire, with his edges unlaced, he looked dangerous, somehow, like a man who might gamble a fortune simply for the thrill of it. He looked like the sort of man Ian might have thought about approaching, once upon a time.

  He took a sip of whisky and met Ian’s eyes over the glass. “I think you should start spending time with us.”

  Ian was startled from his thoughts. “Why?”

  “I want to see how the Worthingtons and the Hales act around you. It might give us an idea of who would want to frame you for a crime.”

  “I have work to do. I don’t have time to sit around speaki
ng of nothing.”

  Townsend swallowed a mouthful of whisky. “Subtle, Cameron. Regardless, postpone your work. Unless you truly don’t care about the success of our endeavors in this matter.”

  Georgina glanced between them worriedly. “I think my brother has a sound idea. And they shouldn’t think anything of it, since you already ate with us once before.”

  Ian nodded, more willing to agree with Georgina than her brother. “Fine.”

  “I spoke to the Worthingtons about the missing objects,” Georgina continued. “The bracelet was Miss Hale’s. The gloves and handkerchief were Miss Worthington’s and the stockings belonged to Mrs. Worthington.”

  “So Mr. Hale and Mr. Worthington weren’t victims of the crime,” Townsend muttered. “Though I’m not certain if that matters or not.”

  Georgina covered her mouth to yawn.

  “You should sleep,” Townsend said, his expression softening. “Nothing is going to be solved tonight, and wearing yourself thin won’t help.”

  “Stop being a mother hen,” she said, but she said it fondly, and she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek before she rose. “All will be well. This will be set to rights before they return.”

  Townsend didn’t appear convinced, but he nodded. He watched her go, looking troubled, grip tight on his whisky glass. Ian was struck by the realization that Townsend truly loved his family; he truly wanted to protect them. It shouldn’t have been startling, perhaps, but Ian hadn’t thought Townsend cared about anything as much as he cared about himself.

  He must have sensed Ian studying him. He glanced toward him and then away. When he stood, Ian assumed he was leaving, but instead, he crossed over to the sideboard and poured another glass. After an instant’s hesitation, he filled a second glass and set it on the table in front of Ian.

  Unfailingly polite, even now. Ian was bitterly amused. He wondered if the effort Townsend put toward being liked ever exhausted him.

  As Townsend’s hand slipped away from the clear glass, Ian noticed his thumb and forefinger were stained with black ink and a callus had formed on the side of his middle finger. They were the marks of someone who wrote often. Though Ian didn’t know what he spent so much time on—letters to admirers, requests to his brother to raise his allowance?