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.”
Most sought after bachelor in England, my foot. Marrying into a royal family was only marginally worse than marrying into the mafia. At least Carmella Soprano didn’t have to deal with The Daily Mail photographers taking pictures of her bin’s content.
“I’ll arrive to ensure the smooth transition of the estate and funds,” I said. “And, of course, to be there for you and Cece. How’s she handling it?”
“Not well.”
My mother lived in the Whitehall Court Castle and so did my sister Cecilia and her husband, Drew. I intended to hand over the castle to them—I was never going to live in the bloody thing, anyway—and allot them a monthly allowance to keep them comfortable.
“I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Which, for the record, would still be too soon.
The last time I’d seen my mother was a year ago. I wondered what she looked like these days. Was she still tragically beautiful, draped head-to-toe in black silks? Did she maintain the habit of an afternoon cuppa with her lady friends, where she allowed herself half a shortbread cookie she’d later burn off on the treadmill?
“It’s been over twenty years,” she said.
“I can count, Mummy.”
“And although we’ve seen each other often … it’s not the same when you’re not here.”
“I know that too. And I’m sorry I had to go away.” I wasn’t. Boston suited me fine. It was culturally diverse, inherently rough, and drenched in history, much like London. But without the paparazzi chasing after me or upper-class aunties throwing their daughters at my doorstep hoping I’d make one of them my lawful wife.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Mum sounded like a crushed widow like I sounded like Celine Dion. It must be the shock, I thought.
“Someones. Plural. I am, as you’re well-informed by your friends across the pond, a well-established rake.”
This part was true. I loved women. I loved them even more without their clothes. And I made it a point to go through them like they were the morning paper—one time was enough, and they needed to be exchanged daily.
“So was your father, until a certain point,” Mum mused.
I picked up a wooden humidor, turning it in my hand. “That point was not after he’d gotten married, so don’t mourn him too hard.”
She whimpered in protest but changed the subject, knowing it was too late to convince me my father was anything but a monster. “Louisa is single again. You must’ve heard.”
“I mustn’t have.” I put the humidor back on the desk, as the scent of aged tobacco leaves and amber musk filled my nostrils.
Louisa was my least favorite topic to talk about with Mum, even though she came up quite often. I was highly tempted to curl the cord of the switchboard around my neck and tug. “I don’t keep tabs on anyone from home.”