Moving beyond her to the door, he was unsurprised to see the butler there to open it for him. Not looking back, he left the house and walked toward his waiting carriage.
As he rode back to London his agitation simmered. Insufferable. Stubborn. And prickly as a mound of hay. He had never dreamed he would have come away from his meeting with Miss Ashton empty handed. What had she read in the journal? Curiosity consumed him.
He had to know.
And why wouldn’t she help him? Did she refuse because of the articles he had penned disagreeing with her father? He had merely treated it as an intelligent discourse, one scholar disagreeing with another.
And the fear and fatigue he saw in her eyes. There were so many unanswered questions. More now than before he arrived, and he was determined to get the answers. No matter what Miss Ashton thought.
He picked up his spectacles where he had left them lying on the carriage seat and pulled them on. Then he opened the journal to pour over the pages he’d already read. Hoping to find something he had missed previously.
By the time he had finished the journal in its entirety, save the few pages in Pagorian, the carriage had entered London and was nearing his townhouse. He put aside the book, and when the carriage stopped, he hastened inside.
His attention still focused on the infuriating Miss Ashton, he walked straight to his study. He frowned when he saw the door ajar. The servants knew well not to go within. It was the one room he held private. The room that housed his many books, papers, and artifacts. He made a mental note to speak to Moreland, his butler, about the matter.
He pushed open the door and let loose a long string of expletives when he saw the inside. Books and papers lay scattered across the floor. His desk was in shambles. Even the furniture had been ripped, the stuffing from his settee strewn about like snow.
His gaze drifted up to the shelves that housed his precious books to find them pulled down, many ripped. Shards of glass gleamed in the soft light. His heart sank to see one of his prized artifacts shattered in the middle of the floor. This wasn’t the work of a servant. His fingers dug into his palms as he clenched his fists in fury.
“Moreland!” he shouted.
Chapter Two
To his credit, the butler appeared within seconds of Ridge’s shout. His eyes widened upon seeing the disarray spread out before him. “My lord, are you all right?”
Ridge stared at him and arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t think I did this. Have someone clean this mess immediately. And be careful to preserve as much as possible. I’ll be in my room.”
He turned to go, but Moreland cleared his throat. “My lord, have you forgotten that Lord and Lady Drysedale are having dinner with you this evening? They await your presence in the sitting room.”
Ridge pinched his nose between two fingers and let out an oath his mother wouldn’t approve of. “Why didn’t you inform me of their arrival before now?”
“They arrived but a moment before you summoned me, my lord.”
“Very well,” he grumbled. “Tell my parents I’ll be down shortly. I must change into more suitable attire.
He strode to his chambers and quickly shed his travel worn clothing. His valet evidently hadn’t forgotten his dinner engagement, for he had laid out a set of clothing for Ridge to change into. Something decidedly more appropriate for the earl’s visit than what Ridge was accustomed to wearing.
Sparing only a quick glance into the mirror to make sure his hair had some semblance of order, he turned to leave his room. He paused and turned back to his dressing table, his hand reaching out to pick up his spectacles. After a brief moment of hesitation, he picked them up and put them on. His father hated them. Considered them the mark of a weaker man. But Ridge would rather be considered weak than be blind just to please the old man.
With a resigned sigh, he left his chambers and descended the stairs to the sitting room. As he entered, his mother rose from her perch on the settee, and his father looked up from where he stood by the window.
“Thomas, how wonderful to see you,” his mother said as she walked toward him, hands outstretched.
“Mother,” he said, gathering her hands in his and dropping a dutiful kiss on her cheek. She was beautiful, a fact that never escaped him. She didn’t look a day of her fifty something odd years, and not a wisp of gray marred her blond hair.
“You look tired.” She frowned. “Have you been resting sufficiently?”
He gritted his teeth and donned a charming smile. The same charming smile that had failed so miserably to sway Miss Ashton. As a child he’d had the misfortune to suffer a “sickly constitution,” and as such, the stigma had followed him into adulthood.
“I am quite well, Mother. You are looking radiant if I may say so.”
She flushed in pleasure and beamed back at him. “You may.”
“It’s about time you received us,” his father said gruffly. “Not polite to keep your parents waiting.”
Ridge tensed then coughed, a nasty habit he had around his father, but he usually couldn’t conjure much in the way of words. At least not any he could repeat. “My apologies, sir. I was most unavoidably detained. If you will come this way, dinner is being served in the dining room.”
He turned stiffly and offered his arm to his mother. Once in the dining room, he seated her and relinquished his spot at the head of the table to his father. He slid into a chair across from his mother and to the left of his father then motioned for the footmen to begin bringing in the courses.
