Free The Inheritance by Joan Johnston Page B

had not sprung from his loins. Nicholas made up his mind to probe Severn’s library for information and to question Phipps about the matter. Perhaps the solicitor knew more than he had said on the subject.
    More recently, Nicholas had begun to wonder whether someone had purposely misled his father. On her deathbed, his mother had suggested as much. Was there some dark plot against his mother, or his father, or both? If so, who had wanted to hurt them, and why? It might be worthwhile to hiresomeone to investigate the matter. Certainly there was no reason why he couldn’t ask some questions himself. He would start today when he visited Charles Warenne.
    Nicholas heard the bedroom door slowly creaking open. The room was shadowed in the predawn light. He could see silhouettes in gray and black, but not much else. He reached for his Colt .45—and realized he had left it in one of the bureau drawers. He had felt naked without it, but the English countryside wasn’t dangerous enough to require him to carry a gun, much less sleep with one by his pillow. Yet someone was obviously sneaking into his room. He slowly eased himself out of bed and slipped into the shadows in the corner.
    The intruder stealthily approached the curtained bed. An instant later Nicholas sprang from cover and closed one arm around the intruder’s neck. His other hand captured a wrist and pulled it high behind the man’s back.
    “Who are you?” he demanded in a whisper, so he wouldn’t wake the house. “What are you doing here?”
    Unfortunately, his forearm had cut off the man’s air, and all Nicholas heard was a garbled sound in response. He eased off the pressure on his victim’s neck and said, “Talk.”
    “I’m Porter, Your Grace,” the man gasped. “Your Grace’s valet.”
    “I don’t have a valet,” Nicholas said, still not releasing the man.
    “I served the previous duke, Your Grace, and his father. I have always served Severn, Your Grace, as my father did before me. I regret to say I was awayvisiting relatives when Your Grace arrived. Otherwise we might have avoided such an unorthodox meeting.”
    Nicholas saw no reason not to believe the man. He sounded pompous enough to be a duke’s valet. He released the gentleman’s gentleman and stepped back. He ought to have felt ridiculous for imagining danger in the English countryside, but Nicholas had lived too many years on the edge, where one mistake could cost him his life. Old habits died hard.
    He perused the elderly gentleman who claimed to be his valet as the old man pulled back the heavy curtains from the windows to let in the pinks and yellows of a new day. Porter was nearly bald, with just a fringe of salt-and-pepper hair around his head. His face was gaunt, and his silvery eyes were capped by thick salt-and-pepper brows. He had a beaked nose and a protruding lower lip. He was also impeccably dressed, much more imposingly so than Nicholas had been on his arrival at Severn.
    Nicholas tried to remember if he had ever seen Porter as a child, but he couldn’t place him. Apparently the duke’s valet hadn’t ventured into the nursery or onto the lawns, forests, and ponds of Severn where the three cousins had spent most of their time.
    Nicholas was convinced Porter was a valet when the man remained totally unruffled as he turned and bowed, even though Nicholas wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Apparently, where dukes were concerned, clothes didn’t necessarily make the man.
    Nicholas grinned wryly. “I’m used to dressing myself, Porter,” he said as he dragged on a pair of long johns.
    “As you wish, Your Grace. However, someone must take charge of Your Grace’s clothing, to make sure it is in the best repair and clean and ready to be worn.” He arched a brow as if to say “Don’t you agree?”
    Nicholas arched one in return. Perhaps clothes did make the man, once he was wearing them. “I see your point. All right, Porter. I guess I have a valet.”
    Nicholas saw the