The plane trees that filled the park were in full color—a mottled yellow and red. The oaks had gone red and orange and the paths were littered with fallen leaves, every color of autumn. They crunched under his boots as he strode past tourists taking photographs on their phones.
His dream had cast a strange pall over the day. It was erotic, yes, and he’d liked it (of course), but it had left him unsettled, the way too-vivid dreams could. In the dream, Regan had spoken with such honesty that he’d believed her, that she really would die the second their bodies parted. And it hadn’t been erotic exaggeration on her part. It had been the truth.
At that moment, he realized he hadn’t been having a dream but a nightmare. What unsettled him wasn’t that it was a nightmare, but that it was a nightmare from which he hadn’t wanted to awake.
He blamed the dream on the conversation they’d had in The Pearl’s old smoking lounge, about how learning about death was the end of childhood. That was all. Fitting that the dream took place at Wingthorn Hall. She was just like their famous roses, loved not for their petals but their enormous thorns.
A young couple from Japan interrupted his reverie, and he was glad for the chance to shake off the dream. Smiling kindly, they asked if he would take their photo in front of the Serpentine, the bridge in the background. The Serpentine had been a pet project of Queen Caroline, one of Arthur’s many exalted ancestors on his father’s side. Could they imagine that the random man they’d asked to take their picture shared DNA with kings and queens, lords and knights?
They didn’t. They couldn’t. And he liked them the better for it. They might have found someone else to ask if they’d known he was the titled son of a wealthy earl and not, as he appeared, just a lad in his early twenties, probably a university student, out for a walk.
He had never taken his “noble” ancestry seriously. His paternal grandmother had been quite a genealogist and kept the family tree updated. To Arthur, his ancestors had nothing to do with him. Yes, so a great-grand-great-whatever grandfather had fought beside King Henry the Eighth in the Battle of the Spurs. Meanwhile, his mother’s grandmother had worked as a typist at a publisher in New York City. She’d moved up from typist to editorial assistant to editor-in-chief by her death and imbued a working-class family with a love of the arts and literature.
That impressed Arthur much more than his rich and titled relatives on his father’s side. They’d been born rich, stayed rich, and died rich. Or, in the case of Lord Malcolm’s generation, had been born land rich and cash poor, which inspired his great-great grandmother to force Malcolm into a marriage to the daughter of a war profiteer with blood money to spare.
Was that noble? Really? Did someone who’d sell a free-spirited son into a loveless marriage to the daughter of a man who’d made his fortune manufacturing mustard gas really deserve the title of “Lady”? Did Malcolm, a man who’d spent the last of his family’s fortune on paintings and prostitutes really deserve the title of “Lord”?
They were all whores, weren’t they? No wonder Arthur took so naturally to selling himself. It was a Godwick family tradition.
Charlie was waiting for him at a table in the corner at The Tea Room. Arthur was glad to see he looked well-rested, much better than he had last time he saw him, even flirting with a girl at another table. Charlie was a good-looking lad, a “pretty boy” as girls had said. Rust-colored hair—he took after their father in that—and blue eyes. He’d already ordered scones with jam and clotted cream, and they were mostly gone when Arthur sat down.
“How’re the scones here?” Arthur asked as he reached for the teapot.
Charlie shrugged. “What did you want?”
“Didn’t want anything. I’m allowed to see if you’re all right, right?”
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
“I said I was.”
Arthur sighed. How had it gotten like this between them? They’d been best mates for sixteen years. Then, suddenly, it was as if someone flipped a switch and Charlie decided to hate him, hate himself, hate everyone and everything.
“I did want to ask you something,” Arthur said. “Did Regan ever—”
“Who?”
“Regan Ferry? The lady you’re in hock to for a hundred grand?”
“The girls just called her the boss.”
“Right. So. Did the boss ever say anything to you about our family? She made it clear to me she’s got a grudge against us that has nothing to do with your ‘hotel’ tab.”
“We didn’t talk much.” Charlie stared at his plate. “She just said I had to pay my bill. When I told her I didn’t have the money and it would take me forever to get it, she said she’d take the painting of old Malcolm. I told her Mum and Dad loved that painting. You know why.”
Yes, Arthur knew why…not that he believed it. Not really. Except he never loved being alone in a room with Lord Malcolm’s painting, the feeling that he was always being watched by those dark eyes far too much like his own.
“You offered her a Degas? A Picasso?”
“I offered her the bloody Rembrandt, Art. She wanted Malcolm. I knew Mum and Dad would kill me later when they found out, but if I didn’t give her what she wanted…I was afraid, okay? I thought it would at least buy me some time to figure out an alternative.”
Charlie played with the crumbs on his plate, piling them into a little hill.
“Anything else?” Arthur asked.
Charlie shook his head. He picked up the tea pot, but it was empty.
“I can get us more tea,” Arthur said.
“Don’t bother.”
“No, I’ll get it.”
“We could go to a pub.”
“At three in the afternoon? Can you not manage one day sober?”
“Can you not manage one day without treating me like a child?”
Arthur stared at him for a beat. Then he said, “What did I ever do to you except clean up all your disasters? Do you have any idea what I’m doing for you to keep you out of trouble?”
“Shagging her, right? Poor you.”
Arthur scoffed. “It’s a little more than that.”
“You want me to give you a medal?”
“You could at least say thank you.”
“Don’t pretend you’re doing me any favors,” Charlie said. “You got exactly what you wanted—one more reason to hate me.”
Charlie got up and left without another word.
The waitress brought Arthur the bill. As usual, he paid for them both.
When Zoot answered the penthouse door, she dropped into a low and surprisingly graceful curtsy. “Good evening, my lord,” she said. “You’re early.”
“Good evening, my lady,” Arthur said with an equally sarcastic but well-executed bow. “I am.”
That got a small, almost sincere smile out of Zoot. He entered, carrying a small framed art print wrapped in canvas. It was seven-thirty. Traffic had been light, and he didn’t feel like waiting in the lobby now that he’d been seen waltzing with Regan. He hoped she’d forgive him being early this once.
“The boss lady’s in her private office. This way,” Zoot said, showing him to a small room down the hall to the left of the fireplace. She knocked on the door, but didn’t wait for an answer before opening it. “Lady Ferry, Lord Dogshit here to see you,” she announced.
Regan was seated behind an enormous ornately carved mahogany desk. A lion’s head was carved into the front panel, with lion’s paws for the feet.
“Thank you, Zoot,” Regan said, barely glancing up from her papers. “Is it eight already?”
“He’s early, Boss,” she said before slipping out the door, leaving them alone.
Regan’s hair was in a French plait again, falling elegantly over her shoulder. She wore a black dress, short with a deep V neckline. A long strand of pearls was looped twice around her neck, first flush with her throat and then dangling between her breasts. He couldn’t stop staring at her. The dream of them endlessly fucking came back
to him in a rush that left his heart racing. If she’d let him, he’d have her on her desk right that second.
“Nice desk,” he said, trying to focus on anything but sex.
“Your great-grandfather’s,” she said. “When he died, the hotel seized his belongings since he owed The Pearl so much money. Unfortunately he didn’t leave the keys to the desk. You don’t have his old keys, do you? I’ve been trying to get into the bottom drawer for years.”
He heard her toeing the drawer with the tip of her shoe.
“I’ll ask Dad, but I don’t think so,” he said.
Zoot stuck her head in the door. “Going now unless you need anything more?” She pointed a thumb at Arthur. “Want me to show this one out?”
“No, thank you,” Regan said breezily.
“You sure?”
“Very sure.”
“You sure you’re sure?”
“Zoot. Goodnight.”
“Night, Boss.” In an exaggerated posh accent, she added to Arthur, “And prithee goodnight, my lord and liege.”
“Ta,” Arthur said. When he heard the penthouse door close, he turned back to Regan. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“What was your first clue?” Regan said, flipping through some files.
“Any particular reason why or just general animosity toward men and/or the nobility?”
“It’s your average everyday case of jealousy,” Regan replied. “She likes me. She thinks I like you more.”
“You treat me like a whore,” he said.
“Yes, but you like being treated like a whore. Therefore, I treat you the way you want to be treated, so you can hardly complain, can you?”
He thought for a moment, but had no comeback.
“I would apologize that you have to watch me finish up my work for the day, but that’s what happens when you don’t follow instructions,” she said, closing her laptop. “Finished. Or close enough. Wine?”
“Please.”
She left to fetch a bottle. Arthur took a book from the shelf and flipped through it. Regan returned with a Rosanella Syrah and two glasses. She took a corkscrew out of her desk drawer.
“Were these all your textbooks from LOCAD?” Arthur asked, showing her the cover of the book he held. A History of Modern Art. Every last book on her shelves was about art or a famous artist, technique guides, art histories…There were even large padded envelopes sitting on the floor by the shelves, recent purchases. One had a label from Prestel, another from Phaidon. Famous art book publishers. New additions to her collection, apparently.
He looked at Regan. She pulled the cork from the bottle, and didn’t meet his eyes when she replied. “How did you know I went to LOCAD?”
“I Googled you.”
She shook her head. “A few are old textbooks,” she said, pouring two glasses. “The rest I’ve bought over the years.”
“Why did you quit art school?”
“Got married.”
“Did you want to quit, or did Sir Jack make you?”
“He didn’t make me do anything. I always had a choice. Either do what he wanted and stay married, or I could do what I wanted and get tossed out on my arse. My decision.”
He might have argued with that but knew better than to try. “Do you still paint?”
“Haven’t in years. What little talent I had is long gone. If you don’t feed your muses, they’ll find someone else who will.”
“You have a tattoo of a quote about art being eternal on your wrist. And you just…quit?”
“I got the tattoo at seventeen. How many people grow up to do what they wanted to do when they were seventeen?”
That was a fair point. At seventeen, he’d considered moving to New York and working at The Red Gallery. At twenty-one, now, he was freshly out of Sandhurst and off to join the British Army in two months.
“Do you have any of your old paintings still? I’d love to see your work.”
Before she could answer, they were interrupted by an odd tapping sound. Arthur looked past Regan at the window. The raven was perched on the windowsill.
“The baby’s home. Eight on the dot as usual,” Regan said, glancing at the slim gold watch on her wrist. She seemed relieved to have the distraction. “He’ll want his supper. You can wait here.”
She strode past him just as Arthur felt his phone buzz in his trouser pocket. He took it out. A text from Charlie.
I forgot something. When Regan got the painting, she stared at it for like forever and I asked her what was wrong, and she said something about how she’d had a very strange dream about Malcolm once and he was wearing the same suit in her dream as he was in the portrait.
Regan had dreamed about Lord Malcolm? She was staying in his old flat now, and had to have seen photographs of him in the hotel archives. Surely it was just a dream, as his dream this morning had been nothing but a dream.
Arthur replied to his brother. You didn’t mention anything to her about how Mum and Dad think the painting’s haunted, right?
Charlie wrote back, I’m a fuck-up, not an idiot. Course not.
Arthur replied with a simple, Thank you.
No surprise when he didn’t get a reply to that.
Arthur went out to the garden terrace to find Regan. He followed a lantern-lit path to the bird perch, where Gloom was happily dipping his enormous black beak into a bowl of raw and bloody meat.
“I begin to understand,” Arthur said, “the origins of the term ‘raven-ously.’”
“Hungry little buggers, aren’t they? Ravens originally came to London from the country, drawn to the carcasses of animals that used to float along the Thames from the slaughterhouses.”
“But a pet raven,” Arthur said. “How does that happen?”
Regan looked over her shoulder, smiled at him. She held out her arm and let the bird climb onto her wrist. “Gloom landed on the terrace with a bent wing, and I brought in a wildlife rehabilitator to help him. Ravens have wonderful memories for humans who help them.”
“Does he bite?”
“Of course. Better to get bitten by a hawk than a raven. See?” She held out her right hand to show a pale white scar near her wrist. “He nipped me good and hard when I had to catch him that first day he landed with the broken wing.”
“That must have hurt.” He touched the scar, gently caressing it. “But you kept him anyway.”
“He was scared. Animals bite when they’re scared.”
“Is that why you bite, because you’re scared?”
She stroked Gloom lightly across the back of his head. Then she turned to Arthur. Her stare was dark, cold. “I know you’re trying to make me like you,” she said. “It won’t happen.”
“I think it’s happening.”
“It will never happen.”
He lowered his voice to a haunted house whisper. “It’s already begun…”
That got her to laugh, a little. A very little, but still he counted it as a win.
“Come on, Brat,” she said. “Time to work off more of your brother’s debt.” She left her bird to his bloody feast and went back into the suite.
She opened the door to the red and gold bedroom and let him inside. The first thing he saw was his great-grandfather’s portrait hanging across from the bed, uncovered. He groaned.
“Don’t ask me to cover him up again,” Regan said. She went to the fireplace and turned on the gas. “You’ll simply have to get used to having an audience.”
“He’s my great-grandfather. Having him here is the exact opposite of taking Viagra.”
“He’s a man you’ve never even met, who has been dead for over eighty years.”
“Fine. Leave it,” Arthur said. “Let’s put on a show.”
“He’d appreciate that. Loved to watch other people fucking almost as much as he loved being watched, I hear.”
“This is not helping me to get aroused here,” Arthur reminded her.
“You’re already half-hard in your jeans. Don’t deny it.�
��
“Half? Maybe a third.”
She pointed at the parcel he was still clutching. “Is that the artwork you brought to play in honor of dear old Great-Granddad?”
“I did. Sort of. It’s only a signed lithograph. We have a Georgia O’Keeffe, but skulls aren’t nearly as erotic as her flowers.”
He unwrapped it and Regan set it atop the fireplace mantel. The painting was called Black Iris III—an iris, painted in extreme closeup, its petals a lurid purple, so dark they almost look black. And the flower was open, blooming, wide and trembling.
“A boy never forgets his first O’Keeffe,” he said.
“Yes, because it looks like an enormous engorged cunt.”
“It’s a very nice enormous engorged cunt.”
She looked at him, eyebrow slightly raised. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say the word ‘cunt’ in my presence.”
“Might be the first time I’ve ever said it out loud. When you’re the son of Spencer Godwick, you rebel by not being rude.”
“I like it. You should say it more. Use it in a sentence.”
“Now?”
She nodded.
“Ah…I would like to do very nice things to your cunt.”
“Now a question.”
“May I please do very nice things to your cunt?”
Regan came to him, stood in front of him. “Yes,” she said. “You may do very nice things to my cunt.”
“I serve at your pleasure,” he said almost reflexively.
“Yes, yes you do.” She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned back, smiling at the portrait of Lord Malcolm. “Did you hear that, Malcolm? I’ve turned your great-grandson into a whore. Who are you prouder of? Him or me?”
Arthur sighed. He really wished she would stop talking to the painting. It wouldn’t be good if it started talking back…
She cupped Arthur’s crotch. “That’s more than a third. I suppose having Great-Granddad here isn’t as much of a mood-killer as you thought.”
She kissed him, and no amount of wounded male pride could keep from kissing her back. She wasn’t cruel to him so much as she was just…cold. And the colder she was to him, the more he wanted to warm her. And the more he wanted to warm her, the colder she was to him. Even this, hanging his great-grandfather’s portrait was cruel, made him feel vulnerable, exposed. She alone knew how much he loved being exposed.
The Pearl (The Godwicks) Page 9
