Agnes had been with Lachlan since they’d opened Ardnoch. She’d been head housekeeper at a five-star hotel in Glasgow when he’d stolen her away. “Sir, it is not that Ms. Potter has requested extra shortbread. Of that, we are happy to oblige. It is that Ms. Potter has accused my housekeepers of stealing her shortbread instead of admitting she has eaten it all herself.”
It was extremely hard to keep a straight face. “I see.”
“Och, don’t you dare laugh. It’s not a laughing matter.”
Only Agnes could get away with admonishing him like a schoolboy. “I apologize. And I am sorry that Ms. Potter has accused the housekeeping of stealing. If her accusations continue, then I will discuss it with her. However, for now, add a second jar of shortbread to her room each morning and see if that helps.”
“I can already tell you, it won’t. She’ll eat both jars and be even angrier at herself for it and then blame us.”
Lachlan would like to claim obliviousness to such thinking, but he’d seen people behave bizarrely when it came to food and body image. His attention caught on the grandfather clock in Agnes’s office. Robyn had been on the estate for thirty-five minutes. She’d leave soon. Then he’d feel less agitated. “I’m sure you can think of something to handle it, Agnes. For now, I have a pressing matter to see to.” He gave her an abrupt nod, ignored her glare of annoyance, and strode out of her office and through the castle.
Cutting through the drawing room that led to a side entrance, he nodded hello at a director and his wife who sat near the exit and ignored everyone else because that’s what they preferred. If they wanted to talk, they approached him. Otherwise, he left them to it, as if this was their home too.
As he passed into the short corridor between the drawing room and the library, he caught sight of one of his waiters stealing an hors d’oeuvre and cramming it into his mouth.
He saw Lachlan at the last second and blanched.
Trying to quell his impatience to march down to the studio at the loch, he made sure none of the five guests in the drawing room watched as he approached the young man.
His name was Andrew, and he was a permanent member of staff. Lachlan hired extra staff during the summer months and often in the early winter months too.
“Andrew,” Lachlan murmured.
“Sir,” he squeaked out.
“Do I not pay you well enough, Andrew?”
“Sir?”
“To feed yourself?”
He paled. “Sorry, sir.”
Lachlan straightened Andrew’s cravat. His butler, underbutler, footmen, and waitstaff, all genders, wore the traditional uniform—cravat, waistcoat, coat tails, and white gloves. The members loved it. Lachlan doubted his waitstaff loved it, though the girls seemed to get a kick out of it. Or that’s what Alfred, his maître d’hôtel, told him.
“While I see no harm in swiping leftovers once they’re taken back to the kitchen,” Lachlan said, giving him a pointed look, “I do not want to see you eating the members’ food in plain sight of them ever again. Are we clear?”
He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Adair.”
He turned to see Alfred approaching. The maître d’hôtel wore the same uniform but his waistcoat, like Wakefield’s, was dark green instead of white to differentiate them from the rest of the staff. Alfred glanced between Andrew and his boss, eyes glinting hard at the thought of one of his staff displeasing Lachlan. While Alfred was the best maître d’hôtel in the country, he was so because he was dedicated and disciplined.
Once he was close enough not to be overheard, he murmured, “I do hope there isn’t a problem, Mr. Adair.”
“No, Mr. Ramsay.” Lachlan always used Alfred’s full name in front of the staff and members. It was his preference to be as formal and professional as possible. “I was just asking Andrew how he likes the job so far. I do believe he’s only been with us for a few months.”
Andrew looked surprised he’d covered for him but hid it quickly.
“And what did Andrew reply?” Alfred asked his waiter directly.
The young man straightened like a soldier. “I like it very much, Mr. Ramsay, Mr. Adair.”
“Well, if that’ll be all.” Lachlan nodded to the men and hurried away before either could stop him.
Escaping out the side entrance that led onto the path that cut through the golf course and down to the loch, Lachlan thought he was home free. Someone had to make sure Robyn didn’t cause trouble while she was here.
Mac’s words from earlier that morning came to him.
“You’re treating her well?” Mac asked from his hospital bed. His pallor had improved significantly. “Robyn?”
“Treating her well?”
“Accommodating her. She wouldn’t tell me much this morning. Just wanted to talk the case through.”
“She’s not exhausting you, is she?”
“No.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “But I feel useless lying here while she’s out there investigating. If anything happens to her, Lachlan, because of this case …”
Stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to him that Robyn might be putting herself in danger. “Shit, Mac … ask her to stop, then.”
“Nah. She’s as stubborn as her old man. Just … watch out for her. Please.”
It was the last thing he wanted to do.
In fact, he vowed to stay away from her. She was intrusive and brash and he always felt like she was quietly mocking him.
No woman had ever dared to quietly mock Lachlan.
No one, for that matter.
At least not to his face.
“Lachlan!” a man shouted from behind him, gravel crunching underfoot.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. Was he to never get to the damn studio? Reluctantly turning, Lachlan found Fergus hurrying across the estate grounds from the direction of the mews.
He wore overalls and a massive grin.
That was Fergus. You always got him the same way. Cheerful and accommodating.
Lachlan tried to shrug off his impatience. Fergus didn’t deserve it.
“Fergus, what I can do
