by Avery Flynn
“Yeah.” Nick snorted. “He’s a real generous guy.”
What could she say to that without letting things slip? Nothing. So she focused on straightening the already orderly stack of folders on her lap.
They sat in silence as Mr. Harleson stopped the car in front of the massive front doors that could have repelled foreign invaders for centuries and would now open wide for an American.
She glanced at the man to her left again and worried for the first time if her pint glass wasn’t indeed half empty.
…
Nick walked up the steps to Dallinger Park, which happened to be a mansion in the middle of enough green space to count as a city park. From the outside, it looked like the very definition of privilege and money. Inside, though, was a different story.
The rug in the foyer leading into the hall was dull and threadbare. The hardwood floors themselves showed the nicks and bows of long-term use without care. His gaze traveled up the walls and over the paintings of Vanes who’d come before and stopped at a very distinct, roundish brown stain that screamed out leaky pipes. It looked like the house, just like the Vane family, was rotten on the inside. Shaking his head, he followed Lady Lemons down the hall.
Their footsteps echoed up to the vaulted ceiling, dragging his attention away from Brooke and upward. The place had good bones that called out to the builder and tinkerer in his soul, the one who always fiddled and tweaked things until they ran smoother, worked better, and made life easier. That’s how in high school he’d ended up installing for his mom a motorized dumbwaiter in the house he’d grown up in. She’d tripped going down the stairs with the laundry, so he’d gone to work.
If only he’d spent as much time paying attention to the cause behind her sudden clumsiness, maybe things would have ended differently.
If only it hadn’t just been them against the world, thanks to the asshole in the room he and Lady Lemons were walking into, maybe his mama would have had someone looking out for her instead of a fourteen-year-old kid who should have made her go to the doctor sooner.
If only… It was a list that went on forever and didn’t fix anything. Telling the old man who’d delivered the first blow to fuck off was about as close as he was going to get to a happy ending for his if-only list.
The room was large and dominated by a gargantuan painting of a guy in a white wig above a large fireplace with a chipped mantel. Wig Dude looked down his narrow little nose at Nick.
Well, cheerio to you, too, buddy.
The rest of the room was covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that would have given his mom the happy giggles, windows that looked out onto the green hills dotted with purple heather and overgrown white rose bushes that made up one helluva pretty backyard—especially since the sun was just starting to go down, giving the whole view a soft, Instagram-filtered look. It wasn’t the glimmering blue of the lake right out the back door of his house in Salvation, but even he had to admit it was still pretty good.
“My lord, may I present your grandson, Nicholas Vane,” Ms. Chapman-Powell said, her tone deferential.
Nick didn’t like that tone. He liked her better tart with an underlying fluster that got his curiosity rolling. No doubt he’d be getting an earful from that part of her once he’d said his piece to the old man and sauntered on out of this place for good. If there was a way of making sure that didn’t happen, he would have done it. However, this was for his mom, and as Mama had always said, sometimes when choosing between a rock and a hard place, the rock won by landing on you.
Anticipation of finally delivering his screw-you salute on his mother’s behalf finally brought his attention to the reason he was here in the first place: Charles Vane, Earl of Englefield, stood behind a massive mahogany desk. He was tall, roughly Nick’s height, with straight shoulders, pale skin that didn’t look like it had the balls to wrinkle, and a full head of bright-white hair that he kept almost as short as his compassion for family. Of course, if he’d kept it that short, he’d be balder than bald.
“Hey, Chuck, some place you got here,” Nick said, playing up the brash American to get under the other man’s skin. He sauntered across the room to the windows. “Quite the view.”
As expected, his words hit like a three-hundred-pound lineman. Watching the reflection in the window, he caught the old man narrow his eyes and clench his jaw. Good. Nick let his face fall back into the good-old-boy grin that got him both laid and out of trouble back home; then he turned to face the other man. However, he couldn’t help but let his gaze scoot over to Lady Lemons as he did so.
Brooke’s face had lost all its color, only to be replaced with a bright-red splash on both cheeks that brought out the blue of her eyes. Strange thing to be noticing at a time like this, but par for the course.
“You may call me grandfather,” the old man said, his voice an aged, English-accented version of the deep baritone that came out of Nick’s own mouth.
It made his skin crawl. The last thing he wanted was to have anything in common with this man. Not that he was going to show that. Keeping his body language relaxed, Nick shrugged and made his way through the overstuffed love seats and chairs covered in sun-faded upholstery of pale-pink roses and twisting green vines. “Won’t be staying long enough to worry about calling you anything.”
“If you can refrain from being so American for a moment,” Charles said, “you’ll be able to grasp the full weight of the responsibilities you’re about to inherit.”
“Like a crumbling estate?” he shot back.
The old man’s eyes widened and a rush of heat mottled his nose. “Who said that?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brooke’s face lose its color again as she clasped her hands together. If the woman wasn’t careful, she’d pass out from the quick up and down of her blood pressure. The fact that she didn’t was a point in her favor. Lady Lemons was made of stern stuff. He could appreciate that.
“I did a little research of my own,” he said. “And I have eyeballs. This place is a contractor’s wet dream.”
Obviously taking offense—too fucking bad—at Nick’s choice of words, the earl glared at him.
When Nick didn’t melt into a puddle of goo, the old man went on. “As my heir, you’ll be expected to carry on the traditions of Dallinger Park and the family.”
Nick ran the tip of his finger over the decorative scrollwork on the back of a chair that could use a good refinishing. Seeing it in such disrepair had him shaking his head. Not even furniture deserved to be treated with such malignant neglect. “You mean like letting this house fall apart around you?”
“If I didn’t already think you were not the right man for the job, that declaration would have completely confirmed it,” Charles said. “However, my son is dead, and you are the only living legitimate Vane left on the planet, according to my solicitors. Even though you have no idea what it takes to manage a property like Dallinger Park or to support Bowhaven and McVie University for the Deaf, you either inherit the title and accept your duty to those in our family’s care or the family legacy crumbles and the title dies with me.”
Nick didn’t hear the rest of the sentence after “not the right man for the job” as he made his way toward the door leading out of this horror show, but he didn’t give a shit because that part was the only one that mattered.
“Finally, something we agree on. You are completely correct,” he said as he stopped at the door and turned, his gaze clashing with the earl’s, neither of them blinking. “I’m not the right man for the job.”
“That may be so, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are my only option for an heir.” Charles sat down in the chair behind his desk, picking up one of the many papers scattered across it, and said almost to himself, “If only the villagers had worked a little harder and complained a little less, the Pepson Factory wouldn’t have closed down and so many of them wouldn’t be out of
jobs and looking to me for a handout.”
Brooke let out something that sounded like a half-muffled squeak of objection from her spot near the fireplace. By the time Nick had swiveled his attention over to her, though, she was silent and stoic-faced enough to make him second-guess himself. The blonde looked every bit as neutral and cold as Switzerland in World War II. Still, there was something in the tightness of that lush mouth of hers that got him right in the gut.
She may be silent, but that didn’t mean she was agreeing. Curious to find out if he was right, he propped his shoulder on the doorframe leading out to the hallway and gave the earl an appraising once-over.
“Really?” he asked after the silence had stretched good and taut. “That’s the answer you’re going with? That it was the people’s fault, not mismanagement, change in market demands, or anything else?”
“The Vanes are a great and proud family,” the earl went on, either oblivious and not caring about the fact that he’d just been called out for insulting the people who’d borne the brunt of the misery from the factory closing. “I’m not going to let you ruin my family name, so before I make a public announcement in thirty days declaring you as my heir, you’ll need to learn how to be an English earl, even if there isn’t a person out there more unsuited.”
Nick’s money was on the old man not caring about anything other than the Vane family reputation. No doubt he’d grown up the pampered aristocrat who’d had his every demand met and his every need fulfilled. He’d probably bullied and threatened and intimidated those around him his entire life…up until now anyway. Nick had always hated bullies.
“You’re that sure I’d agree to be your heir?” he asked, drawing the old man into his trap.
The earl’s pointed chin went up a degree. “You don’t have a choice.”
No choice? Nice try.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Chuckie,” he said, straightening to his full height and giving his grandfather a fuck-you look that would even put old Wig Man in the painting to shame. “Because I’m exercising some good old American freedom right here and right now by telling you and the rest of England to fuck straight off.”
Hitching his bag over his shoulder, Nick gave the asshole who’d contributed a quarter of his DNA and the woman who did his bidding a quick, sarcastic salute before walking out of the mansion, bypassing the chauffeur leaning against the Mercedes, and starting down the road that, according to the signs, led to Bowhaven. If there wasn’t an Uber there, he’d find a cab or someone willing to earn a quick buck by taking him to the airport so he could leave this damp, dreary country in his past where it belonged.
…
It was a rare occurrence for Brooke to be speechless, but she sure was now as she stared at the empty spot in the doorway where Nick (yes, she was thinking of him by his Christian name; how could she not after that?) had stood only moments before giving the earl—the earl!—the business. She’d never seen anything like it. She’d never met anyone like him. She should be appalled. She was—mostly. She was also ever so slightly intrigued and a little bit fluttery, something she would not be mentioning to any other living human ever.
“And that,” the earl declared, “is what happens when you’re raised in America.”
“Well, he is American.” She wanted to take back the words as soon as they were out of her mouth—obviously the younger Vane was a bad influence even in small doses—but the earl didn’t seem to notice any slight.
“Not any longer,” he said, his voice stronger than she’d heard in some months. “Now, unless you want to see this village fall to ruin, I suggest you put that brain I’m paying for to good use and find a way to turn my infernal American grandson into a proper English earl.”
How in the world was she supposed to do that? Especially when he refused to even be the earl—uncouth or proper? Did the earl not hear a word his grandson had said?
“I’m not sure—”
“I don’t need you to be sure. I need you to get the job done, and if you can’t, then I’ll find a personal secretary who can and without all the helpful suggestions about ways Dallinger Park can modernize.” He said the last word like a particularly offensive curse.
“Yes, sir.” Because really, what else could she say? Bowhaven was her home, and the people who lived in it her family—even the earl with his snarly ways was part of the fabric of the village.
Everything and everyone was tied together here. For better or for worse.
She just needed to convince Nick to accept his inheritance. All she had to do was find him. On a huge estate. This should be easy.
“Not bloody likely,” she mumbled to herself.
Chapter Five
Charles Vane had done this to himself. He should have stopped William from going to America. He’d been too free with his son. That was the truth he’d been telling himself for years—and that’s what it was, the truth. He’d done the hard thing for the right reason. He was more than ready to accept the vitriol, even if he did not deserve it.
What he hadn’t been ready for was Nicholas to look so much like his father.
When his grandson had walked in with that familiar half smile and cocksure attitude, Charles had gone back in time to the day William had stood looking out the same window and declared he couldn’t be forced into a life he’d never wanted because of an accident of birth. They’d fought. William had left. It had taken more than a year to track him down in that tiny house halfway across the world. And he’d had a wife and a baby? Totally unacceptable. That just wasn’t done.
For generations, the Vanes had gone to boarding school and university. They’d visited home only on holiday. They’d kept a stiff upper lip, appropriate distance, and dedicated themselves to Dallinger Park—the family’s symbol—above all else. William had bucked that. He’d run from the heavy burden of duty—at least for a while. But it always came back to duty in the end. That’s what he’d made sure his son understood before leaving America. That William thought he was doing right by his wife and son rather than to Dallinger Park made no difference. His son came home and now so had his grandson.
Charles picked up the phone sitting on his desk and rang his solicitor.
“He’s agreed?” Ansel Cahill asked.
“He will.” Charles would make sure of it.
“There is gossip already about your health and his legitimacy.”
Of course there was. “Let them talk.”
“You don’t have to do this.” His solicitor lowered his voice. “No one knows about the request William made in his will except for you.”
Request. It wasn’t the word he’d use. William had been every bit as manipulative and clever as the Vanes were known to be. The title may run through Charles’s blood, but the money came from his late wife’s side of the family. The terms of William’s will had been plain and unbreakable. The trust went to Nicholas upon his thirtieth birthday, not to the estate. If his grandson failed to fulfill his duty by becoming the next Earl of Englefield, Dallinger Park, the title, and everything else would be negated. The Vanes would fall back into history, forgotten.
“Nicholas Vane will be the next Earl of Englefield,” Charles said.
“Then he needs to agree before your condition worsens.”
“It’s not sunset for me yet, and I do not need instruction from you about how to fulfill my duties.” He’d heard nothing but that since he’d left the nursery.
“Yes, sir,” Cahill said, sounding property chastised.
“Get the paperwork in order to transfer William’s trust. I’ll be in London in a few days to sign off on it.”
“Does he have any idea about any of this?”
“That is not of your concern, Cahill.” And it was rather impertinent of him to inquire.
Charles ended the call but didn’t move from his desk. The room was too filled with old ghosts to move. So he s
at, looking out that same window his son had all those years ago and watched the heather on the moors move in the breeze like a purple wave. As far as the solicitor needed to know, this was only about ensuring Dallinger Park’s financial stability after years of stretching every pound to pay the outrageous bills. That wasn’t the only—or even the most important—reason, though, that Nicholas had to become the next earl.
Charles had failed William and his family name. Because of that, he’d been forced to take extreme measures to save both. Now there was more work to be done, and he no longer had the luxury of time in which to complete it. He had to fix what he’d wrecked. He had to bring his grandson home. He had to make it up to William.
He had to ensure that William knew—no, not William. Charles squeezed his eyes shut and willed the fog in his head to clear. William was gone. Nicholas. That’s who he’d meant. He had to make sure Nicholas understood the real reason why his father had left and that he’d never planned to stay away forever. He had to understand that family shouldn’t be hated because of one man’s horrible mistake.
Chapter Six
The walk into Bowhaven was chilly. How in the world it was in the sixties here, despite it being August, he had no idea.
Back home in Virginia, he’d have been shirtless and in shorts out on the boat, pretending to fish while he worked out the kinks in his latest project, a dog collar that picked up on a dog’s nervous energy—aka the uptick in its pulse—and played back prerecorded soothing messages from the owner. It was sort of the aural version of leaving a blanket smelling like mama dog in a puppy’s basket. The downside of the collar being that the dog drove itself nuts looking for the owner after hearing the voice, which caused more anxiety for the dog, which led to more talking from the collar, which resulted in poor Fido being on the edge of a doggie nervous breakdown. There was the nugget of a good idea inside all those layers of craziness; Nick just had to figure out how to get to it, exploit it, and mass-produce it.
