The Inheritance

by Joan Johnston

  Perhaps Lord Philip had left a journal or some papers that would indicate who had convinced him Nicholas had not sprung from his loins. Nicholas made up his mind to probe Severn’s library for information and to question Phipps about the matter. Perhaps the solicitor knew more than he had said on the subject.

  More recently, Nicholas had begun to wonder whether someone had purposely misled his father. On her deathbed, his mother had suggested as much. Was there some dark plot against his mother, or his father, or both? If so, who had wanted to hurt them, and why? It might be worthwhile to hire someone to investigate the matter. Certainly there was no reason why he couldn’t ask some questions himself. He would start today when he visited Charles Warenne.

  Nicholas heard the bedroom door slowly creaking open. The room was shadowed in the predawn light. He could see silhouettes in gray and black, but not much else. He reached for his Colt .45—and realized he had left it in one of the bureau drawers. He had felt naked without it, but the English countryside wasn’t dangerous enough to require him to carry a gun, much less sleep with one by his pillow. Yet someone was obviously sneaking into his room. He slowly eased himself out of bed and slipped into the shadows in the corner.

  The intruder stealthily approached the curtained bed. An instant later Nicholas sprang from cover and closed one arm around the intruder’s neck. His other hand captured a wrist and pulled it high behind the man’s back.

  “Who are you?” he demanded in a whisper, so he wouldn’t wake the house. “What are you doing here?”

  Unfortunately, his forearm had cut off the man’s air, and all Nicholas heard was a garbled sound in response. He eased off the pressure on his victim’s neck and said, “Talk.”

  “I’m Porter, Your Grace,” the man gasped. “Your Grace’s valet.”

  “I don’t have a valet,” Nicholas said, still not releasing the man.

  “I served the previous duke, Your Grace, and his father. I have always served Severn, Your Grace, as my father did before me. I regret to say I was away visiting relatives when Your Grace arrived. Otherwise we might have avoided such an unorthodox meeting.”

  Nicholas saw no reason not to believe the man. He sounded pompous enough to be a duke’s valet. He released the gentleman’s gentleman and stepped back. He ought to have felt ridiculous for imagining danger in the English countryside, but Nicholas had lived too many years on the edge, where one mistake could cost him his life. Old habits died hard.

  He perused the elderly gentleman who claimed to be his valet as the old man pulled back the heavy curtains from the windows to let in the pinks and yellows of a new day. Porter was nearly bald, with just a fringe of salt-and-pepper hair around his head. His face was gaunt, and his silvery eyes were capped by thick salt-and-pepper brows. He had a beaked nose and a protruding lower lip. He was also impeccably dressed, much more imposingly so than Nicholas had been on his arrival at Severn.

  Nicholas tried to remember if he had ever seen Porter as a child, but he couldn’t place him. Apparently the duke’s valet hadn’t ventured into the nursery or onto the lawns, forests, and ponds of Severn where the three cousins had spent most of their time.

  Nicholas was convinced Porter was a valet when the man remained totally unruffled as he turned and bowed, even though Nicholas wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Apparently, where dukes were concerned, clothes didn’t necessarily make the man.

  Nicholas grinned wryly. “I’m used to dressing myself, Porter,” he said as he dragged on a pair of long johns.

  “As you wish, Your Grace. However, someone must take charge of Your Grace’s clothing, to make sure it is in the best repair and clean and ready to be worn.” He arched a brow as if to say “Don’t you agree?”

  Nicholas arched one in return. Perhaps clothes did make the man, once he was wearing them. “I see your point. All right, Porter. I guess I have a valet.”

  Nicholas saw the tension ease in the old man’s shoulders and realized Porter hadn’t been at all sure of his reception. Apparently word had gotten around about Nicholas’s intention of selling Severn. From the frown that remained between Porter’s brows, the valet obviously wanted to say more.

  “Is there something else, Porter?”

  “If I may say so, Your Grace, you require the services of both a London tailor and a bootmaker. May I summon them?”

  Nicholas started to deny he needed anything new, then realized that if he planned to start asking questions of the local gentry, he was more likely to get answers if he looked the ducal role. The knee-length frock coat, buckskin trousers, and boots he had bought from a haberdasher in New York before he sailed obviously weren’t up to English standards. “All right, Porter. Do as you see fit.”

  “Now if you will kindly sit over here, Your Grace, I will shave you.”

  “I shave myself, Porter.”

  He saw Porter wince, but the valet said, “As you wish, Your Grace. I will take care of procuring some hot water.”

  Nicholas stood for a second, expecting Porter to leave. Instead the man pulled a cord near the door—apparently hauling hot water was the chore of lesser servants—then headed for the wardrobe and began removing Nicholas’s clothes and laying them out on the bed.

  “I said I can dress myself, Porter.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I am merely ensuring that everything is in readiness. I understand you will be riding today?”

  “I will.” Although how Porter could know that was beyond Nicholas. Except, as he recalled from his childhood, the servants always knew everything. They might be an excellent source of information about his birth, Nicholas suddenly realized. Porter, for instance, might have gleaned a great deal about the matter from having served Lord Philip’s brother. Nicholas could ask him right here and now what he knew. Only Nicholas’s tongue suddenly clung to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn’t speak.

  Nicholas understood that unless he kicked Porter out right now, he could say good-bye to his privacy in the mornings. One look at the valet, and he couldn’t do it. There was great pride in Porter’s carriage, and he knew from the things Daisy had said that the servants depended on Severn for their livelihoods. Apparently Porter had been kept on the staff for the past year to be available to serve the new duke once he was determined. What would Porter do if he no longer served the Duke of Severn? Likely the old man would have a hard time finding a new position at his age.

  Why do you care?

  Perhaps it was because Porter reminded him a little of Simp. That must be it. It wasn’t because he cared what happened to the servants at Severn. And it had absolutely nothing to do with Daisy’s tirade in the library.

  “All right, Porter, as long as you’re here, you might as well shave me,” he said with a sigh.

  He ignored the pleased look that briefly visited Porter’s face. “Just don’t cut me,” he warned.

  Porter looked offended. “I have shaved three generations of Windermeres, Your Grace.”

  “Don’t spout history at me, Porter,” Nicholas said in an icy voice. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not a Windermere.”

  Porter didn’t contradict him. But he didn’t agree with him, either.

  Well, Nicholas thought, if he knows the truth, he isn’t telling. He wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the truth. And in that case, it was better not to ask. But he didn’t think he could remain silent, either.

  He quickly found himself seated before a mirrored dresser, with a towel around his throat. The hot water was delivered, and Porter began stirring up shaving soap with a silver-handled boar bristle brush.

  Nicholas hadn’t realized how desperate he was for answers. The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Were you acquainted with my mother and father, Porter?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The valet didn’t volunteer more, and Nicholas wasn’t sure what to say next. He couldn’t very well ask outright if his mother had been unfaithful to his father.

  “There must have been s
ome gossip at the time,” Nicholas said tentatively.

  “There was, Your Grace. Could Your Grace remain still? Otherwise I might cut Your Grace after all.”

  Nicholas took that to mean Porter didn’t want to talk about the matter. But if his valet knew enough to admit there had been gossip, there were bound to be others who had heard it as well.

  Nicholas felt a little breathless. There were answers here. He knew it. He was only a little frightened to know the truth. Although why it should matter to him after all these years, he didn’t know. It wouldn’t affect his inheritance, and it couldn’t affect his life in America. But it might stop the dreams. And it would be an escape from the dark, horrifying abyss of uncertainty that had swallowed him so many years ago.

  He imagined himself coming face to face with the man who had fathered him. What questions would he ask? Why did you seduce my mother? Why did you abandon her in her hour of need? Didn’t you care about me at all?

  Nicholas realized for the first time that he hated the man responsible for the calamity that had forced him from all that was familiar. That nameless, faceless father was responsible for his mother becoming a whore, for their life of poverty and want, for his being rejected by the father he had known and loved until he was eight years old. Nicholas hadn’t realized until this very moment the depth of his enmity. If he ever laid hands on the man who had planted the bastard seed in his mother, he would surely kill him.

  Nicholas knew he could probably force Porter to tell him what gossip he had heard. But now that the answers were within his grasp, he felt strangely reluctant to seek them out. He would be seeing Charles Warenne within a matter of hours. He grasped at even that brief respite from the truth. Because once he knew the truth, he would be bound to act upon it. Assuming Lord Philip was not his father, Nicholas concluded with a wry twist of his mouth.

  He straightened his features when Porter grimaced disapprovingly at him. Maybe his parents had simply had a grievous misunderstanding. But even were that so, there was the possibility that someone had been making mischief. And if that was the case, he would somehow, some way have his revenge.

  Nicholas had to admit, half an hour later, that Porter knew his business. He had dressed himself, but thanks to Porter his hair was trimmed, his coat free from dust and lint, and his boots had never seen such a shine. Still, Nicholas could tell he didn’t quite meet the valet’s standards. Undoubtedly Porter would be happier when Nicholas had been fitted by an English tailor.

  He had planned to escape the house before anyone awoke, but when he reached the dining room he found Daisy there before him. She was dressed to ride in a habit of forest green with gold military braid at the shoulders and a double row of bright gold buttons down the front. It outlined her figure so well he began to wish he had asked to be married by special license rather than agreeing to wait for the banns to be read. Her copper tresses were pulled back into a bun at her nape, leaving only a few curls to frame her face. He marveled anew at how beautiful she was.

  She had wide, high cheekbones and a small, straight nose. Her chin was perhaps too square, and she had it raised rebelliously again, which showed off her willowy neck. There were smudges under her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept well, and the emerald green orbs that had flashed with fire—was it only yesterday?—met his gaze cautiously.

  He realized he wanted to spend some time with her. He was curious about her, about why she felt so much responsibility for Severn and about why she had been so willing to sacrifice herself for the sake of people her class usually didn’t bother themselves about. Maybe he could convince her to ride over to Rockland Park with him.

  “Where are you headed this morning?” he asked.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said, providing the courteous greeting he had neglected to offer.

  He stared at her intently, silently demanding that she answer his question. Instead, she merely lowered her gaze to her plate.

  Don’t give up the fight, Daisy, he thought. I want to see those eyes of your sparkle again with defiance. She had clearly made up her mind to be everything that was gracious. He became equally determined to provoke a fiery response from her.

  “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” she said.

  “It is,” he conceded. He stalked over and stood just behind her shoulder. He watched the pulse leap in her throat. She gripped her fork more tightly, but raised it and took a bite of food.

  He leaned over and murmured in her ear, “Are you riding somewhere in particular, Daisy?”

  He noted with satisfaction the shiver that ran down her spine. But again she ignored his question. She took her time chewing and swallowing before she answered him. He noticed her voice was the slightest bit breathless. She wasn’t as unaffected by his presence as she wanted him to think.

  “Help yourself to breakfast from the sideboard,” she said. “Kidneys, eggs, kippers and herring, some porridge and muffins. I’m sure you’ll find something there to your taste.”

  Nicholas was enjoying the game with Daisy, but just then his stomach growled, reminding him he was hungry. Abruptly he left her and crossed to the sideboard.

  He frowned at the food Daisy had recommended to him. Aside from the eggs, he didn’t see much that appealed to him. Once upon a time he must have eaten such foods, but his palate had changed over the years he had been gone from England. He would have to talk to Cook about putting some steak and biscuits and gravy on the breakfast menu.

  He dished himself up some eggs and several muffins before settling himself on a needlepoint-cushioned chair across from her, rather than at the head of the table. The cherrywood table would easily have seated twenty, and it seemed ludicrous to use it for the two of them. “Why aren’t we eating in the smaller dining room?”

  “The staff assumed you would rather dine formally. If you prefer, I can direct them to serve our meals in the family dining room.”

  “I prefer it.”

  “Consider it done,” Daisy said.

  “Where did you plan to ride this morning?” he asked for the third time.

  For a moment he thought she was going to avoid the question again. She chewed several more times and swallowed before saying “That’s none of your business, Your Grace.”

  “Wherever it is, we can go together. Then you can ride to Rockland Park with me, since I have to visit the earl this morning, and I would enjoy your company.”

  Daisy looked for an instant like a trapped creature, determined to fight to the death rather than surrender.

  “I won’t bite,” he murmured, nevertheless allowing her to see that he would have enjoyed a nibble or two at certain portions of her anatomy.

  Her green eyes flashed at him. “But I might,” she retorted.

  Nicholas laughed. “Good for you, Daisy. I’m looking forward to taming you, and I wouldn’t like to think you give up too easily.”

  Daisy flushed painfully when she realized she had risen to his bait and given him the game. He watched her struggle to regain her composure. It turned out to be a losing battle.

  She rose and threw her napkin onto the table. “I don’t care for company this morning. In fact, I was looking forward to the opportunity of riding by myself.”

  “But since we’re both going for a ride, it seems foolish to ride separately, don’t you agree?”

  Daisy needed to talk with Priss, but she had vowed yesterday to stay away until Colin was welcome. At least riding with Nicholas would provide the excuse she needed to return to Rockland Park without losing face.

  “I … oh, very well. Have it your way,” she said, her agitation evident. “But I’m leaving. If you’re coming, you’ll have to come now.”

  Nicholas looked down at the plateful of food in front of him. His stomach growled again. It wouldn’t be the first time he had gone hungry. “Very well, Daisy. Let’s go.”

  He almost laughed again at the crestfallen look on her face. Obviously she had expected him to choose eating breakfast over a ride with her. He
could almost feel the sparks radiating off her as he followed her out to the stable.

  Their horses were saddled and waiting. She looked surprised to see he had an English saddle on a Thoroughbred mount. “Colin rode a mustang yesterday with a western saddle,” she said.

  “I learned to ride on a Thoroughbred. I thought I’d give it another try.” Nicholas held his hands cupped, ready to assist Daisy into her sidesaddle. It was apparent she didn’t want to touch him, not even with her boot, but she finally conceded that he wasn’t going to allow her to ignore him.

  Nicholas was amazed at how light she was. She was seated on a large, spirited mount, but was well able to control the animal. “I take it you’ve done a lot of riding.”

  “I’ve done my share. Especially over the past year.”

  “Yes, you have been a busy little bee, haven’t you?”

  “If you mean I’ve done a great deal to make sure Severn Manor was taken care of properly, then yes, Your Grace, I have been a busy little bee.”

  Nicholas groaned. “I thought we’d gotten beyond titles, Daisy. Nicholas, please.”

  Daisy sat staring straight forward and ignored the duke, incensed at the way he had denigrated her efforts over the past year. He had no idea what she had been through. No idea how difficult it had been to make decisions, not knowing if she was doing the right thing.

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed that Nicholas mounted the same way as his son, without touching the stirrup. It looked amazingly graceful, but she didn’t want to admire the man. She turned toward Rockland Park and kicked her mount into a trot.

  Nicholas quickly caught up to her. “I’m sorry if I insulted you, Daisy.”

  She angled her head toward him. “An apology, Your Grace? We are making strides, aren’t we?”

  “No need to be sarcastic, Daisy. Especially not when I’m offering an olive branch.”