The Inheritance Read Free

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