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 something 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.