The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

“I’m sorry, Devon. You should know better than anyone that law and justice have nothing to do with one another. The will is irreversible, as unreasonable as it may seem to you. Edwin was lucid and present when he wrote it. I have three witnesses to attest to that.”

“He’s breaking hundreds of years of tradition,” I noted. I would be the first son since the seventeenth century to be given an empty treasure chest. “Then again, tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.”

“Whatever tradition is, it is here to stay,” Tindall scoffed.

“There is another way.” Mum approached gently, putting her hand on my arm. “You could get to know Louisa …”

“I’m going to become a father.” I turned in her direction, frowning.

My mother hitched one delicate shoulder. “There are modern families everywhere these days. Ever watched Jeremy Kyle? A man can father children with more than one woman. Sometimes even more than three.”

“Are you getting life lessons from Jeremy Kyle now?” I drawled.

“Devvie, I’m sorry, but you have more than just yourself to think about. There’s me and Cece.”

“And me,” Drew butted in. Like I cared if he keeled over right here and now and was dragged into hell by the ear by Satan himself.

“The answer is no.” The ice in my voice offered no room for argument.

I had avoided my father all those years, partly because he couldn’t accept my decision regarding Louisa, and now I was at risk of losing Mum and Cecilia over it. Because no matter how rich I was, how capable I was of taking care of them on my own—I was robbing them of millions in estate and fortune by not marrying Lou.

“Devon, please—”

I stood up and stormed out of the office—out of the building—lighting a hand-rolled cigarette and pacing across the pebbled road. Darkness descended on the streets of London. Harrods was awash with bright golden lights.

It reminded me of the famous history nugget. Harrods had sold kits with syringes and tubes of cocaine and heroin during the First World War, mainly for wounded soldiers who were either nursed back to health or were dying a painful death.

I remembered those stories both well and fondly. Mum’s family was one of the merchants who sold the product to the posh department store. That was how they became so filthy rich.

Mum’s family had an abundance of poppy fields, a flower known to symbolize the remembrance of those who lost their lives during WWI, for its ability to blossom anywhere, even during distress.

I quite fancied Emmabelle Penrose to be like that flower.

Sweet but vicious. Multifaceted.

“My goodness, you’ve let your emotions get the best of you. That exhibition inside was pure Yankee behavior. Your father must be rolling in his grave.” Mum poured herself into the freezing cold of London’s winter, bundling up in a checkered white and black peacoat.

I sucked hard on my rollie, releasing a train of smoke skyward. “I hope he rolls himself all the way to hell, if he isn’t there already.”

“Devvie, for goodness’ sake,” Mum chided, making a show of fixing my jacket collar. “I’m sorry you’re in this position, darling.”

“No need to be. I hadn’t played into Edwin’s hands when he was alive, and I’m not going to do it now.”

“You will. In a few days, perhaps weeks, after you calm down, you’ll realize that marrying Louisa is best for everyone. You, Cece, the Butcharts—”

“And, of course, you.” I smirked darkly.

She blinked at the ancient buildings in front of us, looking dejected and glum. “Is it so wrong that I think I should be entitled to some of my own fortune?”

“No.” I flicked my cigarette, watching as it tumbled down the sewer. “But you should’ve talked him out of amending the will.”

“I had no idea,” she murmured, staring hard at what Belle would call “fresh-ass nails.” The mother of my future baby was quite fond of attaching the word ass almost to anything.

“Is that so?” I watched her carefully.

“It is.”

Something occurred to me then. I swiveled in her direction, narrowing my eyes. “Wait a minute. Now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why Byron and Benedict goaded me about Louisa the entire dinner when I showed up at Edwin’s funeral.”

“Devvie, I do wish you’d call him Pap—”

“Why she was there. Why she was forgiving, and sympathetic, and pliant. You all knew I was going to be pushed into a corner to marry her, and you played your cards.”

“Oh, of course I knew.” Mum sighed tiredly, slackening against the building and closing her eyes. She looked ancient all of a sudden. Not the same, glamorous woman I grew up with. “Edwin told me about the will after executing it. There was nothing I could do about it. Our mutual funds had dwindled over the course of the last decade, and everything we had left—his car collection and properties—he bequeathed to you. I am essentially poor. You cannot do this to me. You cannot not marry Louisa.”