Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

Prologue

Thirty Years Ago…

Once upon a time in a land far, far away (okay, Yorkshire), there was a charming heir to an English earl who went to America on holiday. William was young, handsome, and free from expectations for the first time in his life. When he met the beautiful Charity in a small Tennessee town, it was love at first sight. They were married within a week and it was matrimonial bliss for all of about a year. That’s when the current earl finally located his heir and told him in no uncertain terms to return to England or he’d be cut off. The heir—because while charming and handsome, he was also a bit of a selfish, spineless shit—agreed.

His young bride pleaded with him to think of their newly born son. William told her that he’d always provide for the child but that life wasn’t a fairy tale. He had responsibilities elsewhere that didn’t include an unsuitable bride from America who could never hope to become a worthwhile countess.

The earl pulled some strings and had his heir’s marriage annulled civilly—although William would still be listed as the baby’s father on the birth certificate and legally considered to be legitimate. Then the earl paid off his son’s soon-to-be-former wife to hush up the entire matter. He promised her more money would continue to come as long as she kept her mouth shut about the short-lived marriage and the baby’s lineage.

Of course, it seemed harsh and cold, but the earl wasn’t known for being the touchy-feely type. Therefore, he had no qualms about the brutal efficiency of his plan. It was the only logical choice. There was no way the earl could allow the title that had been in his family for five hundred years to ever end up going to an American.

Little did he know that there was an epic plot twist coming…

Chapter One

Present Day…

The world was about to go pear-shaped.

Normally, Brooke Chapman-Powell tried to be a pint-half-full kind of person—not in a cheery, obnoxious git kind of way but in a please-God-don’t-let-this-be-the-end way. She was a realist with hope. That latter bit was in short supply, though, as she stood in the Earl of Englefield’s private study.

She’d been the stern septuagenarian’s private secretary for less than two months and her employment record was a bit shoddy, so she’d been lucky to get the job even if the pay was paltry. However, considering she’d chucked her life in Manchester into the bin after discovering her boyfriend had been cheating on her, she was happy to have that. Of course, hiding out in Bowhaven—the village she’d grown up in and which was populated by people who refused to modernize or try anything new, ever—wasn’t her proudest achievement. However, she still had that wafer of hope that everything would turn out all right as long as one followed proper protocol.

Well, usually she did. Right now? She was a solid shrug emoji because the earl was staring at her like she was a bit of muck he’d found on his shoe. This was a pint-all-gone kind of moment, and she wasn’t prepared for the sacking she was surely about to get.

She certainly had no experience in being sacked. The strong possibility of it had thrown her off-kilter. She didn’t like it. Not at all. A little buzzing sound started in her ears and her lungs were burning, but she couldn’t let anything in or out.

Still, she tried to keep her impassive mask in place—her ability to keep an ice-queen expression no matter the chaos around her was exactly what had gotten her this job. However, her mask must have slipped because the earl let out a put-upon sigh.

“Ms. Chapman-Powell,” he said, standing behind his desk, his eyes narrowing as he looked her over, not in concern but in annoyance. “We do not have time for excessive behavior.”

That “we” didn’t really include her. It was the royal we and a reminder that she was here not as anything close to an equal but because she, the local publican’s daughter, was the earl’s secretary.

Something in his tone rattled her out of her lung-locked misery, and the breath she’d been holding whooshed from her lungs.

“No, sir, of course not.” She clasped her hands tight in front of her, not allowing any other outward appearance of uncertainty or nerves to show through.

It must have been enough, because the earl dropped his gaze down to the sheet of paper in his hand. “Your actions are governed by the nondisclosure agreement you signed upon employment. Discretion is required.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“What I am about to tell you cannot go beyond this room.”

Perhaps she wasn’t about to get the boot. If she was, would he be telling her anything that was covered by the NDA? Doubtful.

“I understand, sir.”

The earl didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he turned and gazed out the window toward the North York Moors, the purple heather adding color to its normal green.

“I’ve received a diagnosis—early-stage dementia,” he said, his words clipped.

Brooke had only been at Dallinger Park for a short time, but she’d noticed that the earl seemed to grow more agitated as the day wore on, often repeated stories, and became frustrated when he couldn’t remember details. She opened her mouth to offer her sympathies, but the earl waved off her attempt with a brusque flick of his hand.

“I only tell you this to impart the importance of what I shall tell you next, and not because I want to discuss my condition with you or have it discussed by you,” he said. “My solicitor is drawing up the papers for my heir to take over.”

“Your heir?” There hadn’t been another Vane at Dallinger Park since the earl’s son had died, leaving the earl as the last of his family.

There hadn’t even been whispers in Bowhaven of anyone else—and since she’d grown up above the pub, the central gathering place in the village, she would have heard something.

“He’s utterly unsuitable, but there is no choice.” The earl continued as if they were discussing the weather. “Still, one must submit to one’s duty. In my case, that means making this man my heir. In your case, it means ensuring he fulfills his duty.”

In a conversation filled with brain stoppers, that one jolted her. “Me?”

“Yes, Ms. Chapman-Powell,” the earl said, turning his full attention to her, narrowing his gaze so that she was all but pinned to the spot like one of the butterflies in the display cases on the wall behind him. “And if you fail, the results will be dire. Without an heir, the title Earl of Englefield dies with me, the estate will be auctioned off to the highest bidder, and the McVie University for the Deaf will lose its sole benefactor, as will the village of Bowhaven. I presume you are up to the task at hand?”

Her stomach twisted and her shoulders bent down as if a three-stone yoke had been placed around her neck. The last thing Bowhaven could take was another blow to the local economy. And McVie? Without the funding from the estate, her sister’s school wouldn’t be able to continue. “I’ll try my best, sir.”

“That will only be acceptable if you are successful. There is no margin for error. This is my grandson we’re speaking of and I want…”

The words died off as something that looked akin to hope and fear and maybe-this-could-work gleamed in his eyes for a heartbeat before disappearing. He slid the piece of paper he’d been holding into a folder and handed it to her. “The investigator’s initial report.”