Page 47 of The Perils of Patricia

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.