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?”
That woman 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.”