The Inheritance Read Free Page A

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 aworn 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 arocker 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?