A Most Noble Heir

by Susan Anne Mason

  Despite Hannah’s distress, Nolan couldn’t withhold a giddy grin. “He accepted my offer. The farm will be mine at the end of the month.”

  “Oh, Nolan. That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.” She squeezed him in a tight hug, then pulled away, a soft hue coloring her cheeks.

  The admiration shining on her face humbled him. How had he ever earned the affections of such an incredible woman? He’d wanted to wait until a more opportune moment to propose, but maybe now was the perfect time. He turned her hand to press a kiss into her palm. A soft gasp escaped her lips, and her eyes widened.

  Have you kissed the girl yet? Bert’s question echoed through his brain as Nolan’s gaze focused on her mouth. He knew he should resist, but heaven help him, it was way past time. His heart beat double time in his chest. He could almost imagine the sweet taste of her lips. His pulse thundered as he lowered his head toward her.

  The swish of approaching footsteps in the grass beyond the henhouse snapped him to attention. Quickly, he released Hannah and took a step away. Surely the earl wouldn’t come looking for him here.

  “Nolan! Are you there?” His friend Mickey’s urgent call echoed across the open air.

  Relief trickled through Nolan. At least he needn’t worry that Mickey would fuel the servant gossip mill. His friend and fellow stable hand abhorred gossip as much as Nolan. He stepped out into the open. “Here I am. What is it?”

  Mickey Gilbert turned and jogged over, his linen shirtsleeves flapping in the breeze. Instead of his usual jovial grin, a frown creased his brow. “I’m sorry, Nolan. It’s your mother.”

  The air in Nolan’s lungs thinned. “What about her?”

  “She collapsed in the kitchen. They’ve taken her to her room and sent for the doctor.” Mickey’s eyes filled with sympathy. “You’d best hurry. She’s asking to see you.”

  Chapter

  2

  Taking the steps two at a time, Nolan rushed up the narrow back staircase to the third-floor servants’ quarters, concern tumbling through his brain. He’d spoken with his mother just yesterday, and she hadn’t seemed ill. Though now that he recalled, she had looked pale, but he’d put it down to her lingering illness.

  Yet to collapse like that, her health must have taken a sudden turn for the worse . . . unless she’d been hiding her infirmity for fear of losing her job. In all likelihood, she’d been pushing herself too hard, not letting her body fully heal from the constant bouts of bronchitis that had plagued her all winter.

  Nolan silently gave thanks for the good news he could now share with her. That her days of slaving for the unfeeling Lord Stainsby would soon be over. That she could live with Nolan and Hannah, filling her time with pursuits that brought her pleasure. Planting flowers, reading, sleeping whenever it pleased her to do so, and looking after the grandchildren he and Hannah would give her. With her health restored, they would all live together as a loving family.

  Nolan strode down the dank corridor to the very last room. Outside his mother’s door, he paused to contain his emotions, pushing back the waves of worry. He had to be strong—for her sake, if nothing else. After two deep breaths, he knocked on the door and stepped inside.

  Heavy drapes had been pulled to cover the windows, leaving the room shrouded in darkness, save for the flickering candle by the bed. Nolan squinted to find his mother under the patchwork quilt. The sight of her frailty hit him as hard as a stallion’s kick.

  A desperate prayer whispered through his mind. Dear God, I know I’ve been remiss at conversing with you lately, but I’m asking you now to please heal my mother. Help her withstand this illness and regain her health.

  She opened her eyes and gave a weak smile. “Nolan. Thank goodness you’ve come.”

  “I’m here, Mum.” He moved to the side of her bed and took her hand in his.

  “There are some things I need to tell you whilst I still can.”

  “You mustn’t talk like that.” He dragged a chair over to the bed and sat down, attempting to ignore the musty odor that permeated the room. “Now that the winter’s over, you’ll soon be feeling better. In fact, I have some news that should help your recovery.” He dredged up a smile for her benefit. “Remember the farm I told you about?”

  Surprise and what might have been regret flickered in her eyes. “I remember.”

  “I met with Mr. Simpson today and made arrangements to purchase it. In a few weeks, you’ll have a place of your own where you can rest and recover your strength. And when you’re feeling better, you can plant a vegetable garden. I know how much you’ve missed that—”

  “Nolan, please. I need you to listen.” Bony fingers gripped his like a hawk’s talons.

  The urgency in her tone raised the hair on the back of his neck. “All right, Mum. I’m listening.” He struggled to gain a foothold over his emotions. He needed to be his mother’s strength in her time of need, as she’d always been for him.

  With a tender look, she smoothed the hair from his forehead as though he were still a boy. “Though I may not have birthed you, Nolan, you are my son in every way that matters. I love you more than anything in this world. I hope you know that.” Two tears slid down her pale skin.

  His throat threatened to close. Why did this sound like she was saying good-bye? “I love you too, Mum,” he said hoarsely. “More than my own life.”

  “I know you do. But there’s much I need to explain. I only hope you can forgive me when I tell you everything.” The anguish in her eyes took Nolan’s breath away.

  “It’s all right, Mum.” He reached out to take both her cold hands in his, her skin as thin as parchment.

  “I should have told you the truth long ago. Now there’s no time to cushion the blow.” Her voice quavered. “I need to tell you about your father.”

  Nolan’s mouth fell open. Over the years, Mum had rarely spoken about her sister, who’d died giving birth to Nolan. The few times he’d dared to ask about his father, Mum had told him she didn’t know who his father was. And because the subject had always seemed to trouble her, Nolan had left it alone, figuring that when the time was right, he’d search for answers on his own.

  “Before my sister died, Mary got to hold you for a few precious moments. She made me promise to look after you but never to disclose the identity of your father.” Another tear followed a path down her cheek. “Though I struggled with that promise, I’ve kept it to the best of my ability.”

  The blood leached from Nolan’s brain, scrambling the thoughts in his head. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “As time went on, I didn’t know how to tell you. Or if I had the right.”

  A dark suspicion took shape, one that had lingered in the back of his mind all these years. Was he the illegitimate offspring of a shameful union? Worse yet, could his father be a criminal? Held in jail these last two decades? Chills raced up and down his spine. His world and everything he knew about it was unraveling before his eyes. He swallowed the bile in his throat. “Just tell me, Mum. Who is my father?”

  Her gaze slid to the quilt, and a look of utter misery washed her pale features. She licked her dry, cracked lips, not meeting his eyes. “He is a nobleman. Your mother was a maid in his family’s employ. Theirs was a forbidden love, and when Mary found herself with child, your father married her in secret, against the wishes of his family.”

  Nolan struggled to focus. His parents had been married at least, which lifted the burden of illegitimacy from him. But how had Mary ended up giving birth at her sister’s home without her husband? And what made her want to hide his identity?

  “Why didn’t my father claim me when she died?” he demanded. “Did he not wish to raise his son?”

  Her hands gripped the blankets. “There was an estrangement. Your grandparents did not approve of the union and refused to accept—” She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head.

  Nolan waited while she seemed to wrestle with herself. What was she so afraid of?

  A sharp knock broke the unc
omfortable silence.

  “Mrs. Price? It’s Dr. Hutton.” The door opened and the rumpled, gray-haired physician entered.

  The lines on his mother’s forehead eased as though relieved at the interruption. “Thank you for coming, Doctor. You remember my son, Nolan?

  “Yes. Hello, Nolan.” The man set his leather bag on the dresser near the bed. “If you’ll excuse us for a minute, I need to examine your mother.” His features looked pinched as if he didn’t expect a good outcome.

  “Of course. I’ll go down and see to your horse.” Nolan rose from the rickety chair and gave his mother a pointed look. “We’ll continue our talk later.”

  Outside in the courtyard, Nolan untied the reins of the doctor’s dapple gray, led him into the barn, and went to fetch fresh water. As he performed his tasks, Nolan struggled to come to grips with the enormity of what his mother had told him, all the while fighting to quell the anger that brewed beneath his skin.

  All the assumptions he’d made about his lowly heritage had been wrong. It appeared noble blood ran through his veins. Now it remained to be seen if Mum would disclose the name of his father, and if so, what would that mean for Nolan? Would he go in search of him?

  Remnants of his fondest boyhood wish flickered to life. Nolan used to dream that one day his father would come to find him and sweep him up in a boisterous embrace, regaling him with tales of bold adventure that had kept him away these many years. Then his father would take Nolan and his mother away from their lives of servitude to abide with him in familial bliss at long last.

  Could any part of this long-held dream come true?

  Nolan’s boot squished beneath him, and a foul odor met his nose. He bit back an oath and found a stick to scrape the offending dung from his sole.

  Reality returned with an equally sickening thud at the mere thought of confronting a nobleman with news that Nolan was his son. Perhaps his father was dead. Surely that would explain why he’d never attempted to contact Nolan, never reached out to establish a bond.

  Still, from the little Nolan knew about the rules of succession in the noble ranks, if he were the true son of a titled man, he could be wealthy in his own right.

  The horse neighed and tossed his head against Nolan’s shoulder.

  “You’re right, boy. What would I do with a title and wealth?” The thought of the chaos involved in attempting to prove such a claim made Nolan cringe. Better to leave well enough alone and continue on the path he’d chosen for his life. Forget he even had a father.

  He closed his eyes against the rush of resentment that bubbled just under the surface. Against the sense of betrayal that his mother had lied to him all this time. Why hadn’t she told him the truth years ago? What difference could it have possibly made?

  He inhaled and blew out a long breath. Knowing his mother to be an upstanding Christian woman, there had to be a good explanation for her actions, and until he’d heard the whole story, he would give her the benefit of the doubt, without judgment.

  The crunch of carriage wheels over gravel penetrated the haze in Nolan’s brain. Lord Stainsby, who’d been out most of the day, must have returned. Nolan would need to see to the horses. He tugged his cap into place as he rushed through the open stable doors. The earl’s carriage came to a halt in front of him, the horses snorting in welcome.

  Nolan pushed back his shoulders and clasped his hands behind him as he waited for the coachman to jump down and open the carriage door.

  Seconds later, the earl emerged.

  For a man in his forties, his lordship remained in excellent physical condition. Tall, lean, and vital—most likely a result of his love of the outdoors. Dressed in a black greatcoat and top hat, the master created a formidable picture.

  Nerves skittered in Nolan’s stomach as he gathered his courage. As much as he disliked his employer, he needed to put his feelings aside—for his mother’s sake. Her health had to take precedence over everything else right now.

  “Excuse me, my lord.”

  “What is it?” The earl’s dark brows shot together in undisguised annoyance, apparently aggrieved at being bothered by a stable hand.

  Nolan swallowed his impatience. “My mother, Mrs. Price, is ill again. She collapsed and was taken to bed.”

  His lordship muttered an oath beneath his breath and took a few strides away.

  “The doctor is with her now,” Nolan called after him. “But she may need to go into Derby to the infirmary.”

  The earl careened to a halt and turned to stare at him with incredulity. “And you expect me to pay her medical bills, is that it?”

  “Surely as your head housekeeper—”

  “My head housekeeper,” he snapped, “has been woefully negligent in her duties these past months. She’s lucky I haven’t replaced her with someone younger and healthier.” His handsome features twisted into something ugly.

  Only concern for his mother kept Nolan’s temper from spilling forth. Biting back the retort that burned on his tongue, he pulled himself into the proper servant’s stance but fixed hot eyes on his employer. “I’m sorry to have bothered your lordship.”

  “Yes, well, make sure the horses are well watered.” He shot an irritated look at Nolan before striding off.

  It took all Nolan’s restraint to remain still, but once Lord Stainsby disappeared into the house, he stalked across the lawn to the servants’ entry. Hatred grew with every step. His mother gave every ounce of her energy to ensure the smooth running of the earl’s estate. And what thanks did she get for her years of loyalty?

  Nothing. No words of compassion. No offer of assistance.

  Nolan flung the rear door open and entered the mansion. He would find out what the doctor had to say, and if his mother needed to go to the infirmary, Nolan would pay for it himself.

  Even if it meant he would have to forfeit his farm to do so.

  Chapter

  3

  Edward Fairchild swallowed a last sip of wine, patted the linen napkin to his mouth, and laid it over the china plate in front of him. Seated with proper posture on the cushioned chair, he stared out over the expanse of table that stretched the full length of the ornate dining room.

  Eighteen feet of table with only one place setting at the end.

  Edward’s gaze moved up the gilded walls to the decorative swirls on the plaster ceiling. All this luxury—a twenty-room estate with a full complement of staff—for a sole inhabitant.

  He exhaled loudly. Maybe the second glass of wine tonight was making him melancholy. For once, he actually missed the presence of his daughters. Yet whenever Evelyn and Victoria came to visit, Edward couldn’t wait for them to leave to return to his solitude.

  He scowled as thoughts of Evelyn and her infantile husband brought to mind the letter he’d received yesterday from his London solicitor. Its contents had only served to reinforce Edward’s belief that Evelyn had made a colossal mistake marrying Orville, solely—he was certain—because Orville was now the heir presumptive to the Fairchild holdings. He’d already proven completely unreliable, racking up large amounts of debt from his gambling habit, as well as from indulging his outlandishly expensive taste in horses and fine brandy. He hadn’t even bothered to wait for Edward’s demise to start undermining the family fortune. What would become of the Fairchild legacy under Orville’s incompetent leadership?

  Edward pulled the letter from his pocket and reread Mr. Grayson’s unsettling message.

  Lord Stainsby,

  I’m writing to apprise you of a recent visit paid to me at our London office by your son-in-law and heir, supposedly at your behest. Forgive my mistrust, sir, but I did not believe his claim for a moment. My suspicions were confirmed when Mr. Fairchild asked me for a financial reckoning of all the Fairchild holdings, with particular interest in Stainsby Hall and the surrounding property. When I declined to comply with his request, stating that unless I had your express authority to divulge such information I could not do so, young Fairchild then asked whether the
Stainsby lands could be sold off in the event that the future earl needed an infusion of cash. I managed to put him off with a slew of legal jargon; however, I thought you should be aware of his intentions toward your family property. Given his propensity for gambling, I should imagine you would find this information troubling to say the least.

  Troubling? Edward snorted. An understatement if ever there was one. The idea that everything he’d sacrificed in order to keep the Fairchild earldom intact could be squandered away by Evelyn’s sniveling husband had Edward fisting his hands in helpless frustration.

  A footman approached the table. “Will there be anything else, my lord? Dessert perhaps?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Very good, sir.” The man jumped into action to remove the covered food dishes.

  The candles in the center of the table flickered with his movements.

  Still ruminating over Orville’s nefarious intentions, Edward folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. If only cousin Hugh hadn’t fallen victim to a hunting accident, they wouldn’t be in this mess. Hugh Fairchild had been a perfectly acceptable heir, whereas Hugh’s spoiled son was anything but.

  Edward absently rubbed the finger that had once borne his wedding band. After ten years being a widower, the indent had long since faded, as had the desire to ever repeat his wedded folly. But recently, he found his certitude wavering, and his decision to remain single weighed on his conscience. If he’d done the dutiful thing and found another wife to give him a son, this whole situation might have been avoided. True, his marriage to Penelope had been a disaster, but did a bad experience give him the right to shirk his obligation to ensure the family title went to a responsible heir?

  Even now, at the age of forty-two, the possibility still existed that Edward could marry and conceive a son. But there was no guarantee of begetting a male child. What if he married another woman who turned out to be as vain and selfish as Penelope? One who gave him only more daughters to worry about?