Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

However, when the note came to meet her at her father’s pigeon loft in the family’s backyard—which she’d called a garden—he thought he’d been forgiven. Wrong. He’d shown up at the house a few blocks from the Quick Fox to find Mr. and Mrs. Chapman-Powell but no Brooke.

He glanced over at Phillip Chapman-Powell standing next to what looked like an upscale shed that had to be around six feet wide and six feet high with screened-in mini sunrooms attached to the windows. A little weird but nothing unusual for a backyard—except for the soft cooing coming from inside it. That would definitely stand out in his neck of the woods.

“So you fancy pigeons?” Phillip asked.

Wait. Had Brooke’s dad just asked him if he liked birds? That was just…wrong. He had to be misunderstanding, but the British reality shows he’d been watching late at night while stopping himself from knocking on the door connecting his room to Brooke’s all used the term “fancy” as in wanting to bone someone.

“I’m not sure I’m translating that question correctly,” he said.

Phillip took a second to clean his glasses and rephrased, “Are you a pigeon fancier? Do you want to race pigeons? Brooke said you were interested in finding out more about it.”

Oh. Thank. God. “Uh. Maybe.”

He must have sounded about as convincing as he felt because Phillip gave him an assessing look that reminded Nick a lot of a certain blond Englishwoman who went by the name Lady Lemons.

Finally, Phillip shook his head and headed over to the loft, stopping when his hand was on the doorknob. “Is she trying to keep you at the big house or scare you off?”

Now wasn’t that the big question. “I think keep me, but I’m not sure this week. She’s been avoiding me.”

“That’s my lass. Keep us on our toes, that one does.” Phillip’s face nearly split in two with the size of his proud smile. “Now, come meet my pigeons.”

Two hours later, he’d met all twenty-five Racing Homer pigeons who were, just like Brooke had said, all named after Harry Potter characters—except for Cecil (“And really there should have been a Cecil in Harry Potter,” Phillip had told him. “Good name, that one.”)—and was sitting in the family room drinking tea and watching a BBC documentary explaining the ins and outs of pigeon racing, from the tiny rubber rings that go around the pigeon’s legs to the use of electronic timers to track the birds as they make their way from the liberation sites back to their home loft—a distance that can be hundreds of miles. He should have been bored out of his mind, but he wasn’t. Thanks to Phillip’s enthusiasm for the sport

and his own never-ending curiosity, he’d gotten sucked in and found himself asking questions about everything from how they get the birds to the liberation point (a special pigeon semitruck-looking vehicle) to the dangers to the birds (falcons and hawks were pigeon enemy number one) to the keys to loft designing (make sure you have enough room was the main rule). When the documentary switched gears and went from the macro world of pigeon racing to the micro, he was surprised to see a seventies version of Phillip in his prime with a pigeon in his hands and a pretty blonde next to him.

“My two favorite birds,” Phillip said with a chuckle at his own joke.

Not that he had any firsthand experience, but it seemed the U.S. hadn’t cornered the market on dad jokes. “So you grew up racing pigeons?”

“Oh yes.” Phillip muted the TV and sat back in his overstuffed recliner stationed in front of a bookcase filled with miniature porcelain pigeons.

“Did Brooke or Daisy take it up?” He tried to picture either of the women talking to the pigeons in the soft, calm manner Phillip had out in the loft and the image of the kinetic duo slowing down enough for that wouldn’t come.

Phillip shook his head. “Not for lack of trying on my part. Although Brooke is determined to make Bowhaven home to a pigeon race. She thinks it will help the local chippy, B&Bs, and the pub, of course.”

It made sense to him, but this was a new environment, so more information was needed. “What do you think?”

Phillip took off his perfectly clean glasses and used the hem of his shirt to clean them before putting them back on. “That Brooke has a million great ideas, but only one way to share them with people.”

“Beating them over the head with them.” The woman would be pushy for a New Yorker, let alone a small village in England.

The older man nodded. “That’s about the sum of it.”

“Has she always been so determined?” he asked, his insatiable curiosity too strong to stuff back down.

Phillip stared at the TV screen, now showing a toddler-size towheaded girl who had to be Brooke running around the twentysomething-year-old version of himself as he stood in front of a pigeon loft. “She was always a lass with a plan, but ever since she came back from Manchester, she’s been more”—he paused as if looking for the right word in the ceiling—”forceful.”

“What happened in Manchester?” It wasn’t idle wondering. His gut had tightened at the concern in Brooke’s father’s tone.

Phillip glanced down at him, blinking as if he’d forgotten he was there, before a neutral smile slid into place. “Oh, look at me prattling on when I know it’s the pigeons you’re interested in. Did you have any other questions about my birds?”

Not even close to sated but knowing he wasn’t going to get any more clues to the riddle of Lady Lemons today, Nick shook his head. “I think I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”

“Always glad to help the future earl,” he said, standing up.

Nick followed suit. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“That I’m glad to help or that you’ll be the earl someday?” The teasing glint in the other man’s eyes said he knew exactly what Nick was asking.