The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(43)

Most importantly—it was a vast, open space with very few walls. Exactly as I wished, suffering from raging claustrophobia.

“Her name is Emmabelle. Our liaison was of a casual nature. We were never officially together. She is going to keep the child.”

When the silence on the other line told me my mother needed substantially more information, I added carefully, “Emmabelle is in the burlesque business. You could find a picture of her online. She wrote some articles about sexual liberation as a contributing columnist and posed for an erotic calendar. I believe you two would get along swimmingly.”

I believed no such thing, of course, but disappointing her so close to my father’s death didn’t feel quite right.

“Why would I ever meet her?” Mother retorted.

“Because she is going to be the mother of your precious grandchild,” I said easily.

“I do not consider whatever is going to come out of her a grandchild.” She was so angry her voice shook.

Though I did not expect Mother to throw me a party, I did not expect her to be quite so hostile about the matter either. After all, I had kept my alliance with her and Cecilia and helped them financially. My only expectation was for her to accept the way I lived my life.

And my way did not include locking nonconsenting women in cellars and eating their skin. Having children out of wedlock was common practice in this day and age.

I threw the fridge open, starting to fix myself a turkey sandwich. “Don’t see your grandchild, then. Your loss.”

“I might change my mind with time,” she explained, her tone softening. “I just don’t want one illegitimate child to ruin your entire bright future. This is the twenty-first century. We are perfectly capable of keeping this silent and under control.”

“Why would I want to keep it silent and under control?”

“Because you might want to get married.”

I vowed to never get married, but I didn’t think Mum could take any more bad news in one call.

“In that unlikely event, I’d be upfront with my wife.”

“Not every wife would be happy about it.”

“How about we stop beating around the bush? Say what you want to say.”

“Louisa, Devvie.”

Her name rang in my ear. A throwback to my father making me kiss her made my jaw clench.

“What about her?” I kicked the fridge door shut and slapped turkey over wheat bread, scantily covered in light mayo and some mustard. “Think she is going to accept my arrangement with the burlesque nymph I knocked up?”

“You mean a stripper?” My mother gasped, scandalized. “This is what you call a stripper these days, don’t you?”

“Sure.” I yawned sardonically. “Call her whatever you want.”

My insides turned to lava, sizzling with heat. That was a lie. One Sweven wasn’t going to appreciate. So it was a good thing Mum didn’t want to see her grandchild. Because if she ever tried to look down on Belle in front of her face … God help her, she would have no face to look down from anymore.

“Yes, well, there are ways to work around anything, Devvie. Rakes were not extinguished from the world with modern civilization. We high society women just learned new tricks to keep your discretions discreet.”

“I cannot marry Louisa.” I smacked a slice of cheese on my sandwich with ferocity that implied it was personally responsible for my current distress. “Where is this coming from? You’ve never pushed me on the matter. Only Papa ever did, and he paid for it by losing his only son. Not only can I not marry Louisa, I can’t even be seen with her again. The media in Britain would have a field day if they found out I’m about to father a child out of wedlock with a ditzy American while mooning after a duke’s daughter.”

The Daily Londoner had an entire team of journalists dedicated to following every royal’s move. There was no way this would be kept a secret.

“It’s not the end of this discussion,” my mother informed me, businesslike. “When is this thing due?”

“I believe she is about six or seven weeks along, so this thing will not be here for a while.”

“That’s very early to know you are pregnant. Almost like she planned the whole thing,” my mother mused.

I did not tell her that Emmabelle and I had both agreed to have this child. Though I loved my mother, it was none of her business.

“Not everyone is as cunning as the Whitehalls, Mother.”

I hung up the phone. Taking a bite of my sandwich, I chewed without tasting it.

Whatever my mother’s next move was, I knew I would meet it head-on.




“Are you going to murder me?” My fencing partner, Bruno, asked the next day while I nearly pierced his brain through his mask. A corps-a-corps, bodily contact between two fencers, was illegal in fencing. It was the third time I did it. “What’s bothering you?” Bruno asked through his stainless-steel mask.

Not gracing his question with an answer, I went on the attack again, thinking about my conversation with my mother, about the radio silence coming from Belle.

Fencing was physical chess. It required a level of intellectuality, not just quick limbs and fast instincts. That’s why it was my favorite sport. I lunged forward, while Bruno became more guarded, backing away from the strip.