The Inheritance

by Joan Johnston

Nicholas pulled his mustang to an abrupt halt when he spotted a single rider approaching the house. It was still light enough from his vantage point on a rise overlooking the house to see the stranger glance surreptitiously around as he dismounted at the front door.

  Nicholas felt his heart claw its way up into his throat. He had always known there might come a day when someone would come looking for him—a brother or a father or an uncle—seeking vengeance. No one around Fredericksburg knew what he did for a living. He was just Mr. Calloway who had a ranch and ran a few cattle and raised a few horses outside of town.

  They didn’t get many visitors at the ranch, and no one Nicholas wouldn’t recognize. But he didn’t recognize the man walking up the front steps to his house. The stranger turned to look around as though he suspected he was being watched. Nicholas noted he was short and thin with a narrow face and small eyes. Oddly, he was dressed in a city suit and wore a bowler hat. That didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t come here with murder in mind. Appearances, Nicholas had learned over the years, could be deceiving.

  Nicholas dismounted in the shadows and worked his way around to the porch while the stranger stood at the door, apparently making up his mind whether to knock. Nicholas took the choice away from him.

  “Hold it right there,” he said. “Put up your hands.”

  The little man started to move, and Nicholas said, “Turn around and you’re a dead man. Drop your gun.”

  “I’m not armed, I assure you,” the little man said.

  Nicholas was surprised to hear the clipped British accent. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I’m looking for Nicholas Windermere,” he said. “On a matter of utmost importance.”

  Windermere had been Nicholas’s last name for the first eight years of his life. He had taken his mother’s name, Calloway, when they arrived in America.

  “May I turn around, sir?” the little man asked.

  “Go ahead. Just don’t make any sudden moves.”

  Nicholas thought the little man was going to faint when he spied the Colt .45 aimed at his heart. His face paled and he swallowed with an audible sound.

  “Whom do I have the privilege of addressing?” the little man said.

  “First tell me who you are,” Nicholas said.

  “Why, I’m Phipps, sir. The Windermere family solicitor.”

  “Why are you looking for Nicholas Windermere?”

  “Because he is now the eighth Duke of Severn. His father left a letter stating Lady Philip’s destination in America. It has taken me nearly a year to trace the path to His Grace. It led, if I may be so bold, sir, here.”

  Nicholas blanched. For him to become the Duke of Severn, his uncle, the previous duke, must be dead, and both his cousins, Tony and Stephen, must have died without male heirs. And his father must be dead. He would never be able to confront him now and ask the questions he needed to ask.

  Nicholas felt a tightness in his chest. Surely it wasn’t grief at the news of his father’s death. He couldn’t possibly feel anything for the man after all these years. More likely the pain was caused by the knowledge—the fear—that he would never be able to end the recurring dream that plagued him.

  The door opened behind the little man, and a tall, handsome young man with black hair and blue eyes stuck his head out. “Pa? What’s going on?”

  “Meet Phipps,” Nicholas said. “The Windermere family solicitor.”

  “What’s he doing here, Pa?”

  “He came to find me.”

  The little man’s eyes widened, and he snapped to attention and bowed low. The gesture was a bit ridiculous because his hands remained high and wide above his head.

  “Pardon me, Your Grace. I had no idea it was you I was addressing. May I extend my deepest sympathies, Your Grace, on your loss?”

  “It seems a little late for that,” Nicholas said. “You can put your hands down now, Phipps.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “And you can stop calling me that,” Nicholas said irritably. “You’re in America now.”

  “Whatever you wish, Your—What shall I call Your Grace if I’m not to call you—”

  “Calloway,” Nicholas said abruptly. “My name is Calloway.”

  “Yes, Your—Mr. Calloway, sir. If you wish, sir.” But he was clearly unhappy with the breach of etiquette.

  “You’ve found me, Phipps. You can go back to England now.”

  “But, Your Grace!” Phipps exclaimed, clearly agitated and reverting to the formality with which he was most comfortable. “There’s the matter of the inheritance, Severn Manor, the house in London, the lands, and the titles. I couldn’t possibly leave just yet, Your Grace!”

  “What in tarnation’s goin’ on out here?” Simp said, shoving the door open farther and forcing Colin out onto the porch. “Who you yammering with, Nick?”

  “It’s a solicitor from England,” Colin explained excitedly. “He keeps calling Pa ‘Your Grace,’ and he says Pa has an inheritance in England.”

  “Well, now,” Simp said. “That’s mighty interestin’. Come on in,” he said, grabbing Phipps and ushering—shoving—him inside to the parlor. “Set yourself down.” He pushed Phipps down onto a worn horsehair sofa. “Now what’s all this about an inheritance?”

  Nicholas felt the warmth of homecoming as he closed the front door behind him. The parlor was furnished as simply as the rest of the house with homemade wood and leather furniture. There were no curtains, no frills, no furbelows. It was a male bastion, a bachelors’ abode. It wasn’t always dusted, but it was neat and clean, a peaceful refuge from the other life he led.

  He watched Simp fussing over the Englishman. “It’s nice to know you’re glad to see me, Simp,” he said dryly.

  “What?” Simp replied. “Oh, good to see you back, Nick. You know anythin’ about what this fella’s sayin’?”

  “I might,” Nicholas replied cautiously.

  Phipps bobbed up again. “Would Your Grace care to sit down?”

  “No, I don’t think I do,” Nicholas said. “But make yourself comfortable.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t sit, Your Grace, if Your Grace chooses to stand.” He remained where he stood at one end of the sofa.

  Colin laughed. “He sure is full of ‘Your Graces,’ Pa.”

  “Am I to understand you have a son?” Phipps asked as he eyed Colin.

  “Yes,” Nicholas replied. “Colin is my son.”

  The little man turned and bowed to Colin. “My lord, may I say what a pleasure it is to meet you.”

  Colin laughed again. “I’m not lord of anything. Except sometimes I lord it over Simp,” he said with a cheeky grin at the old cowboy. He dropped into a rocker by the stone fireplace, while Simp settled himself comfortably on the sofa.

  “Excuse me, m’lord, for correcting you,” Phipps said, “but as the duke’s eldest son, you are the Earl of Coventry.”

  Colin laughed again, only it was a less confident sound. “Pa? What’s he talking about?”

  Nicholas sighed and leaned back against the rolltop desk from which he ran his ranch. “I think I can clear things up. I can’t be the new duke,” he told Phipps. “I’m not my father’s son. I’m a bastard,” he said so there would be no misunderstanding.

  “Your father never legally repudiated you,” the solicitor informed him. “And your mother and father were legally wed when you were born. Therefore, Your Grace, I’m afraid I must correct you. You are the eighth Duke of Severn.”

  “Then I renounce the honor,” Nicholas said in a harsh voice. “Let someone else have it.”

  “Oh, no, Your Grace!” Phipps said. “I must beg you to reconsider before you take such drastic action.”

  “What earthly use could land or a title in England be to me? I’m an American. I have a home here,” Nicholas said.

  Phipps eyed him consideringly. His forefinger tapped his chin. “I knew your father, Your Grace, and—”

  “Nothing my father said or did
could be of any interest to me now,” Nicholas said, cutting him off.

  “The lands are unentailed, Your Grace. And there is considerable wealth. It is all yours to do with as you will.”

  “What does that mean, Pa? Unentailed?”

  “I’m not sure I understand myself, Colin.”

  “Please allow me to explain, Your Grace.” Phipps turned to Colin and said, “It means, m’lord, that there is no restriction on the sale of the land. That it is not a lifetime tenancy, so to speak, but can be sold by the present duke. Unless he wishes to entail it for his heir?” Phipps looked to Nicholas for direction.

  “Colin is my son,” Nicholas said in a quiet voice, “but I wasn’t married to his mother.”

  “Oh. Oh, dear.” Phipps took another look at Colin, his face sympathetic. “Of course, then, you wouldn’t wish to entail the properties, not if you would wish your eldest son to inherit them, rather than the heir.”

  Colin had a frown between his eyes. “I’m confused again, Pa.”

  “What Phipps means is that under English law you’re not my legal heir. Isn’t that so, Phipps?”

  “Quite so, Your Grace.”

  “Under those circumstances, Phipps, I don’t believe I’d care to entail the properties,” Nicholas said. “Assuming I accepted the title, that is.”

  “Does that mean I’m not an earl?” Colin asked, his face slightly flushed.

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” the solicitor said, amending his form of address and his level of deference. “Not a lord at all, I’m afraid.”

  Colin grinned. “Thank goodness. I wouldn’t know what to do if I had people bowing and scraping at me all the time.”

  Simp had been sitting quietly, listening. He turned to Nicholas and said, “I think you ought to take him up on it, Nick. We could use the money to do some improvements around here.”

  Nicholas raised a black brow. “Use the money from England to improve the ranch? I hadn’t thought about that.” He turned to Phipps. “Any reason why I couldn’t sell everything in England and use the proceeds here?”

  Phipps kept his face impassive. The only evidence of his feelings on the subject were the balled fists at his sides. “Of course that is possible, Your Grace. But surely Your Grace won’t wish to dispose of Severn Manor. It has been in the family for generations and—”

  “That’s enough, Phipps,” Nicholas said. “How soon can I take control of my inheritance, assuming I agree to do so?”

  “There are papers to be signed, Your Grace, some formalities.”

  “Can I take care of it here?”

  Phipps shook his head. “I’m afraid it will be necessary for you to go to England, Your Grace.”

  There was a moment of silence while Nicholas pondered the strange whims of fate. He was the Duke of Severn. He had wealth beyond his dreams. He could return to England, finally, and put to rest the ghosts of the past.

  It’s too late. Your father is dead.

  But maybe whoever had told the lie wasn’t dead. Maybe he could still find out the truth about his birth. And he wanted to see Severn Manor again. He had spent his first eight summers in the palatial manor house, playing with his cousins, Tony and Stephen.

  “All right,” Nicholas said. “I’ll go to England.”

  The solicitor smiled. “You’ve made the right decision, Your Grace.”

  “Really, Pa?” Colin said, leaping from the rocker and crossing the room to his father in three strides. “Are we going to England?”

  “Yes, Colin.”

  “Jehoshaphat!” Colin said. He grabbed Simp’s hands and pulled him up from the sofa to dance him around in a circle. “We’re going to England, Simp! We’re going to sail across the ocean in a ship!”

  “Ain’t gettin’ me off dry land,” Simp retorted.

  “You have to come, Simp,” Colin said, pausing in his celebration. “We couldn’t leave you here all alone!”

  “Someone has to watch this place,” Simp said. “I’ll be waitin’ right here when you get back.”

  “Pa? Tell Simp he has to come.”

  “Simp’s right, Colin. Someone has to stay here and take care of the livestock. Besides, we’ll be back before you know it. It won’t take long to sell Severn Manor and collect my inheritance, isn’t that right, Phipps?”

  “Exactly, Your Grace. Assuming Your Grace doesn’t change his mind and decide to stay in England.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nicholas said. “There’s absolutely no chance of that.”

  2

  Her Grace, the Duchess of Severn, had been summoned to the library as though she were a naughty child. It wasn’t to be borne! Except she had no choice but to bear it. The barbarian who had demanded her presence was none other than His Grace, the new Duke of Severn. From now on he would be making the decisions, guiding the lives and fortunes of all who lived at Severn Manor. And that included her, Margaret, Dowager Duchess of Severn, the previous duke’s very young widow.

  Margaret, called Daisy by those who loved her, fought back a surge of grief for the husband who had been gone a year, taken by an inflammation of the lungs. She still missed Tony dreadfully. Especially now. Tony would know how to handle the toplofty foreigner who had come all the way from America—where he had hunted down outlaws to make his living—to take the reins of power from her.

  Daisy had held those reins for the past year during the search for the missing heir, so she knew how difficult they were to manage. If it were not for her concern that Tony’s long-lost cousin wouldn’t look after the best interests of the servants and tenant farmers she had grown to care for over the eight years she had been Tony’s wife, she would have been long gone to the dower house.

  But she wasn’t about to leave the premises until she had assured herself that a certain cold, grayeyed stranger intended to take care of the people whose lives he now held in his callused, unrefined hands.

  Daisy halted abruptly at the library door, unaccountably nervous now that the time for confrontation had arrived. Her corset prevented her from taking a deep breath, but as a reigning belle who had once taken the ton by storm, she was a creature of fashion, and fashion dictated a tiny waist.

  She resorted to several shallow pants to release the tension in her shoulders. She resisted the urge to wipe her sweating palms on the striped skirt of her Worth gown and settled for balling her trembling hands into fists, which she hid in the folds of striped black velvet and yellow satin.

  “Is he in there, Higgenbotham?” she demanded of the footman stationed at the library door.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” There was a short pause before he added, “Pacing like a tiger, Your Grace. If Your Grace wants my advice, you won’t go in there alone.”

  “Thank you, Higgenbotham, but I’m sure he won’t do me any harm.” He wouldn’t dare! she thought. But a shiver of foreboding froze her in place.

  Her first impression of the duke as he had swept through the front door last night was of a very tall, very dangerous man. Then there were those disturbing rumors about how he had killed so many men in some godforsaken place called Texas. To be honest, she wasn’t sure what a man who had grown up in the American wilderness would dare. After all, he had actually drawn a gun on the solicitor who had been sent to find him. Or so Phipps had claimed.

  “I shall be right here, Your Grace,” Higgenbotham reassured her. “You need only call for me, and I shall be instantly at your side.”

  Daisy wanted to hug the old retainer for his support, but knew he would expire in a fit of apoplexy if she did anything so impulsive. Higgenbotham was every inch a duke’s footman, which was to say, as much on his dignity as the man he served. They both knew that duchesses did not hug the servants.

  Nevertheless, she gave him a warm smile before she squared her shoulders and said, “You may open the door, Higgenbotham. I’m ready to meet His Grace.”

  With an impassive face the old man opened the paneled mahogany door and closed it with a solid thunk behind her as she entered the libr
ary.

  The room smelled of leather and, even after a year, of the tobacco Tony had smoked. Daisy felt a pang of self-pity at being left a childless widow at six and twenty. She remorselessly snuffed it. Tony might have left this world before his time, but she was still here, and there was business she must conduct.

  Her eyes were drawn to Nicholas, eighth Duke of Severn, who stood with his back to her, staring out a window through which the sun streamed in twelve golden shafts that exactly matched the window-panes. Tony had often lingered in the same spot, perusing the vast rolling green lawn that ended at the edge of a pond bordered by poplar and elm.

  As her gaze focused on the duke, she had an impression of strength, of barely leashed energy. She fought a sudden urge to flee as she waited for him to turn and make his bow to her. Instead, he demonstrated his crude lack of manners by neither turning nor bowing before he spoke.

  “I understand you’ve been managing things since my cousin’s—since Tony’s death,” he said.

  “I have, Your Grace.” Daisy was mortified that her voice broke between the first two words, and that she had to choke out his title. She wasn’t going to let that broad, imposing back intimidate her. The Duchess of Severn was entitled to courtesy, and before he left the room, this boorish brute would acknowledge it!

  The duke turned to face her at last, and it took all her courage to stand her ground. For if she had thought his shoulders impressive, they were nothing compared to the sight of the man himself. His face wore the most awful frown, but the rest of him was simply awesome.

  The collarless white linen shirt beneath his frock coat was open at the throat, revealing a great deal of sun-browned skin. She could even detect the hint of black curls on his chest! It was unforgivable for a gentleman to appear undressed before a lady. The man had just confirmed her belief that he wasn’t the least bit civilized.

  He radiated an aura of savage power totally unlike the well-bred gentility of his cousins, Tony and Stephen. Stephen had been killed in a hunting accident four years before, but sportsman that he was, Daisy could never remember Stephen looking quite so predatory as the man standing before her now.