Chapter Fifteen

Iarrived on English soil approximately twenty minutes after my father’s solicitor, Harry Tindall, returned from his exotic vacation.

I left Sweven with a heavy heart. Not because I was going to miss her (although, pathetically, I suspected that was going to be the case), but also because she seemed an expert at landing herself in hot water.

I took comfort in the fact I’d made some arrangements to ensure her safety. As well as one could, anyway.

Besides, I did not expect to be in England for more than a few hours.

The reading of the will took place in Tindall’s office in Knightsbridge. An official matter that should’ve been done the week my father had passed away. Better late than never, I suppose.

It surprised me that my mother and Cecilia, who were assumingly strapped for cash, did not seem hostile to the idea of waiting for Harry to return from his vacation. Then again, I did send them money and called Mum every other day to ensure she was doing all right.

I arrived at Harry’s office still wearing my work clothes. Ursula, Cece, and Drew were already there, seated in front of Tindall’s desk.

“He should only be a few minutes,” his secretary said. The Joanne-like woman in a full tweed suit brought refreshments inside. Drew attacked the pastry platter and fresh coffee before it was even set on the massive boardroom stand.

My mother hugged me tightly. “Good to see you, Devvie.”

“Same, Mummy.”

“How is that woman doing?”

Thatwoman was Emmabelle Penrose, and as much as I resented her for not wanting to ride me like an unbroken horse, I couldn’t deny the delight I’d felt whenever we spent time together.

“Belle is doing quite well, thank you.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to be a father.” Cecilia flung her arms at me, going for a bear hug.

“I can. It is time I produce an heir. If Edwin’s death reminded us of something, it was that having someone to leave your legacy to is important.”

But that wasn’t the reason I was excited to become a father. I wanted all the things I saw my friends do with their kids. The T-ball games and ice-skating outings and sun-drenched summers on the Cape and stealing a quickie in the shower when the kids were watching Bluey in the other room.

I wanted domestic bliss. To pass down not only my fortune and title, but also my life experience, my morals, and my affections.

Mr. Tindall walked in looking tan and well-rested.

After a round of handshakes, half-arsed condolences, and a terribly boring monologue about Mr. Tindall’s island vacation, he finally opened the file containing my father’s will.

I took Mum’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. I found it clammy and cold.

Prefacing the reading of the will, Tindall cleared his throat, his chin flapping about. He was a very large man, with the tendency to turn fuchsia pink whenever he was rattled. Not what you’d call a grade-A looker.

“I would like to preface this by saying that this will is certainly unconventional, but it was written in accordance with Edwin’s desire to preserve the values and principles of the Whitehall family. That being said, I do hope that everyone will remain respectful and sensible, since, as you all know, it is irrevocable.”

Mum, Cecilia, and Drew all squirmed in their seats, a dead giveaway that they had a fair idea of what could be in the will. I, on the other hand, did not particularly care. I had my own fortune, and I did not rely on anyone else’s.

But as Harry Tindall began reading the will, I got increasingly confused.

“Whitehall Court Castle goes to Devon, the first son…”

The estate went to me, the son he rejected and positively loathed and had not seen in two decades.

“The investment portfolio of two point three million pounds goes to Devon …”

So did all of his funds.

“The car collection goes to Devon …”

In short, everything now belonged to me. I was bracing myself for the punchline. I was listed as the sole inheritor of the estates and monies, but there was no way this would be unconditioned. The more Tindall spoke, the more my mother shrunk into her seat. Cecilia looked the other way, fat tears rolling from her cheeks, and Drew closed his eyes and dropped his head backward, like he didn’t want to be there.

And then, I found it. The fine print. The violent dare.

Mr. Tindall raised his voice when he got to the last sentence.

“All properties and funds will be released upon Devon Whitehall, The Marquess of Fitzgrovia, on the day of his wedding to Lady Louisa Butchart. Until then, they will be held and maintained by Tindall, Davidson and Co. In the event of Mr. Whitehall’s refusal of the arrangement, and/or failure to marry Miss Butchart for a period exceeding twelve calendar months from the date of the reading of the will, the abovementioned properties and funds shall be released and transferred to the multiple charities Edwin Whitehall has aforementioned.” Tindall looked up and arched an eyebrow. “From here on out is a list of The Masters of Foxhounds, dedicating to protecting the sport, and other questionable charities. In case Devon and Louisa do not marry. But, of course, I am sure we will not get to that point.”

Bloody hell.

Edwin Whitehall had left nothing to his wife, daughter, or son-in-law. Even from his grave, he tried to bully me into marrying Louisa, and now, he’d dragged the remainder of my family into that mess.

A distant memory of my conversation with Edwin when I was fourteen years of age resurfaced.

“Now be a good boy and go apologize to Louisa. This matter is settled. You will marry her after you finish Oxford University, and not a moment later, or you will lose your entire inheritance and your family. Am I understood?”

Only I never ended up going to Oxford. I went to Harvard instead.

He said it loud and clear decades ago. It was his way or the highway.

Now he had created the perfect storm. My mother knew if I didn’t marry Lou, she’d be stripped of everything she had—and she was already struggling financially. This was why she was clammy and cagey today. This was why the news of Emmabelle’s pregnancy nearly destroyed her.

“Outrageous,” I commented in my mildest tone, taking a sip of my coffee.

“Quite,” Drew whined. “My darling Cece and I haven’t inherited bloody used toilet paper!” He squashed a cookie to dust in his fist.

“Oh, zip it, would you?” Mother barked impatiently. It was the first time I saw her address her son-in-law directly, and it was fair to say she thought more fondly of war criminals than the latest addition to the family. “Cecilia will be taken care of. I’d never let my daughter go without.”

“Cecilia?” Drew whined, darting up from his seat—but not man enough to actually storm out. “And what about me?”

“I can’t take this will seriously.” I picked an apple from the assortment of refreshments and sprawled in my seat, eyeing Tindall as I rubbed the red fruit clean against my Armani suit.

He gave me the nasty smile of a man who knew I could and indeed should.

“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.”

And then she did something terrible.

Something I couldn’t stomach.

She lowered herself to her knees, right there on the street, her eyes twinkling like diamonds in the night.

She looked up at me, her face defiant, her shoulders shaking.

I wanted to lower myself to her level, to be right there with her, to shake her and explain that I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be what my father had wanted me to be. I never could.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I said, then walked away.

Two nights later, Sam and Cillian dropped in for a visit.

I didn’t entertain a lot because A: there was nothing entertaining about these two dreadful cunts. And B: the longer I was around people, the more I felt pressured into behaving the way normal people did, hiding my flare, my strange musings, and claustrophobia.

For instance, I always used the elevators whenever I visited Royal Pipelines. I had to take half a valium beforehand for courage, but I did it.

Or when we were at Badlands, I had to think before I spoke, no matter what the subject matter was, reminding myself that I had a persona to uphold. That I was a womanizer, a rake, a man of certain tastes and standards.

I could never truly be myself with my mates, which was why even though I liked them on a personal level, I never truly opened up to them about my family.

“The will is iron-clad. I reread it enough times to make my eyes bleed.” I growled into my stiff drink, perched in my study, in front of the only two men I knew who could weasel themselves out of serious trouble, albeit in very different ways.

Now I had to talk to them about my family, even if I only gave them the CliffsNotes version.

“Suddenly the fact that you’ve never told us about your family makes sense.” Cillian stood in front of my floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the scenic view of the Charles River and Boston’s skyline. “Your parents sound worse than mine.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Sam took a sip of his own drink, sitting in front of me on a designer recliner. “And what happens if the charities, say, decide to skip on the fat donations?”

“The money and estate will go to various relatives, none of whom are my immediate family. Quite frankly, every Whitehall man I’ve ever come across is either a drunk, a brute, or both.”

Not to mention, I didn’t want to be indebted to Sam Brennan in any way or form. He had yet to succeed in luring me into business with him, and I wanted to keep it that way.

“Aren’t there primogenitures about shit like that?” Sam asked. “The Crown itself should grant you the lands. Even my simpleton ass knows that.”

“Loopholes,” I explained bitterly. “I’m not an immediate royal relative, so not all rules apply to me.”

Only the ones that were to my father’s liking.

“Remind me why you’re opposed to marrying this Lilian chick?” Cillian brooded.

“Louisa,” I corrected, rolling some ciggies to keep my hands busy. “Because I won’t cower to my father’s demands, not in life and definitely not from beyond the grave. Not to mention, there’s a pre-written prenup my father had put in place to ensure that if we ever got a divorce, she would get everything.”

“Even if you concede to his demand, he’d never know,” Sam growled into his whiskey. “He is, for all intents and purposes, dead.”

“I would know.”

“Marriage takes different faces and forms.” Cillian strode from the window toward the liquor cabinet, sifting through my drinks. “You could marry her and still see other people.”

“And make her miserable?” I chuckled gravelly.

Sam shrugged. “That’s none of your business.”

“I am incapable of making someone suffer unnecessarily.” I scooped up an ice cube, rolling it absentmindedly over the rim of my glass.

“Not incapable, just reluctant,” Cillian drawled. “We’re all capable of whatever it is we need to do to survive.”

“The thing is, I don’t need to survive this. My mother and sister do.” I let the cube drop into my glass. “Would you marry someone for money?”

Sam laughed sardonically, his gray eyes gleaming wickedly. “I would’ve married someone for a piece of toast if I needed to, back in the day. But the universe provided, and I chose my bride because I wanted her, not because I needed her.”

Cillian made a face. “That’s my sister we’re talking about.”

“Don’t remind me.” Sam drained his whiskey. “The fact that Ambrose shares a genetic pool with your ass without my throwing chlorine into it still gives me hives.”

“Peculiar.” Cillian tsked. “I don’t remember you coming from generations upon generations of neurosurgeons and army pilots.”

I didn’t have to ask if Cillian was willing to marry someone he didn’t love. He did exactly that a few years ago and ended up falling for the woman.

I rubbed my knuckles along my jawline. I thought about how Emmabelle would react if I told her I was getting married and realized she would probably laugh it off and ask if she needed to wear a fancy hat for the wedding.

Don’t wait for me.

“Well, my mother does need the money direly. And Cece would like to divorce her husband and start fresh, I suspect. Plus, I want the estate to stay in my immediate family.”

“Then what’s there to think about?” Cillian plucked a brandy bottle from an impressive row and poured himself two fingers. “Marry the woman. Make an escape plan afterward.”

“It’s complicated,” I growled, thinking about the pre-written prenup.

“Dumb it down for us, Einstein,” Cillian coaxed.

“I want the inheritance, not the woman.” Actually, I wanted neither, but Mum and Cecilia needed to be provided for.

“As established, you don’t have to spoon with her for the rest of your fucking life.” Sam knocked down his drink and stood up, done with the conversation. “Just put a ring on her damn finger. Bonus points if you can knock her up so you’ll have someone to leave the inheritance to.”

“I do have someone to leave it to. My child with Emmabelle.”

Cillian threw a pitying look behind his shoulder from across the room. “Leaving a title to a bastard? Really?”

I shot up to my feet, my legs carrying me toward him before I even knew what was happening. I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the liquor cabinet, snarling in his face.

“Call my unborn child a bastard one more time and I’ll make certain you will need all your fucking teeth replaced.”

Brennan jumped up. He put his body between us, pushing us away to the opposite corners of the room.

“Easy there. Cillian has a point. Maybe the reason why you’re so adamant not to marry Laura is because you have a boner for your baby momma.”

“Louisa,” I gritted.

“No, Belle. Even I know that. Get some gingko, man.” Sam shook his head.

“The other woman’s name is Louisa.”

Cillian sipped his whiskey, looking casual, while Sam took a step back, confident we wouldn’t try to kill each other again.

Both of them were staring at me.

“What?” I asked, my eyes narrowing to slits. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

Cilliansmirked. “This is how it starts.”

“How what starts?”

He and Sam exchanged amused looks.

“He’s already gone,” Sam observed.

“Never stood a chance,” Cillian said, inclining his head.

“Poor Livia,” Sam chuckled.

This time, I didn’t correct them.