Page 5 of Master of Paradise

Lady Pamela smiled.

"We have so many collections, Nicholas, your father and I insist!"

Harry waved his arms, telling him to write it down and he did so, his heart filled with gratitude and sadness.

"Be better with two witnesses," his father gasped.

"I'll get one of the servants," Pamela said softly.

While she was gone, Harry instructed Nicholas to put down that he was to be sole executor and legally in charge of the estate and Philip's inheritance until 1865, the year of his majority.

Lady Pamela came back with a young maid.

"Don't be shy, Milly. Come up to the bed so that you can be a witness to Lord Peacock's signature on this paper."

When Harry saw Milly sign her name, he told his wife.

"Put it away safe for Chetwynd."

"Yes dear, you can rely upon me implicitly. Now, I beseech you Harry, rest until the doctor arrives."

Nicholas hesitated.

"Do you think I should sit with him, or would he rest better without me?"

She smiled and spoke softly.

"Nicholas, my dear, do whatever you desire. I fear his time is short. I'm sure it would give him comfort if you sat with him."

Her words were so soothing. She always managed to say and do exactly the right things.

Nicholas sat with his father all night, and in the early hours Harry rose up from the bed in great agitation.

"I'm here, Father. What is it?"

Lord Harry had no breath for sentences, but he managed single words with long gasps between them. He grabbed his son's hand most urgently.

"Remember... Gardener... Higgins... money..."

"I'll remember,"Nicholas promised, though he knew not clearly what he promised.

His father lapsed into labored sleep and Nick sat quietly puzzling out the words.

There is no gardener by the name of Higgins.

Wait now, there is an old retired servant living in a cottage behind the stables, but I never remember him being a gardener.

Nicholas always thought he had been the head groom in days gone by.

Anyway it seemed obvious his father wanted this Higgins to be remembered with some money.

That was easy enough to take care of.

When the end came, it was mercifully swift.

The death rattle began, and Nicholas ran to fetch Pamela, and by the time the doctor arrived, there was nothing left for him to do but sign the death certificate.

Nicholas was momentarily stunned by grief.

He enfolded his stepmother in strong, comforting arms.

The death had been so quick and would be so permanent.

Nick knew he had to be alone.

He excused himself and headed for the stables.

He saddled up and rode out through the deer park and into the Weald of Kent.

Winter's relentless bite was already in the air.

He stopped at a magnificent copper beech tree and watched as the relentless wind tore off the leaves and stripped it of its glory.

He felt the bleakness to his very core.

After an hour's ride,Nicholas felt he should return to the Hall.

He wasn't the only one to grieve and he would be needed at home.

Nicholas wheeled into the stable just as the first large drops of a downpour splattered his dark face.

He carefully washed and changed his clothing before going to Lady Pamela, but before he left his apartment, a servant came with a summons to attend her ladyship.

As Nicholas entered the drawing room, he thought Pamela had never looked lovelier than she did at this sad moment.

The black silk gown set off her delicate pallor and pale blonde chignon.

As he looked at her with compassion, he noticed her eyes were no longer cool, they were cold, icy.

She pinned him to the spot with her frigid glance.

He noticed her slim white hands held the papers his father had dictated yesterday.

As he watched, she held them out toward him and very deliberately tore them in half.

"I have been waiting for this moment for years.

My son is now Lord Peacock, and until he is of age, I am the paymaster here.

You are a bastard, in more ways than one, and you will leave my home this day."

Nicholas was stunned.

She, whom he had thought of as saint, was in reality a bitch.

Though he did not know it, she was a bitch in heat and had been in that unbearable condition for some time.

As his turquoise eyes traveled over her, they touched a quickness deep inside her, so that she was forced to avert her eyes from his blatant masculinity.

No other man had set her limbs trembling, ever, nor brought that sticky wetness between her legs, which Nicholas could do with a word or a glance.

The thought of his lovemaking made her mouth go dry, while her breasts ached for the caress of that strong brown hand.

Her loins hungered and clamored for his manhood to fill her with his heat.

She seethed with hatred at the feelings he could so easily arouse in her.

All her unrequited desires and fantasies were channeled into an icy core of pure, crystal venom, because he had never once looked at her except with the eyes of a stepson.

She had not wanted to mother him; she had wanted to mate him!

"You cannot do this," Nicholas said firmly.

"I shall await my father's solicitor, Mr. Chetwynd, and we shall hear what he has to say."

Lady Pamela moved toward the drawing room door and called softly, "Peter."

The solicitor came into the room and stood behind her, but he had his hand firmly upon her waist in a gesture of ownership.

"Mr. Chetwynd is already here."

"I see," said Nicholas, and he really did see clearly for the first time in years.

"I suppose the young maid who acted as witness has already been sent packing?"

She smiled at his grasp of the situation.

Nicholas gave her a mocking bow, and as his eyes swept her from head to foot they almost seared her skin.

"I shall be off the place within the hour. You fancy you have won the game, madam, but I feel sporting enough to warn you that you have only won the first hand."

Nick threw some personal belongings into a portmanteau along with some clean shirts and underclothes.

He rapidly assessed his situation.

He had about 750 guineas from his winnings, plus the clothes he stood up in.

He was twenty-one years old and he had his whole life ahead of him.

He'd go to London. One chapter of his life was closed, even though part of his heart would go to the grave with his father and remain at Peacock Hall forever.

He left by the kitchen entrance to avoid further contamination.

The rain was falling in steady, cold sheets, so he kept close to the building until he rounded the west wing, then pulling his cloak more closely about him, cut across to the stables.

This brought to mind his father's words about Higgins, so he skirted the building and sought out the old man's cottage.

He had to knock three times before he heard someone stir within and come to open the door.

An old man who looked to be about ninety leaned on a walking stick and peered out at him.

"May I come in?" Nick asked, shaking the rain from his cloak.

The old man looked at him blankly and said.

"Wipe yer feet."

Nicholas did as he was bidden and when the old man didn't offer him a chair, he hid an amused smile at the lack of hospitality.

"I'm sorry to bring bad news, but his lordship died yesterday." A silence stretched out. He wondered if the old gaffer was stone deaf, but after a moment he replied.

"Never liked 'im anyway."

Nicholas was startled. Perhaps he had the wrong man after all.

"Is your name Higgins?"

"Who wants to know?" the old fellow challenged.

The irony wasn't lost on Nick. He smiled and bit his lip.

"Look here, my father wanted you to have some money, but you're making it bloody difficult for me."

Without further ado the old man held out his hand.

Nicholas took out his wallet and counted two hundred pounds into the old codger's hand. Then on a generous impulse he added another fifty. The silence stretched out again until Nick bade him goodbye and donned his cloak against the downpour.

As he closed the cottage door, a corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.

"Well, Harry, I did what you asked, but got neither thanks nor bugger you!"

Inside the stables, he walked down past the familiar row of stalls and lifted a horse blanket from the wall. He saddled up a fresh mount, taking care not to pick one of his favorite horses in case he decided to sell it, later.

Philip, who had been hiding in a stall, crept out, his face a study in misery.

"Nicko, I'm sorry. I tried to tell you my mother was a bitch, but you would never hear a wrong word about her."

"Ironic, isn't it?"

"You can't go empty-handed, Nicko. I want you to have these." He held out two ornamental peacocks of Oriental design. They were solid gold.

Nick stiffened, offended to be offered his father's treasures.

"If you don't take them, it will be like spitting in my face," Philip said passionately.

"In that case, I shall take them. You chose a most apt symbol, Philip." He hugged the boy to him.

"I shall leave Tess in your loving care," he said lightly.

"What would she want with me?" Philip scoffed.

"Believe me," he assured him with a wink.

"she'll be delighted to belong to young Lord Peacock."

He turned up the collar of his cloak and urged the animal out into the downpour.

The low-hanging clouds mad him realize the weather had set in for the day, and already the afternoon light was deserting.

Nicholas lifted his dark head to gaze one last time upon the home he had always loved.

The carved granite faces that adorned the main portals were awash with rivulets of water, making even the gargoyles appear to be weeping at his dismissal.