I could tell Belle was in the mood to list all the ways Baby Whitehall had turned her body into her own Motel 6, when London caught her eye. She sucked in a breath, her pupils dilating, swallowing those azure irises. “Holy shit, Dev. This place looks like a Harry Potter set.”
I looked around to see piles upon piles of stingy, never-ending council flats.
“I’ll ask Joanne to book you an appointment with the optometrist while she’s at it.”
“Shuddup. It’s purty.”
“I’ll show you purty once we leave my solicitor’s office in Knightsbridge.”
“Actually…” she turned to look at me, grinning, “…I’m going solo for a shopping spree. Gotta hit them stores fast and hard to get all my shopping done.”
“I’ll only take a couple hours.” I frowned.
Though Frank and Rick were out of the picture, I was still worried Emmabelle was targeted. Louisa was somewhere out there in the wild, bitter about her unaccomplished mission.
“As much as I’d love to listen to two old farts dividing millions of pounds between charities…” she batted her lashes theatrically as if this was a dream come true, “…I think I’m good.”
I was going to meet Harry Tindall to sign over my inheritance to the charities of my choice. If the Whitehall wealth was going down the drain, I wanted to flush it to organizations that mattered to me.
“There’s no one to watch over you,” I argued.
She cocked an eyebrow. “Hi. Nice to meet you. Belle. Been living with myself for thirty years. Still alive.”
“Just barely,” I scoffed.
“I’m going shopping,” she cemented.
“I’m not going to crawl into any more air ducts for you,” I warned but knew I was about to concede.
“What? Not even dumbwaiters?” Then, before I could answer, she patted her belly. “Don’t worry, Baby Whitehall. Once this old man is out of our way, we’ll be binging on fossil fuel and murder mysteries.”
I let her go.
This time knowing she was going to come back.
The meeting with Harry Tindall stretched over three and a half hours.
I periodically checked my phone to ensure Belle was fine. And by ‘periodically,’ I mean, of course, every fifteen seconds.
It was mostly productive in a sense that I ensured the Whitehall wealth had been donated to the British Red Cross, BHF, and MacMillan Cancer Support. Were it up to Edwin Whitehall, the money would have gone straight to hunting organizations, animal testing labs, and various terror groups. The man had had less of a heart than a jellyfish, and I had no doubt of his ability to worsen the human condition, even from beyond the grave.
“This has tax relief written all over it,” Tindall purred, balancing the three-ton stack of documents on his desk into one neat pile. “I hope your CPA in the States knows how to make the most out of it.”
I stood up. “I’m not doing this for the money.”
“I know,” he said apologetically, “which is refreshing.”
I headed for the door, eager to return to Emmabelle.
“Devon, wait.”
Tindall stood up and wobbled to the door, grimacing, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
I stopped at the threshold, throwing him a look. I knew he was probably less than impressed with how I chose to handle the will, and frankly, I could not give a quarter of a shite regarding the matter.
He twisted his handlebar moustache between his fingers, a villainous gesture that made me stifle a laugh.
“I just wanted you to know that, all in all, you turned out fantastically well, considering your … upbringing. Or lack of, really. Edwin was a dear friend, but he was also a difficult man.”
“Understatement of the millennium.” I patted his shoulder. “Nonetheless, I appreciate it.”
“No, really.” He gripped the door, stepping in front of me, blocking my way out. “For what it’s worth, I’m pleased you didn’t succumb to pressure. The Butcharts are … an eccentric bunch. I wouldn’t tie my fate in theirs.”
“One would think you’d have wanted Louisa and me to have the wedding of a decade.” As a friend of my late father, I meant.
“One would be wrong,” Tindall said, bowing his head modestly. “You’re a marquess now, Devon. You don’t need anyone to assert your title.”
“Actually,” I said, “I don’t need the title either.”
I smiled, taking one step out his door, already feeling my lungs expanding with fresh air and something else.
Something I’d never felt before.
Freedom.
Though I lamented that I would rather conduct a lengthy and passionate affair with a food processor, Emmabelle insisted we go visit my mother at Whitehall Court Castle before we left the United Kingdom.
“The last person she wants to see is me,” I groaned as I drove to Kent on autopilot. I threw her a look. She was buried in green and gold Harrods shopping bags. “Actually, the last person she wants to see is you,” I let out a chuckle. “You’re a reminder of all the things that went wrong with her plan. If you expect a hug and a spontaneous baby shower, you’re in for disappointment.”