Chapter 13

13

A fter spending a few moments relaxing in the parlor, Thomas stood, thanked the servants for their attention, and strode out into the foyer and down the hallway to his father's study.

Correction.

His study.

He lifted his eyebrows when he saw Lord Victor Polk and his cousin Jonathan Jameson walking briskly toward him.

"I say," Thomas said. "What are the two of you doing in this wing?"

"I'm afraid we're a bit lost," Jonathan said.

Thomas cocked his head. It made sense for Jonathan, of course. He hadn't been here since he was a child. But Polk lived at the adjacent estate and had been to parties here many times.

"You, Polk?" Thomas said. "Seems you should know this place like the back of your hand by now."

"I suppose I should," Polk agreed. "Which is why I was giving your cousin here the tour."

"Indeed? Then why did Jonathan just say that you were lost?"

"Because we were," Polk said.

"And the reason the two of you aren't on the hunt today?"

"I'm afraid I don't have much of a stomach for the hunt," Jonathan said.

Thomas tilted his head once more. That may be true for Jonathan. Thomas didn't actually know. But Polk loved a good hunt.

"And you, Polk? I've seen you bag many a stag, often the best of the hunt."

Polk did not meet Thomas's gaze. "Just wasn't in the mood today, I suppose. So I've been getting to know your cousin. He's a great bloke, I have to say."

Thomas still did not smile. Something didn't make sense to him about all of this, but he didn't have any more time to dwell on it. "Good enough," he said. "Please excuse me. I'd be on the hunt myself today if I didn't have so much business to attend to."

"We shan't keep you," Polk said. "Jameson and I will be going back to the bachelor house for a smoke if you'd like to join us later."

"I'll probably join my mother for the luncheon."

"The ladies' luncheon?" Polk raised his eyebrows in a suggestive matter.

"Why not?" Thomas said. "What better way to get a good look at all the ladies of the season?"

"You seemed to dance with every one of them last night," Polk said. "You rarely left the dance floor"—he furrowed his brow—"except when you went missing for a half hour or so."

Ah, yes. The half hour where he found Tricia on the fourth floor and saved her from nearly falling from the parapet.

"There were a few I didn't get to meet," Thomas said.

"Do you think you'll choose a wife this season?" his cousin asked.

Thomas looked away from Jonathan. "I honestly haven't had the time to think about any of that. But I shall do my duty when the time comes."

"You've got to get an heir in her, whoever she may turn out to be," Jonathan said.

Thomas sighed. "Why in the world is everyone so concerned about my heir?"

"You're a first son," Polk reminded him. "Not only that, you're an only son. If you don't produce an heir, well…"

Jonathan looked at the hardwood floor.

Of course, he knew what would happen if Thomas didn't produce an heir.

It probably was not something he'd given much thought to. Having been in the Americas for so long, Jonathan was woefully unprepared to take up the earldom.

"I shall do my duty when the time is right," Thomas echoed. "Now, if the two of you would excuse me."

They both nodded to him and walked the opposite way while Thomas continued to the large oak door that led to his study.

He pulled out his key, absently touched the doorknob, and?—

He gasped quietly.

To his surprise, the door was unlocked.

Had he neglected to lock it yesterday when he finished his tasks?

That was not like him, but he hadn't been in his right head lately. Of course, no one here at the estate would dare enter this suite uninvited.

No need to worry, but he did need to keep his faculties. His year of mourning was over, and the time had come to truly take his father's place.

He walked into the study and took a moment to look out the window at the beauty of his estate. On the far lawn, the ladies were gathered. He tried to catch a glimpse of Tricia, but he didn't see her.

He walked into his study and regarded the large mahogany desk, the blotter that sat upon it, the myriad bottles of ink, and the quills.

His ledger, his accounting books, and then of course the shelf filled with books on the management of the estate.

A new pile of bills sat on his desk, placed there no doubt by his secretary, Mr. Pendleton. Mr. Pendleton's office was actually in London, but here on the estate, he had a small desk inside Thomas's office.

But he had taken the day off today, as Thomas allowed him to join in the hunt. Pendleton was a fine hunter and enjoyed such things, and quite frankly, Thomas needed to be alone in his office to get his head where it needed to be.

With a heavy sigh, Thomas turned away from the window and approached his desk. The first bill on the stack was from the local florist for the countless roses, peonies, and ivy garlands that had transformed the ballroom last night. The sum made his eyebrows rise momentarily before he penned a swift approval for payment.

Next, he reviewed the account from the butcher. The feast had demanded an extraordinary quantity of fine cuts—venison, pheasant, and beef, all sourced from the finest purveyors. That expense, though substantial, was justified.

As he sifted through more invoices—linens from the finest weavers in England, candles that burned with a barely perceptible scent, and imported French wines that had flowed freely—the totals mounted.

The musicians' tally was next. Each instrumentalist was paid separately, and each received a fee appropriate for his training and talent. The total fee was hefty, but the memories of the laughter and twirling gowns of the past evening's festivities assured Thomas it was money well spent.

He reached the bill for the additional staff hired from the village to ensure the smooth running of the event. Extra footmen, maids, and stable boys had been essential, and their hard work did not go unnoticed.

The last bill of sale was from the local modiste, for his mother's wardrobe and accessories for this house party and the two balls. There would be no ball tonight, but tomorrow night there would be the closing ball, and the dowager countess had to be properly dressed for that one as well.

Thomas was well aware of the costs of such things, as he had learned everything at his father's knee.

He lingered in the study long after the servants had cleared the last of the paperwork. The room still held the essence of the late earl—a blend of sandalwood and old leather that seemed to permeate the walls. As Thomas moved to leave, a faint glint of metal caught his eye from the corner of the desk. Curious, he drew open a drawer that he had never used—a remnant of his father's era, untouched and dusty.

Inside, he found a small leather-bound journal, its cover worn and the lock unhinged. The discovery was unexpected, as his father had never been one to pen his thoughts. Compelled by a mixture of nostalgia and intrigue, Thomas settled into the heavy leather chair and opened the journal. The pages were still crisp, and the ink dark and legible. He began to read the first few entries, his heart beating with a quiet apprehension.

February 1

Felt a strange bout of nausea today, right after the luncheon with the viscount at his estate. Thought little of it at the time—perhaps the mutton disagreed with me. But by evening, my strength waned inexplicably. I'm sure a good night's rest should set things right, but Montague pointed out that this was the second time that I have felt unwell after attending a dinner with the viscount and suggested I keep a written record of any odd symptoms I experience after our visits, if only to track if I am perhaps sensitive to one of the more exotic ingredients his chef uses.

February 12

Again, after dining with the viscount at his estate and resolving the border disputes, I was overcome with a severe headache and an unsettling weakness in my limbs. This has become a troubling recurrence. I have never been one to ail so frequently. I shall keep a closer eye on my health, perhaps consult the physician if this persists.

February 19

A disturbing pattern emerges. Each encounter with the viscount at his estate precedes these mysterious symptoms. Tonight, it was a dinner, ostensibly to discuss the resolution of the disputes. Yet, hours later, I am gripped by such malaise that it is all I can do to pen these words. I must consider the possibility of foul play. Tomorrow, I will secure a sample of my food to be tested discreetly.

Thomas paused, a chill running down his spine as he absorbed the gravity of his father's words. The entries painted a clear picture of suspicion and fear that was entirely uncharacteristic of the man he remembered. His father had been cautious, yes, but never paranoid. As Thomas turned the page, he found the loose receipt from the apothecary—a clue that perhaps his father's fears were not unfounded.

With the journal in his hand and a storm of thoughts in his head, Thomas sat, his heart pounding.

His father didn't name which viscount he was referring to, but because the entries alluded to border disputes, he could only be referring to Viscount Hawthorne Polk—Victor Polk's father. Their estate did border the Ashford estate, but it was much smaller.

Perhaps it was time to find the viscount and speak with him.

Polk and Jonathan had left the hallway about an hour and a half earlier, when Thomas was moving toward his study.

He'd thought it odd at the time that they were in this hallway, which Polk well knew housed the earl's study and all of his papers.

What kind of border disputes were they having?

And why had his father not told him about them?

Then again, these journal entries were made only months before his father's death, and Thomas had embarked on a tour of the continent during that time and had only been back in England for a week before his father's untimely demise.

Something was afoot here—something that made Thomas's stomach feel like he'd eaten lead.

He had no idea that his father and the viscount might be disputing borders.

His curiosity piqued—and his mood darkened—as he continued to read his father's journal.

February 21

Met with Hawthorne again today to discuss the delineation of the northern border that runs along the creek. He insists the old markers favor his claim, but our maps from my grandfather's time tell a different story. We parted with a handshake, yet I sensed his agreement was reluctant. Need to be vigilant and ensure our surveyors are thorough and unswayed.

Good. Now Thomas knew for sure his father was speaking of Hawthorne Polk.

February 24

The matter of the water rights came to a head this evening at dinner with Hawthorne. He proposes a shared usage agreement, but I fear such an arrangement heavily favors his lands and leaves us vulnerable during dry seasons. I must consider our estate's future needs and not just the immediate ease of conflict. His friendly fa?ade is becoming harder to trust.

March 1

Received a surprising proposal from Hawthorne through post today regarding the disputed well at the eastern edge of our properties. His offer is generous, suspiciously so. What is he aiming to gain with such concessions? Tonight, I find myself feeling unusually tired and disoriented after our correspondence. The pattern of my ailments following our interactions is too coincidental to ignore. Tomorrow, I shall secure the food samples discreetly as previously planned.

March 4

Our discussions have grown more frequent, and with each meeting, I feel the noose of unease tighten. Today, Hawthorne seemed particularly eager to finalize the agreements over a luncheon at his estate. The food was exquisite, yet here I am, documenting another episode of unexplained sickness. If I did not know better, I would think myself a fool for suspecting poison, but the pieces are aligning too neatly.

March 4 was the last entry.

Thomas's father had died on March 7.

His father's meticulous record-keeping, initially out of character, now seemed a desperate attempt to make sense of his declining health amidst these disputes. The entries not only chronicled the negotiations but painted a grim picture of malice under the guise of diplomacy.

This evening, after the men returned from the hunt, Thomas would find Viscount Polk and confront him.