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

Joanne didn’t leave her spot by the door.

“Sorry, Mr. Whitehall, sir. I don’t think you understand. You need to take this call.”

Hunter cracked his neck loudly, rolling it left and right. “Just take the damn call so we can all move on with our daily plans. I have shit to do.”

“Daily plans?” I marveled. The man was about as productive as a grave robber in a crematorium. “You can wank in the loo. I have a private one in my office.” I frisbeed the key into his hands. The little prat was the best-looking man I’d ever seen outside of a Marvel movie. Fittingly, he also possessed the intellectual capabilities of a torn movie poster. Although it had to be said, marriage agreed with him. I still wouldn’t put him in charge of any nuclear research facility, but at the very least, he wasn’t a reckless sod anymore.

“Ha.” Hunter threw the key back at me. “Go tend to your business before my fist tends to your face.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Hunter’s right,” Cillian drawled, dripping boredom. “Get it over with. Some of us have responsibilities that stretch beyond choosing who to sleep with tonight.”

It was pointless to tell them I’d already chosen Allison Kosinki. She was expected at my flat at eight-thirty.

“Go!” they roared in unison.

With a healthy dose of irritation, I followed Joanne’s hurried footsteps to my office.

“How’re the kids, Jo?”

“Very well, thank you, Your Honor. I mean, Your Highness…” People always got flustered around a royal. Even if they worked with them on a daily basis. “Are you well?”

“Indeed I am.”

“Good. Just remember we’re here for you.”

Uh-huh. No good news was ever received after “we’re here for you.”

Joanne opened the door for me then scurried back to her station, avoiding eye contact.

I glared at the switchboard for a beat.

Someone had better be terribly injured, or even better—dead.

I grabbed the receiver but didn’t say anything. I waited for Mum to make the first move.

“Devvie? Are you there?”

“Mummy.” The term of endearment wasn’t my favorite—it made me sound like a four-year-old—but posh people, unfortunately, oftentimes spoke like they were still in diapers.

“Oh, Devvie. I am devastated! Are you sitting down?”

Still on my feet, I looked around my office, which was designed in an old-fashioned manner—coffered ceiling, built-in cabinetry, a large executive desk. “Yes.”

“Papa passed away tonight.”

I waited to feel something—anything—in light of the news that my father kicked the bucket. But for the life of me, I couldn’t.

Edwin Whitehall had spent the majority of my childhood reminding me that I wasn’t enough. He left me no choice but to run away from my homeland, my country, and denied me the most basic privilege of all—choosing my own wife.

No part of me mourned his death, and even if I’d kept a close relationship with Mum and Cecilia, he’d refused to see me until I married Louisa Butchart, to which I responded, don’t threaten me with a good time.

I’d been having a ball since.

“That’s terrible,” I said flatly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” she sniffed “…f-f-fine.”

She did not, in fact, sound fine.

“Was it sudden?” I leaned a hip against my desk, tucking a hand into the front pocket of my slacks. I knew it was. Mum made a point of telling me all about his golfing and hunting.

“Yes. Heart attack. I woke up this morning and he was next to me, unresponsive.”

“Why, yes, but when did you find out that he was dead?” I murmured under my breath. Thankfully, she didn’t hear me.

“I simply cannot wrap my head around it.” She broke into another bout of tears. “Papa—gone!”

“Terrible,” I repeated numbly, feeling quiet, unabashed glee. The world wasn’t big enough for both me and Edwin.

“He wanted to see you badly,” Mum whimpered. “Especially the last few years.”

I knew that to be true. Not because he had missed me, god forbid, but because I was the de facto heir to the properties, monies, and his marquess title. Everything the Whitehalls valued and stood for lay at my feet, and he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t kick it to the curb.

“My condolences, Mummy,” I said now, with all the sincerity of a used car salesman.

“Will you be attending the funeral?”

“When is it?” I asked.

“Next week.”

“Bloody hell.” I pretended to sound devastated. “Not sure I can make it. I have merger meetings back-to-back. But I’m certainly going to come there and support you as soon as I can.”

Mum and Cece had been visiting me twice a year since I’d moved to the States. I always showed them a good time, showered them with gifts, and made sure they were happy. But going back to England to show Edwin respect was one moral error I would not be able to live with.

“You’ll have to come here at some point, Devon.” Her tenor hardened. “Not only for the reading of the will, but as you well know, Whitehall Court Castle is now legally yours. Not to mention, now that Edwin is dead, you are officially a marquess. The most sought after bachelor in England.”