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.