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 for you?” he asked.

“I saw you heading toward the loch?”

He nodded.

The mechanic grinned. “Great. I’ll come with you. I need to speak to Ery about her Defender.”

Lachlan knew Fergus was working on a Defender Eredine had saved from the scrap heap. He was doing it during his downtime, between his work on the estate cars.

Together they walked to Eredine’s studio, Fergus prattling on about the Defender, his words going in one ear and out the other. Lachlan nodded and made noises of agreement now and then, but he had absolutely no clue what the mechanic was talking about. His mind was on Robyn Penhaligon and the stalker threatening the peace at Ardnoch. His mind seemed to be on very little else these days.

Climbing the porch of the studio, he could hear Robyn’s husky voice. Lachlan held a hand up to Fergus to stop him from entering the studio, and he quietly pulled open the door to look inside.

While the broken windows were taped up as they waited for the new ones to arrive, the mirrors were cleaned, and all damage had been repaired as quickly as possible. The studio was usable again.

Something Lachlan couldn’t quite understand moved through him when he saw Lucy and Eredine locked in a grapple while Robyn stood beside them, hands on hips, calling out instructions.