Chapter 23

23

T he dessert selection was a choice between a delicate apple tart with a flaky pastry crust served warm with a dollop of clotted cream and a trifle layered with sponge cake, fruit, custard, and Chantilly cream.

Thomas chose the apple tart. It was one of his favorites, and he had requested it this evening.

Exhaustion weighed upon him.

Between watching Polk and Jonathan flirt relentlessly with Tricia, listening to the lords and ladies at his table bestow the virtues of their offspring, and the knowledge that he had to talk to the viscount later, what he really wanted was to send them all far from his estate. All except Tricia, whom he wanted to bed.

Making love to her all night would ease all the aggressions burning inside him. And so very many of them there were.

After dessert came fruit and cheese, featuring local and imported cheeses, grapes, and nuts accompanied by a selection of port and sherry.

Thomas did not partake. He'd only had one flute of champagne and one goblet of wine, and he needed his wits about him for his talk with the viscount. He waited patiently as coffee and digestifs were then served afterward.

The ladies drank the coffee, and a few of the gentlemen took a digestif. Most of the men would retire to the gentlemen's parlor for cognac and Armagnac later.

Thomas, of course, was obligated to stay until his last guest left the dining room.

And he thought it would never happen.

Tricia left, escorted by both Polk and Jonathan, but Thomas noticed they stopped and talked to her mother, Lady Clementine, for a moment.

Neither Polk nor Jonathan could be serious about Tricia. Could they?

Once every gentleman had retired for smoking, the dining hall was empty but for servants and his own mother. Thomas escorted his mother to the parlor to talk with the ladies for a bit, and then he went off to find the viscount.

Indeed the viscount was in the smoking room, along with many other gentlemen—but Polk and Jonathan were noticeably absent.

Just as they had been noticeably absent from the hunt.

He approached the viscount. "Polk, we need to have words."

"Can't I finish my cigar first, Ashford?"

"I'm afraid it cannot wait. You and I can enjoy a cigar outside, where we shan't be bothered and we can speak in private."

A few of the other gentlemen overheard the conversation and looked at him questioningly.

But he offered no explanation. This was his estate, and if he wanted to talk to Viscount Polk alone, he damned well would.

In his pocket was the leather-bound journal of his father's that he had found in the study this morning. Why had Thomas not found it sooner? He did not know, except that he'd been in mourning, and there'd been so much to deal with during the year. He hadn't looked in that bottom drawer of his father's bureau. It hadn't occurred to him to do so.

Once he and Viscount Polk had left the smoking room, he led the viscount out of the house, off the veranda, to a small bench near the orangery. However, they did not sit.

"What the devil is it, Ashford?" the viscount asked.

"As I mentioned before, I understand you and my father had some disputes regarding border and water rights before his passing."

"Yes, we did have a few, but as I told you earlier, it was all taken care of."

Thomas took a step toward the viscount. "This doesn't make any sense to me, my lord. The Ashford and Polk estates have been well mapped out for decades. Why would there be any disputes now?"

"Nothing to worry your head about, Ashford." The viscount's tone was even, but Thomas could see a vein popping out on his forehead. "As I say, your father and I took care of it."

"Is it true that my father and you shared some meals during these disputes, usually at your estate?"

"Ah, yes. I recall that."

"After which my father felt a bit ill."

Viscount Polk's eyebrows nearly flew off his forehead. "Now I certainly don't know what you're talking about."

Thomas pulled his father's journal out of his breast pocket. "I came across this journal in my father's study today. Interestingly, right after I had caught your son Victor and my own cousin loitering about the entrance to my study."

"I'm certain I've no idea about what you're speaking," the viscount said.

"Yes, I'm sure you don't." Thomas drew in a breath, gathering his bearings. "This journal is in my father's handwriting, and it is all the more interesting because I knew my father quite well, and I never knew him to keep a journal."

"Perhaps he kept that to himself. Perhaps he kept a journal all his life." The viscount cocked his head. "What the devil does this have to do with me, Ashford?"

"My father was always in robust health. Yet he died so suddenly, with no causes identified by his physicians. Of course, we did not have an autopsy done as we didn't think it necessary. I don't know what an autopsy would have shown anyway. But my father took ill so suddenly, and none of us had any idea he was even feeling unwell"—Thomas tapped the leather-bound book in his hand—"until I came across this journal. In it my father describes feeling ill several weeks before he passed away. And of course he didn't bother my mother about it. He never would have worried her. And unfortunately I was touring the continent during much of that time, so he wouldn't have told me either."

"I assure you he said nothing to me either, boy."

Thomas whipped his gaze directly in line with the viscount's. " Boy? "

Polk blinked. "Beg pardon, Ashford. But I've known you since you were a boy. To me, you'll always be a boy, just as my sons will be boys to me."

Right. Thomas would take Polk's words at face value, even though they didn't sound like face value. It sounded like Polk was speaking down to him.

He drew in another deep breath. "I will find out the truth of what happened to my father," he said. "I will also find out the truth of why you felt you needed to dispute land and water rights that were mapped out centuries ago."

The viscount took a long draw of his cigar. "It wasn't anything for you to worry about. As I said, your late father and I got it all figured out."

"And let me guess…" Thomas began. "Nothing about the border and water rights ended up changing, did they?"

"No." The viscount exhaled cigar smoke directly into Thomas's face. "Everything remains as it was."

"Then why dispute it in the first place?"

"As you well know, the last couple years had been dry, and both of our estates depend on the waters from the small creeks bordering our lands."

"And that has to do with…"

"Blimey, I don't know why you're making such a deal out of this." Polk's face began to redden. "I was a bit concerned that my lands would not be receiving enough water. I have tenants who depend on it as well as my own family and staff."

"As do I."

"So we simply had some talks, your father and I. It was all on good terms, and everything has been settled."

"Yes, my lord. I see that everything has been settled, yet nothing is changed from the original border and water rights. Which is a good thing, I'd say, especially for me. But it was not a good thing, as my father is no longer with us. And it seems he consistently took ill after sharing meals with you."

"If you're suggesting?—"

Thomas held a hand up. "I'm not suggesting anything, Polk. I'm merely relating the facts. You and I both know my father was in robust health."

"Your father was in his sixtieth decade."

"He was, but still in excellent health, according to his physicians. His physique was that of a much younger man."

"People die, Ashford. It was a tragedy, to be sure. But people die."

Thomas drew in another deep breath. Anger curled at the back of his neck, and for a moment, he thought he might strike the older man.

But that was not his way. He was bigger and stronger than Viscount Polk, and it wouldn't be a fair fight.

But if he found out that the viscount—and his son—had anything to do with his father's demise, Thomas would no longer be a gentleman.

He would see both of them to their graves.