Miss Hale must not have noticed, because she leaned forward as though she were going to ask him something else.
“I hope there isn’t a similar requirement to be English,” Robert cut in. “I’m always losing my quizzing glass and walking stick. And don’t even ask me about the sad state of my cravats.”
Miss Hale laughed. “Your cravat looks perfectly fine to me,” she said, and the conversation was drawn away from Cameron. Which, Robert realized, was what he’d been hoping would happen. And it annoyed him like hell.
The man was stone cold. He certainly didn’t need anyone to defend him. Much less Robert. It was stupid to have some sort of gut reaction to jump to the defense of someone who didn’t even like him.
…
What was Townsend playing at?
Ian was almost positive Townsend had jumped into that conversation to deflect attention away from Ian.
It was maddening.
Ian wasn’t weak. He knew how to protect himself; he’d been doing it for years. He didn’t need Townsend to do it for him. He didn’t need anyone to do it for him.
And the idea that Townsend had been observing him closely enough to tell he was bothered in the first place didn’t rest easy with him. Why should Townsend even care? Especially after their last couple of encounters.
Ian wasn’t used to receiving something for nothing. He didn’t trust it.
While he stewed in his thoughts, the conversation turned to books.
“Like my daughter, I enjoy Walter Scott’s poems,” Mr. Worthington said, “but I find myself most often reaching for other travel narratives.”
Ian listened half-heartedly. He didn’t read very much.
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.