“Ah, ye’ve a cold heart,” Caldwell protested as MacLain chuckled under his breath.
“You’d do well to remember that. Your sly ways do not work on me,” the housekeeper said. “As long as I am here, you will treat the ladies in this house with the proper regard.” She sent Amelia a wink that told her she had an ally under MacLain’s roof.
“Mrs. Garrett, I trust you will find suitable accommodations for Mrs. Stewart’s pet,” MacLain said.
“If it’s no trouble, I would prefer that Heathy stay in my room,” Amelia said.
“It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Garrett replied. “I’ll see to the darling pup’s comfort.”
MacLain’s brows hiked. Standing behind the housekeeper, he mouthed the wordsdarling pupto his cousin.
“As I recall, ye did not regard yer own grandson so kindly when he paid ye a visit,” MacLain pointed out.
Mrs. Garrett’s thin shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t expect this pup will be nearly as insolent as my kin. His mum—my harridan of a daughter—is raising the lad to be a hellion, she is.” She let out a little sigh. “At least I do not have to worry about the influence the two of ye will have on a dog.”
“True enough,” MacLain agreed. “Finn and I will see to Mrs. Stewart’s bags. And then, we have matters to discuss.”
“If Mr. Caldwell is involved, it is safe to assume the matters are not fit for a lady’s ears,” Mrs. Langford spoke up. “I’ll be happy to help Amelia to settle in.”
“This time, I am only the messenger.” Caldwell raked a hand through his wavy wheat-brown hair. “Fit for a lady or not, Mrs. Stewart needs to hear what I’ve learned.”
Chapter Eleven
Amelia paced thefloor of MacLain’s study. Staring down at the intricate design woven into the rug beneath her feet, she struggled to hold her tongue as the allegations Finn Caldwell uttered clawed deeper and deeper at her chest. Each calmly spoken word seemed a sharp dagger to the heart.
Mr. Caldwell was mistaken. Surely the information he’d gleaned from his so-called sources was wrong. It simply had to be.
The very idea that her brother had become entangled with criminals was ludicrous. Paul had been many things in his life.
But he was no thief.
Finn Caldwell’s accusations could not possibly have merit.
But as she studied him, seeing the solemn truth in his eyes, the pain in her heart grew more intense with each beat. Mr. Caldwell had no reason to deceive her.
Unlike her brother.
For months before Paul’s death, she’d suspected he was hiding something. He’d become unusually reticent, especially when she inquired about his trips to the Continent. Deep down, she’d known he was harboring secrets.
Had he been trying to protect her?
Or had he feared she would be ashamed of him if she knew the truth?
“I know this is not pleasant for ye,” Caldwell went on. “But we need ye to tell us about yer brother’s dealings.”
“Paul was an authority on the art of the Renaissance. He traveled the Continent in search of works of interest to his clients.”
Caldwell nodded. “What do ye know of his clients?”
“He acquired works for museums and public galleries, for the most part. Though from time to time, private collectors employed his services.”
Standing by a well-stocked bookcase, MacLain leaned an elbow against a shelf. “What do ye know about these collectors?”
“Paul shared very little with me. His clients demanded a high level of confidentiality.”
MacLain nodded. “What do ye recall of his travels in the months before his death?”
“He spent several weeks in Paris. He returned shortly before he died.”
