Chapter Four

“Too bad.”

Not bloody likely…and most assuredly not when the future earl was snoring softly next to Brooke in the back seat. At least he wasn’t resting on her shoulder. That had happened once already on the half-hour drive back to Dallinger Park from the airport, and she’d jostled him off, with utmost respect, of course. He’d mumbled something about medication and started snoring again.

Nothing in the solicitor’s report had mentioned a drinking or drug problem, but one could never be too careful. She’d alert the staff (bare-bones as it was) to keep an eye on the wine cellar, as it was one of the estate’s important assets still left.

“Just about there,” Mr. Harleson said, pulling onto the private road near the North York Moors. “He’s not exactly what we’ve been expecting, is he?”

Refusing to let herself check out the line of Nick’s square jaw or the way his broad shoulders rose and fell with each of his deep breaths, Brooke remained facing forward, chin high, attention focused on the view of the distinctive half-cone shape of the Rosebery Topping hill in the distance. “Life so seldom is.”

“Reminds me a little bit of his dad,” Harleson said. “But he’s got the look of the old earl about him, too.”

“You think?” Finally having a reason—not an excuse, a reason—to look, she studied the American’s profile. “I don’t see it.”

“Only because from the perspective of a young woman just starting out in life, the earl has been old since you met him. I’ve been here a lot longer.” He let out a rusty chuckle and turned onto the driveway. “Best wake him.”

Lucky her.

She tapped the American on the shoulder. He didn’t move.

“Mr. Vane,” she said in a stage whisper.

She tried again, this time with more force.

“Sir?”

Nothing. As the ivy-covered ancestral home loomed up ahead, she let out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m not cracking my eyes open until you call me Nick,” he said without even a hint of sleep in his voice.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “You’ve been awake this whole time?”

“Off and on,” he said, his eyes still closed, his unfairly long, dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks. “Now are you gonna call me Nick or what?”

The temptation to blame his obstinance on his country of origin was great, but even if she hadn’t been at Dallinger Park as long as Mr. Harleson, she knew the legendary Vane stubborn streak when she saw it. “Nick.”

“There, that wasn’t hard at all.” He opened his hazel eyes that were, now that she thought about it, the same shade as the earl’s, and winked at her before turning his attention to the three-story Jacobean-style house that was their destination. He stared for a moment, the vein in his temple pulsing. “So that’s the old homestead.”

“Yes, Dallinger Park was built in 1856. It has been the Vane family residence for generations. Prior to this version of Dallinger Park, there was another grand house built in 1682, but it burned down in 1841. The nearby village of Bowhaven and the local McVie University depend upon the earl and the estate for their livelihood since the Pepson Factory closed down three years ago.”

His jaw tightened. “What does Gramps do for them?”

Oh, the earl would not like that nickname. Not even a little. “As much as he can, I’m sure.” Which equated to as much as she could nudge him into doing, considering the precarious financial situation the earl was in as well. The earl had been too angry to do much of anything about either situation but issue orders and stare out at the moors. Now that she knew about the dementia diagnosis, that helped to explain some of that. Stress could be a trigger for an episode just like the sunset could be. Of course, the earl had always been tight with money, according to her perusal of the estate accounts. But there hadn’t been enough to take care of Dallinger Park the way it should be for generations.

“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.