But when he knocked on the open door, Jocelyn wasn’t there. Frowning, he entered the room and set the plate on a pile of crates. Looking at the ledger on the desk, she had been here working. There were handwritten notes on a piece of parchment paper beside the book. He noted her neat, delicate penmanship. The swooping curves in the words revealed her delicate femininity.
Where could she have gone?
That’s when he heard it. It sounded like she was retching. He hurried out of the room and around the corner. There was a door that led out into the small garden. The door was slightly ajar, and he could hear her getting sick again.
Rushing forward, he burst through the door. “Lass?”
She jumped, straightening quickly, swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sir. I was just going back inside to continue working.”
As she moved to pass him, he reached out his hand, grasping her upper arm gently. “Are ye ill?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.
“Oh, no. I am fine. I promise.”
He looked at the evidence on the ground that said otherwise.
“I demand ye to be truthful with me, lass. I heard ye retching. Have ye eaten?”
She blanched, her face losing what little color it had left, and she clasped her stomach. “I am not hungry. I ate this morn.”
“That was hours ago. I brought ye food.”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I really cannot. I fear my stomach is unsettled.”
“Should I have Cook make ye a broth of some sort? A light soup, mayhap.”
She smiled, but it was forced. “I, no. She is busy enough, as are we all. I will just wait for my stomach to cease its churning and then will sup.”
He wasn’t convinced she was speaking truthfully.
“I promise. I will eat when I am able.” She took a deep breath. “I feel better already.”
“Are ye being forthright?”
She chuckled. “Of course. I must have just eaten something that didn’t settle well earlier. I will be fine in a bit.” Her eyes lit up. “I want to show you something.”
Allowing her to change the subject, he followed her to her desk where she stood in front of an open ledger and pointed to an entry. “Do you see this?”
He bent and read the line where her finger rested. There was no transaction title, but a comely amount was withdrawn from the coffers.
“Do you know what this was for? I cannot account for it with any corresponding order or receipt.”
“I dinna ken.” He looked at the writing. It was Theodore’s.
“That is not the only one.” She flipped to a previous page. “Here.” She pointed to another entry.
He read the entry, again, no transaction, but a hefty amount had been withdrawn. Also in Theodore’s script.
“And here.” She pointed to another page and Gunn couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“When did these start?”
“The beginning of February 1812.”
That was when he was away. Serving the country. Was Theodore skimming off of his business while he fought? Would he really do that? Was he the cause of his business failing?
Nay. He refused to believe it. Even so, that still wouldn’t explain why people had stopped coming to the pub. Or the inn.
There had to be something more.
