Chapter Twelve

Three days after Emmabelle announced her pregnancy, I got on the phone with Mother for our weekly chat. She sounded breathless and delighted. Not for long, I thought. The mirth train would stop as soon as I told her about my pending fatherhood.

While I was delighted at becoming a parent, I was surly about disappointing my mother. Even worse, now that Sweven was pregnant, I was no longer allowed into her messy, in-need-of-a-good-wash bed.

It was like I was being punished for my good behavior.

“Hello, darling Devvie. If this is about Harry Tindall, then I regret to inform you he is still in Cayman Islands, but I got word he’ll be returning fairly soon.”

“Thank you, Mum. But there’s something else we need to talk about.” I strode the length of my apartment—a loft in the Back Bay—wearing nothing but a towel on my waist after a grueling workout.

“There is?” Mum asked. “What’s on your mind, sweets?”

I stopped in front of the fireplace in my living room and flicked the electronic switch on.

“Are you sitting down?” I gave her the same treatment she gave me when my father died. I could hear her sinking into a leather seat.

“I am now,” she sounded strained. “Has something bad happened?”

“Breathe.”

“Breathing is overrated. Just tell me, please.”

“I’m about to become a father.”

“I … uh … what now?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“A dad,” I cemented. “I’m going to have a baby with someone.”

I heard a sharp thud—she probably dropped her phone—followed by her scrambling to pick up the receiver. The next time she spoke into my ear, her breathing was rough and labored. “You mean to tell me you’re about to father a bastard?”

“Or a bastardess,” I said easily. “Probably a bastardess. The mother of the child told me she thinks it’ll be a girl, and she’s not usually wrong.”

“But … but … how? Where? When?”

Was the where really necessary? I had no idea if it happened when I drove into Belle while she was sprawled on her office desk, or when I plowed into her in her shower.

I made my way into the kitchen of my four thousand square foot apartment. I’d never seen something so big and lavish in a building, especially in Back Bay. It was designed with the same meticulous care and old-fashioned nature as my office. Loads of carved oak, expensive fabrics, bronze plinths, and a crimson painted frieze.

Most importantly—it was a vast, open space with very few walls. Exactly as I wished, suffering from raging claustrophobia.

“Her name is Emmabelle. Our liaison was of a casual nature. We were never officially together. She is going to keep the child.”

When the silence on the other line told me my mother needed substantially more information, I added carefully, “Emmabelle is in the burlesque business. You could find a picture of her online. She wrote some articles about sexual liberation as a contributing columnist and posed for an erotic calendar. I believe you two would get along swimmingly.”

I believed no such thing, of course, but disappointing her so close to my father’s death didn’t feel quite right.

“Why would I ever meet her?” Mother retorted.

“Because she is going to be the mother of your precious grandchild,” I said easily.

“I do not consider whatever is going to come out of her a grandchild.” She was so angry her voice shook.

Though I did not expect Mother to throw me a party, I did not expect her to be quite so hostile about the matter either. After all, I had kept my alliance with her and Cecilia and helped them financially. My only expectation was for her to accept the way I lived my life.

And my way did not include locking nonconsenting women in cellars and eating their skin. Having children out of wedlock was common practice in this day and age.

I threw the fridge open, starting to fix myself a turkey sandwich. “Don’t see your grandchild, then. Your loss.”

“I might change my mind with time,” she explained, her tone softening. “I just don’t want one illegitimate child to ruin your entire bright future. This is the twenty-first century. We are perfectly capable of keeping this silent and under control.”

“Why would I want to keep it silent and under control?”

“Because you might want to get married.”

I vowed to never get married, but I didn’t think Mum could take any more bad news in one call.

“In that unlikely event, I’d be upfront with my wife.”

“Not every wife would be happy about it.”

“How about we stop beating around the bush? Say what you want to say.”

“Louisa, Devvie.”

Her name rang in my ear. A throwback to my father making me kiss her made my jaw clench.

“What about her?” I kicked the fridge door shut and slapped turkey over wheat bread, scantily covered in light mayo and some mustard. “Think she is going to accept my arrangement with the burlesque nymph I knocked up?”

“You mean a stripper?” My mother gasped, scandalized. “This is what you call a stripper these days, don’t you?”

“Sure.” I yawned sardonically. “Call her whatever you want.”

My insides turned to lava, sizzling with heat. That was a lie. One Sweven wasn’t going to appreciate. So it was a good thing Mum didn’t want to see her grandchild. Because if she ever tried to look down on Belle in front of her face … God help her, she would have no face to look down from anymore.

“Yes, well, there are ways to work around anything, Devvie. Rakes were not extinguished from the world with modern civilization. We high society women just learned new tricks to keep your discretions discreet.”

“I cannot marry Louisa.” I smacked a slice of cheese on my sandwich with ferocity that implied it was personally responsible for my current distress. “Where is this coming from? You’ve never pushed me on the matter. Only Papa ever did, and he paid for it by losing his only son. Not only can I not marry Louisa, I can’t even be seen with her again. The media in Britain would have a field day if they found out I’m about to father a child out of wedlock with a ditzy American while mooning after a duke’s daughter.”

The Daily Londoner had an entire team of journalists dedicated to following every royal’s move. There was no way this would be kept a secret.

“It’s not the end of this discussion,” my mother informed me, businesslike. “When is this thing due?”

“I believe she is about six or seven weeks along, so this thing will not be here for a while.”

“That’s very early to know you are pregnant. Almost like she planned the whole thing,” my mother mused.

I did not tell her that Emmabelle and I had both agreed to have this child. Though I loved my mother, it was none of her business.

“Not everyone is as cunning as the Whitehalls, Mother.”

I hung up the phone. Taking a bite of my sandwich, I chewed without tasting it.

Whatever my mother’s next move was, I knew I would meet it head-on.

“Are you going to murder me?” My fencing partner, Bruno, asked the next day while I nearly pierced his brain through his mask. A corps-a-corps, bodily contact between two fencers, was illegal in fencing. It was the third time I did it. “What’s bothering you?” Bruno asked through his stainless-steel mask.

Not gracing his question with an answer, I went on the attack again, thinking about my conversation with my mother, about the radio silence coming from Belle.

Fencing was physical chess. It required a level of intellectuality, not just quick limbs and fast instincts. That’s why it was my favorite sport. I lunged forward, while Bruno became more guarded, backing away from the strip.

“Devon.” He stumbled out of the mat, ripping the mask from his head. His face was sweaty, his eyes wide. “Devon, stop!”

It was only after he begged me to stop that I realized I had almost killed him. That he was small and scared, tucked into a corner of the room, his sabre sword down, his body shaking.

“You’re going through something, man. You need to get your shit together.”

With that, he stormed off. I peeled my mask off, frowning.

My shite was never together, you fool.

From there, I went to Sam’s club.

Not to be confused with the retail warehouse chain store. My mate Sam Brennan’s establishment, Badlands, was home to the best gambling tables, whiskey, and cocaine.

The club itself wasn’t underground but instead open to the general public. The poker rooms in the back, however, were carefully curated.

I frequented those rooms as much as I could. At least three times a week. Sometimes more.

Tucked into one of the snug gambling rooms, Sam, Hunter, Cillian, and I played a game of cards around a table covered with green felt. A cloud of cigar smoke hovered over our heads. An assortment of half-empty glasses of brandy and whiskey bracketed our elbows.

“Congrats on knocking up the ultimate femme fatale.” Hunter flashed me his Colgate smile behind his hand of cards. We were playing Rummy, which did nothing to help my already growing suspicion I was, indeed, an old fart in Sweven’s eyes.

A sardonic smirk found my lips. “It was no trouble at all.”

“Trouble? No. Weird? Yes. I didn’t think y’all were still bumping uglies,” Hunter mused.

I had no interest whatsoever in discussing Emmabelle Penrose. Not with Cillian and Hunter—two people whom I still considered clients—and Sam Brennan, whom despite his persistent pleas, I did not agree to take as a client.

“Was it accidental?” Cillian probed, sucking on his cigar and sending me a chillingly hostile gaze. Not because something happened. That was simply his usual expression. The only time he looked remotely content was when he was with his wife and children. Any other time, you could mistake him for a serial killer in the mood to practice his favorite hobby.

“That’s none of your business,” I said cheerfully, sliding a new card off the pile in the middle of the table.

“I’m sure it was an accident. No one is dumb enough to willingly tie their future to that she-wolf.” Sam took a pull of his Guinness, scanning the room with boredom.

“Last I checked, your wife married a man with enough blood on his hands to fill the Mystic River. What does it say about her IQ?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“It means her IQ is divine, like the rest of her. Yours, however, is questionable at best. Knocking my wife to my face is a great way to find yourself six feet under.”

“Control those feelings, son. They could be a tremendous liability.” I patted his hand patronizingly, my tone as blank as my expression. He kept forgetting I wasn’t one of his fanboys. All eyes turned to me curiously.

“Do you have a crush on that wild child?” Hunter gave me a pitiful look. “Damn, Dev. You never defend anyone unless there’s a 100k retainer involved.”

Cillian smirked. “He had a good run.”

“A short one too, if he continues talking to me like that.” Sam chewed on his electric cigarette dispassionately.

This, despite what an outsider might think, was an agreeable evening in our universe.

“I don’t know if I could do it though, man.” Hunter shook his head. The good-looking bastard was cleaner than the pope’s STD results. He hadn’t had a stiff drink in years, not since he got together with his wife.

“I did her quite happily and find it hard to believe any red-blooded man wouldn’t.” I studied my cards, drumming my fingers over the table. Suddenly, the prospect of spending the entire night here wasn’t so appealing.

I wanted to pick up the phone and call Belle, listen to her laugh, to her sharp, witty whips. I knew it wasn’t an option.

“Not being able to be next to the woman who carries your child seems insane. There are so many things you’re not going to experience. The kicks, the little flips the baby does when they change positions. Seeing them for the first time in an ultrasound. I swear to God, the first time I saw Rooney on that black and white screen I almost pissed my pants. She gave me the finger and had her legs wide open.” Hunter let out a proud laugh, like he’d just announced his daughter was nominated for the Nobel Prize.

“The kicking is the good part,” Sam agreed gruffly, drawing another card from the center of the table. “Aisling used to wait up for me after work with a tall glass of cold water and drink it so I could feel Ambrose kick.”

“Since when did you all turn into a bunch of old maids?” I rolled up my sleeves. It was becoming increasingly hot in here, or maybe they were just getting on my nerves.

I wasn’t at all sure that being spared the pregnancy was a good thing. But I didn’t have a choice. I looked over to Cillian, who stayed silent the entire time. Out of all the men at the table, he was the closest to me in character—sans the fact that I actually possessed some kind of heart and a wonky, though still working, moral compass.

“It’s all rubbish, isn’t it?” I huffed at him. “Pregnant women are hormonal, demanding, and out of their bloody minds. My father sent my mother to live with her parents each time she got pregnant just so he wouldn’t have to deal with her.”

All eyes darted to me. I realized I’d finally said something personal about my family, after years—decades—of keeping mum about them.

Cillian was the first one to recover.

“It’s true. A pregnant woman can be all of those things.” He shrugged. “And she is also the person who is carrying the most important human in the world to you. The truth is, you fall in love with a woman twice. Once, so that you want her to give you a child. And a second time, when she does and you realize you cannot live without her.”

Later that night, I stumbled my way out of Badlands and found myself walking toward Madame Mayhem. The two establishments weren’t too far apart, and I could use the fresh winter air.

I gave it some thought during the card game and realized I wanted to take an active role in Emmabelle’s pregnancy. Didn’t Sweven say hers was a high-risk pregnancy? It was important I stayed in the loop in case she needed anything.

Plus, I wanted all the things my mates had.

Flipping babies.

Unborn children giving them the finger during ultrasounds.

Tall glasses of cold water (granted, I forgot the context in which this had been mentioned).

When I got to Madame Mayhem, I remembered how aptly named it was. Chaos teemed between the blood-red walls. There were three people behind the bar. One of them was Emmabelle, her hair sticking to her temples as she ran from one point to the other. The place was overflowing with people. There was no bloody way they adhered to the maximum capacity it could host. Customers were piling on top of each other trying to get to the bar. The supply and demand ratio was askew. Things were getting out of hand. The daft cow had more than enough to take an early leave and monitor her pregnancy, but she wasn’t a fan of yielding control. Well, that made two of us.

Onstage, the burlesque dancers were getting all their moves wrong, too distracted by the commotion. The band played out of tune.

I hopped behind the bar without thinking much of it, took off my tweed jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and began serving people.

“Where’s the beer fridge?” I hollered over the music, using my arse to push the mother of my unborn baby aside. “And the clean glasses.”

“What are you doing here?” Sweven yelled back, dripping sweat. It was worth noting she didn’t look half pleased to be rescued by me.

“Saving you from collapsing.” I took a few orders at once and began popping beer bottles open and doing my best following cocktail recipes from what I remembered in my head.

“I don’t need—” she started with her usual I’m-an-independent-woman-hear-me-roar spiel. I turned toward her abruptly, placing a finger over her lips.

“Help. I know. I don’t doubt that for one second, or I wouldn’t have put a baby inside you. I find neediness quite off-putting, to be honest. But you are also the mother of my future child, and I’m not going to see you work yourself to death. Understood?”

She glared.

“Am. I. Understood?”

“Yes,” she glowered, taken aback.

For the next hour and a half, I served fruity cocktails, refilled wasabi peas bowls, overcharged people for cans of organic soda, and even got tipped an amount akin to what I make the first fifteen seconds of a consultation meeting.

Afterward, when things calmed down, I grabbed Belle by the arm and dragged her into her office. When she was safely inside, I closed the door, walked over to a mini fridge, took out two bottles of water, and unscrewed one, handing it to her.

I hated her office. It was small and confined enough to make my head swim, bringing back bad memories.

“I’m not thirsty,” she sassed.

“Drink this water,” I said through gritted teeth, “or I will tell your sister how little you’re doing to protect this pregnancy.”

“You’ll rat me out?” Her eyes narrowed.

“In a heartbeat, darling.”

Hesitantly, she began sipping the water.

“Why’re you here, Devon?” She leaned against her desk, which, incredibly, was even messier than I remembered.

Did she need an intervention? Was this a treatable condition?

“I had an interesting conversation with the lads tonight. After which I came to the decision that I want to be present during your pregnancy, not just after the delivery. The first trimester is the most crucial one, yes? I can’t have you running around doing five people’s jobs. I want to help take care of you, and the first thing I intend to do is hire two or three more bartenders. You’re awfully short on staff.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she asked, chugging down the rest of her water and wiping her brow.

I was surprised she didn’t fight me on that point. Then again, she looked particularly greenish and not at all her usual nymph self.

“The problem is, I have insane standards and no one Ross and I have interviewed so far seems good enough. I have to make sure I hire people who would be good with my dancers and with the other bartenders.”

“You can’t work yourself to the bone.”

“Can’t I?” Her head lolled from side to side, like it wasn’t entirely connected to her neck. I was becoming increasingly worried this woman was going to kill herself just to prove a point. “I’ve done a good job so far, haven’t I?”

“At what price?” I stepped in her direction, using every ounce of my self-control not to touch her. It seemed unnatural not to put my hands on her when we were together, but it was something I had to get used to. I needed to respect our agreement. “And why would you want to anyway? Hasn’t this experience taught you anything? There’s more to life than work.”

A mocking laugh rolled out of her. “Easy for you to say, you’re a damn royal, bruh. You were born into money.”

There was no point telling her that I hadn’t had access to a penny of my family’s fortune since the age of twenty-one, or that bruh was not, in fact, a word, but rather a spit in the face to the English language.

“You’re not fooling me or yourself, Sweven. We all make decisions emotionally then tag rational reasoning to them. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. You must concentrate on what’s important. Let me deal with finding you new employees. I will speak to this Ross bloke. I already feel quite close to him, seeing as I sniffed his bullocks a few weeks ago.”

She let out a faint laugh, slumping into herself like a collapsed blanket fort, looking tired and young. Too young all of a sudden.

“All right?” I tilted my chin down.

She nodded. “Whatever. But that doesn’t mean you get to act like you’re running this show. It’s a one-off, okay?”

“A one-off,” I agreed, when in my heart I knew it was going to be one of many.

And that I was not done screwing her either.