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

“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.

I sucked hard on my rollie, releasing a train of smoke skyward. “I hope he rolls himself all the way to hell, if he isn’t there already.”

“Devvie, for goodness’ sake,” Mum chided, making a show of fixing my jacket collar. “I’m sorry you’re in this position, darling.”

“No need to be. I hadn’t played into Edwin’s hands when he was alive, and I’m not going to do it now.”

“You will. In a few days, perhaps weeks, after you calm down, you’ll realize that marrying Louisa is best for everyone. You, Cece, the Butcharts—”

“And, of course, you.” I smirked darkly.

She blinked at the ancient buildings in front of us, looking dejected and glum. “Is it so wrong that I think I should be entitled to some of my own fortune?”

“No.” I flicked my cigarette, watching as it tumbled down the sewer. “But you should’ve talked him out of amending the will.”

“I had no idea,” she murmured, staring hard at what Belle would call “fresh-ass nails.” The mother of my future baby was quite fond of attaching the word ass almost to anything.

“Is that so?” I watched her carefully.

“It is.”

Something occurred to me then. I swiveled in her direction, narrowing my eyes. “Wait a minute. Now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why Byron and Benedict goaded me about Louisa the entire dinner when I showed up at Edwin’s funeral.”

“Devvie, I do wish you’d call him Pap—”

“Why she was there. Why she was forgiving, and sympathetic, and pliant. You all knew I was going to be pushed into a corner to marry her, and you played your cards.”

“Oh, of course I knew.” Mum sighed tiredly, slackening against the building and closing her eyes. She looked ancient all of a sudden. Not the same, glamorous woman I grew up with. “Edwin told me about the will after executing it. There was nothing I could do about it. Our mutual funds had dwindled over the course of the last decade, and everything we had left—his car collection and properties—he bequeathed to you. I am essentially poor. You cannot do this to me. You cannot not marry Louisa.”

And then she did something terrible.

Something I couldn’t stomach.

She lowered herself to her knees, right there on the street, her eyes twinkling like diamonds in the night.

She looked up at me, her face defiant, her shoulders shaking.

I wanted to lower myself to her level, to be right there with her, to shake her and explain that I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be what my father had wanted me to be. I never could.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I said, then walked away.




Two nights later, Sam and Cillian dropped in for a visit.

I didn’t entertain a lot because A: there was nothing entertaining about these two dreadful cunts. And B: the longer I was around people, the more I felt pressured into behaving the way normal people did, hiding my flare, my strange musings, and claustrophobia.

For instance, I always used the elevators whenever I visited Royal Pipelines. I had to take half a valium beforehand for courage, but I did it.

Or when we were at Badlands, I had to think before I spoke, no matter what the subject matter was, reminding myself that I had a persona to uphold. That I was a womanizer, a rake, a man of certain tastes and standards.

I could never truly be myself with my mates, which was why even though I liked them on a personal level, I never truly opened up to them about my family.

“The will is iron-clad. I reread it enough times to make my eyes bleed.” I growled into my stiff drink, perched in my study, in front of the only two men I knew who could weasel themselves out of serious trouble, albeit in very different ways.

Now I had to talk to them about my family, even if I only gave them the CliffsNotes version.

“Suddenly the fact that you’ve never told us about your family makes sense.” Cillian stood in front of my floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the scenic view of the Charles River and Boston’s skyline. “Your parents sound worse than mine.”