Robert’s grip tightened on his teacup, and his pulse kicked up a notch. “How so?”
“He is hired help and your family treats him like a close friend. If he was the thief, would you even do anything about it?”
Robert didn’t need reminding that Cameron was his brother’s factor—he reminded himself of that fact often enough. “Yes, I would. But I doubt that he is.”
“And why is that?”
Why? Because Ian Cameron was bloody Ian Cameron. He was too proud to go skulking around stealing things. Robert’s faith might have been shaken briefly, but every interaction he had with Cameron only reaffirmed it. But he had no idea how to explain any of this to Worthington, because Worthington didn’t know Cameron and had no interest in knowing him.
He was, after all, a Highlander, and not of their class.
“He is a trusted employee. Lady Arden has known him for years and would vouch for his honor in a heartbeat.”
“Lady Arden?” Worthington looked puzzled.
Oh, good God. Robert could practically see the wheels turning in his head. If Worthington speculated on the nature of Lady Arden’s relationship with her husband’s factor in his travel memoir because Robert had said something careless, Theo would kill him.
“But, of course,” Robert said quickly, “no one can be ruled out completely until I’ve found evidence. Leave it to me, Mr. Worthington. I won’t fail you.”
The older man nodded, looking somewhat appeased. Robert finished his tea and left him to his breakfast. If he’d known these guests were going to cause so much trouble, he would have simply left them out in the rain, friendliness be damned.
…
When Georgina led the guests out for another walk, Ian and Townsend finished their search of Mr. and Mrs. Worthington’s room. The whole time that Ian was glancing beneath side tables and into armoires, he was trying not to recall that, just yesterday, Townsend had been pressed into his side, Ian’s hand against his mouth.
He was also trying not to look too closely at Townsend, who was wearing buckskin breeches that encased his muscular thighs like a glove. Ian wondered what he did for exercise—Ian had the bulky build of someone who was muscular from day-to-day work, while Townsend was built more like a wildcat—a rangy, supple, coiled strength. He was certainly no soft aristocrat. What was it, though? Weights? Fencing? Riding?
Ian was annoyed with himself for being so interested in the answer.
Townsend suddenly glanced back at him, and Ian had to lift his gaze quickly. “Did you find anything?”
He shook his head.
“Onward, then,” Townsend said, sounding disappointed.
The last room was Mr. Hale’s. At one point, Townsend stopped to admire the younger man’s reading collection—all poetry—which had been stacked neatly on an end table next to the bed.
“Blake, Burns…eh, Byron,” he muttered. “I suppose I can forgive him that lapse of taste.”
Ian didn’t want to ask, but he found himself curious more and more often where Townsend was concerned.
“Ye don’t like Byron?” Ian didn’t follow poetry and had never heard of Byron, but he didn’t mention that.
“He wrote one thing about a weary, disillusioned young man—of all the overused topics one could pick—and became instantly popular. Though perhaps I’m being petty. He does have a way with words. Ah,” he said triumphantly. “Wordsworth and Coleridge. I’m impressed.”
“Why?”
“Hale’s collection has all the important modern poets. I wasn’t aware he was so well-read—he doesn’t really talk about himself, you know.”
Something pricked at Ian’s chest, sharp and instant. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, and it took him a moment to realize what it was, because it had been so long since he’d felt it.
Jealousy. Hot, needling jealousy, writhing like a living thing in his gut.
Because Robert Townsend was admiring another man’s poetry collection, of all the idiotic reasons.
Ian turned away from him and finished his own search. Jealousy was an emotion one couldn’t feel unless one was attached, and Ian hadn’t let himself become too attached to anyone or anything in years. The only things he let himself care about were the stars overhead and the windswept land beneath his feet—things that changed, but changed in constant, predictable ways. They didn’t need to love him back, they just needed to be there.
And they always were.
But now he was jealous because Townsend and Hale had something in common. Something that Ian would never share with him. Did this mean… He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew he didn’t like it.
“Did you find anything?” Townsend asked after a minute or two.
Ian shook his head.
“Then that’s it. We’ve searched all four rooms and still haven’t found a thing.” Townsend sighed, ushering Ian out and then shutting the door quietly behind him. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We should leave the corridor, first of all. I’d rather not repeat what happened yesterday,” Ian said flatly.
Townsend, lost in thought, followed Ian, even though he was heading toward his bedchamber.
“Worthington is rather cruel to Mr. Hale. I feel sorry for him.”
Ian had to force himself to keep walking. “He isn’t a child. He needs to learn to stand up for himself.”
“But Worthington is his uncle,” Townsend pointed out. “And Hale is timid.”
“And?” Ian said abruptly.
“You don’t care at all?”
“Why should I?” He stopped suddenly, turning. Townsend halted quickly enough to avoid running into him, though they were now separated by only a couple of feet. They were in a long gallery lined with tall sash windows—a place to walk indoors when the weather outside wouldn’t cooperate. Annabel was slowly lining the space with gilt-framed Highland landscapes. And though they weren’t in direct sunlight, it was bright in the hall.
Ian, who’d always thought Townsend’s eyes were the color of coffee, was a little taken aback to realize they were several shades of brown.
“Why should you?” Ian asked.
“Because they’re my guests.”
“Bothersome guests. Leave it alone.”
Townsend’s eyes widened. “Leave it alone?”
“Aye. Hale will either stand up to his uncle or he won’t. Ye don’t have to be there, meddling.”
“I don’t meddle.”
Ian snorted. “Ye’ll do it just because you want one more person to admire you. Not even that, ye want people to depend on you.”
“That isn’t—”
“Ye told me yourself. You wished you were the one who saved your sister’s reputation. It’s not enough to be liked—you want to be needed.” Ian knew he was being a little cruel, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Not when Townsend was falling over himself worrying about quiet, bookish, brooding Mr. Hale, and not when Ian had just realized Townsend’s eyes weren’t only one color, but a myriad of colors—light brown and dark and gold and amber.
Instead of looking hurt, Townsend’s face smoothed into something obstinate. “Fine. I admit it. I want to be needed. I’m a selfish bastard. But we’ve discussed this before.” His brow lifted. “What I don’t understand is why you’re angry with me.”
Angry? To be angry he would have to care, and he didn’t. “I’m not.”
“Truly? That’s not why you stopped to argue with me in the middle of the gallery?”
Ian opened his mouth, closed it again. Frustration roiled inside him.
Robert watched him for a moment, then gave a curt nod as if he’d decided something and turned quickly to walk back down the length of the corridor.
“Where are you going?” Ian asked, unable to stop himself.
“We might not have found anything, but the stolen goods have to be somewhere. I thought I’d start in the cellar.”
“We weren’t done,” Ian snapped. He didn’t know why he was being like this. He felt like an ass, and he still couldn’t stop himself.