The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

It was mostly productive in a sense that I ensured the Whitehall wealth had been donated to the British Red Cross, BHF, and MacMillan Cancer Support. Were it up to Edwin Whitehall, the money would have gone straight to hunting organizations, animal testing labs, and various terror groups. The man had had less of a heart than a jellyfish, and I had no doubt of his ability to worsen the human condition, even from beyond the grave.

“This has tax relief written all over it,” Tindall purred, balancing the three-ton stack of documents on his desk into one neat pile. “I hope your CPA in the States knows how to make the most out of it.”

I stood up. “I’m not doing this for the money.”

“I know,” he said apologetically, “which is refreshing.”

I headed for the door, eager to return to Emmabelle.

“Devon, wait.”

Tindall stood up and wobbled to the door, grimacing, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

I stopped at the threshold, throwing him a look. I knew he was probably less than impressed with how I chose to handle the will, and frankly, I could not give a quarter of a shite regarding the matter.

He twisted his handlebar moustache between his fingers, a villainous gesture that made me stifle a laugh.

“I just wanted you to know that, all in all, you turned out fantastically well, considering your … upbringing. Or lack of, really. Edwin was a dear friend, but he was also a difficult man.”

“Understatement of the millennium.” I patted his shoulder. “Nonetheless, I appreciate it.”

“No, really.” He gripped the door, stepping in front of me, blocking my way out. “For what it’s worth, I’m pleased you didn’t succumb to pressure. The Butcharts are … an eccentric bunch. I wouldn’t tie my fate in theirs.”

“One would think you’d have wanted Louisa and me to have the wedding of a decade.” As a friend of my late father, I meant.

“One would be wrong,” Tindall said, bowing his head modestly. “You’re a marquess now, Devon. You don’t need anyone to assert your title.”

“Actually,” I said, “I don’t need the title either.”

I smiled, taking one step out his door, already feeling my lungs expanding with fresh air and something else.

Something I’d never felt before.

Freedom.




Though I lamented that I would rather conduct a lengthy and passionate affair with a food processor, Emmabelle insisted we go visit my mother at Whitehall Court Castle before we left the United Kingdom.

“The last person she wants to see is me,” I groaned as I drove to Kent on autopilot. I threw her a look. She was buried in green and gold Harrods shopping bags. “Actually, the last person she wants to see is you,” I let out a chuckle. “You’re a reminder of all the things that went wrong with her plan. If you expect a hug and a spontaneous baby shower, you’re in for disappointment.”

“Your mom can shove it.” Sweven rolled her eyes, checking her scarlet lipstick in the passenger mirror. “I want to see where you grew up.”

“Even if I hate the place?”

“Especially because you do.”

We arrived just before darkness creeped in. The green rolling hills of Kent came into view. I spotted the castle from a distance. It looked darker than I remembered, folding into itself like a shrinking violet.

Like it knew how I’d turned my back on the Whitehall name—and it was not going to forgive me.

“Damn, bro. You make the Fitzpatricks look like the assholes down the street who could afford non-domestic vacations and an in-ground pool,” Belle laughed. “This is rich-rich. Like, Mommy-can-I-have-a-diamond-tiara for breakfast rich.”

“Should I have flaunted my wealth?” I side-eyed her, cocking an eyebrow.

“Are you kidding me?” She threw her arms over my neck, kissing my cheek. Harrods bags collapsed between us, the symbol of love. “I was scared shitless of averagely rich Devon. You know how intimidated I’d have been if I knew you were employing ass-wipers and people whose entire job is to blow cold air on your tea?”

At this point, I lost the thread of the conversation. What was she on about?

I pulled the Range Rover by the front gate, killed the engine, and got out. Sweven rounded the front of the car and joined me.

It was still technically my estate. A few weeks ago, I’d planned to sign it over to my mother. Now, she’d lost that privilege too. Call me petty, but I did not appreciate how she’d sent someone to chase my girlfriend away. So the current deal was that Mum, Cecilia, and Drew were to get the fuck out of there by the end of the month. Where to, I had no idea nor desire to know.

I reached for Belle’s hand when I noticed the trucks. There were three of them parked in a neat row in front of the entrance, trunks open. Young blokes in coveralls yelled at each other in Polish as they flung furniture into them.

“Devon?” My sister’s voice rang from the woods. I turned to see her making her way from the thick curtain of trees, lifting her skirts in one hand. “Is that really you?”

She hurried toward me. My heart caught in my throat. Just for a second, she looked like the Cece I’d grown up with. The one I held by the legs and pretended her mass of blond curls was a broomstick, sweeping the floor with them while she giggled. I blew raspberries on her bare stomach and told her to stop farting. Taught her how to snap her fingers and whistle “Patience” by Guns N’ Roses—and not just the chorus.