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

The original plan was to arrive a day after the funeral. They must’ve conducted the funeral a day early, seeing as they did not need to accommodate my schedule any longer. I showed up during the last act, when the casket was lowered into the ground.

My father was buried in the back of Whitehall Court Castle, by a deserted church, where his ancestors had been buried. Where, presumably, I would one day rest for eternity too.

My childhood home was a grand fortress. With medieval-style turrets, Gothic Revival architecture, granite and marble, and an unholy amount of arched windows. The castle was surrounded by a horseshoe-shaped garden at the front, and an out-of-service old church around the back. There were two barns, four servant cottages, and a manicured walkway leading to a wild forest.

On a clear day, you could see the French coast from Whitehall Court Castle’s rooftop. Memories of my younger self, lean and bronzed, daring the sun to burn me alive and melt me into the stone I’d lain upon, chased one another in my head.

I strode toward the thick cluster of people in black, mentally ticking off the attendance list in my head.

Mum was there, dainty and dignified as ever, patting her nose with a wad of tissues.

My sister, Cecilia, was there with her husband Drew Hasting, whom I’d met multiple times when they visited me in the States. Though I skipped their wedding in Kent, I made sure to gift the couple a lovely studio apartment in Manhattan so they could visit me regularly.

Cecilia and Drew were both plump and tall. I suppose to the naked eye, they looked like twins. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder but did not acknowledge one another. Though I had tried very hard to like Hasting for the sake of my sister, I couldn’t ignore how staggeringly unimpressive his entire being was.

While he did come from good pedigree and a highly connected family, he had been known around gentlemen clubs in England as a rather dull, dim-witted man who couldn’t hold on to a job if one chained itself to his leg.

Byron and Benedict were standing on the far end of the throng. They were in their mid forties, both looking bloated and wrinkled. It was as though they had spent every waking moment since I’d left drinking and smoking themselves into their current state.

And then there was Louisa Butchart.

At thirty-nine, Louisa had managed to become agreeable to the eye. She had hair as dark as my soul, short and shiny, scarlet lips, and a fine and graceful bone structure. Her trim figure was clad in a double-breasted black coat.

A woman any respectable man of my position and title would want on his arm.

I had to admit if it wasn’t for the fact I needed to reject her on principle, Louisa was sure to make a man like me very happy one day.

I tucked a rollie into the side of my mouth and lit it up as I made my way to the gaping hole in the lush green grass. I stopped when my chest bumped into Cecilia’s back. I leaned forward, my lips finding her ear.

“’ello, Sis.”

Cecilia turned to me, her blue eyes swimming with shock. I kept my gaze on the coffin as little by little, piles of dirt concealed it from view. For a moment, I was acutely aware of the fact that everyone’s attention had drifted from the casket and focused on me. I couldn’t blame them. They probably thought I was a hologram.

“Devvie!” Cecilia threw her arms over my shoulders, burying her face in my neck. “How we’ve missed you! Mummy said you wouldn’t be here until tomorrow.”

I wrapped my arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “Lovely girl, I will always be here for you.”

Even if I have to honor the wanker who gave me life.

“My goodness. I almost had a heart attack!” Mother cried out. She hobbled toward me, her heels sinking into the muddy ground. The air smelled like English rain. Like home. I collected her in my arms and squeezed, kissing her cheek.

“Mummy.”

Mourners began huddling toward us, curious glances on their faces. It made me pettily content, knowing I’d yet again stolen the limelight from Edwin, even on his last journey.

Mum reared her head back, placing her frozen palms on my cheeks, tears making her eyes glitter. “You’re so handsome. So … so tall! I keep forgetting your face if I don’t see you over a few months.”

Despite myself, something between a grumble and a laugh escaped me.

I’d been so adamant not to return to England as long as my father was alive, I almost forgot how much I had missed Mother and Cecilia.

“You managed to make it, ay? Good on you, mate.” Drew clapped my back.

Still hugging my mother, I felt a hesitant hand on my arm. When I swiveled my head, I caught Cecilia smiling shyly, her skin pink, fragile as lightbulb glass.

“I’ve missed you, Brother,” she said quietly.

“Cece,” I growled, almost in pain. I stepped out of the embrace with my mother and gathered my sister into my arms. Her yellow curls tickled my nose. I was surprised to discover she still smelled of green apples, winter, and the woods. Of a childhood with too many rules and too little laughs.

Regret ripped me open.

I’d all but deserted my younger sister. Left her to fend for herself when she was a teenager.

Mum was right. Coming back to England did resurface old memories and unsolved issues.

“Will you be staying for a while?” Cece pleaded.

“I’m staying for a few days.” I stroked her hair, glancing over the top of her head and making eye contact with Drew, who shifted from foot to foot, looking anything but happy to have another male in the house. “At least,” I added meaningfully.