“He’s sacred to us. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but please…would you consider taking another painting? Or money? I don’t have a hundred grand, but I’m sure if you give me a couple weeks—”
“No. I have what I want, and I want nothing else.”
“The portrait of Lord Malcolm isn’t worth a fraction of what our least valuable Degas is worth. And that painting means everything to my parents.”
“Means everything to your parents? In that case, I wonder what the Earl and Countess of Godwick would pay to get it back...”
Arthur nodded. “Oh, of course. You asked Charlie for the one painting my parents would sell their souls to buy back.”
“Or suffer the most for losing.”
Finally, she deigned to meet his eyes. She had bright eyes, bright and gleaming. Her beauty stunned him. It shocked him with every fresh look at her. She stirred something in him, some half-buried longing trying to claw its way to the surface.
“I think I’ll hang his portrait over the fireplace in my bedroom. Or maybe over the bed…” She rested the umbrella on her shoulder and twirled it. Rain misted Arthur’s face. “Oh, you’re still here. Why is that?”
“Lady Ferry, please—”
“Regan.”
“Regan…when my parents find out Charlie gave you that painting, they will cut him off. He’s on his last warning.”
“So?”
“So? He’s only eighteen. He’ll have nothing. No job. No money. Nowhere to live.”
“I’ll give him a job at the hotel. He can wash dishes in The Oyster,” she said, speaking of the hotel’s five-star restaurant. “That’s where I was working when I met Sir Jack.”
“He won’t survive being cut off. He’s barely surviving now. He’s…he’s not doing well. He’s got a load of problems he’s dealing with. My fault mostly. Entirely.”
“Really? He blamed his troubles on a girl who broke his heart. Someone named Wendy? Ring a bell?”
“My ex-girlfriend,” Arthur said. “And I don’t want to—”
“I see.” Regan nodded. “You both liked her, and she picked the heir over the spare. Now he’s suffering from a terminal case of inadequacy. It all makes sense now.”
That wasn’t what happened, not really, but Arthur was happy to let Regan believe that.
“Please, I’m begging you,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to make this go away for him?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head to the side, the umbrella caught on her wrist so that it stayed put on her shoulder.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day a Godwick went begging,” she said. “The Queen will be at my front door selling magazine subscriptions to pay for Prince Philip’s heart pills next.”
Arthur’s stomach clenched. Charlie did nothing these days but make bad decisions in bad company. A wealthy earl’s son was an easy target for all sorts of predators—social climbers, criminals, con artists. Anything could happen to Charlie if he was left on his own, which is why Arthur would do anything to help him. That, and a little guilt, too. If things hadn’t blown up with Wendy…
“Anything, Regan. I will do anything. Please.”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” he said. “Anything.”
He would get on his knees right now and kiss her boots if she’d show a little mercy. He’d scrub her kitchen floor with his toothbrush. As long as it wasn’t murder, rape, or kicking a dog, he’d do it.
She smiled again and shook her head. “Anything,” she repeated. “Well, that is a tempting offer.”
Arthur almost sank to his knees in relief. Whatever she asked of him, he told himself, no matter how degrading or humiliating, he would do it.
“If you need a dishwasher, I’ll wash your dishes. I’ll wash the hotel’s dishes. I’ll hold your umbrella in a hurricane. I’ll—”
“Sleep with me?”
He stared at her. “Now you are joking.”
“I’m a widow. It’s been lonely since Sir Jack died. Busy with the hotel. Too busy to date. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Perfect age,” she said. “Old enough not to put me in prison, young enough you can still be taught.”
Taught.
Every nerve in Arthur’s body rang like a bell at that word. The implications of it, the insinuations…the images it brought to mind. His breathing quickened. His body warmed. Even in the cool November air, he burned.
“I can’t sleep with you,” he said. “We don’t even know each other.”
“Oh, Charlie’s told me loads about you. Accepted into both Oxford and Cambridge. Instead you picked Sandhurst, where you excelled, of course, because you apparently excel at everything you do. I hear you’re joining the army in January. Congratulations, Lieutenant Godwick. You’re considered something of the black sheep of the Godwick family simply because you’ve never gotten into any trouble. Must be the milkman’s boy.”
“We don’t have a milkman.”
“Charlie seems to think you’re a regular Mary Poppins—practically perfect in every way. No wonder he hates you.”
“My brother doesn’t hate me.”
“You’re right. He hates himself because of you. Even worse. Personally, I don’t think you are practically perfect in every way. If you were, you would have already said no to my offer.”
“You’re an attractive rich widow. There’s absolutely no reason you’d need to buy someone to have sex with you.”
“No, no, no. I don’t need to. I want to.”
He let that sink into his soul and settle down there. “Just sex?”
“Of course not. It’ll be much more interesting than that,” she said. “Shall we say ten nights? That’s how many nights Charlie spent here. Ten for ten. And then you can skip home to glorious Wingthorn Manor with Lord Malcolm under your arm, Mummy and Daddy Godwick none the wiser.”
She checked her watch. “Offer expires in sixty seconds. You know, I haven’t been with anyone since my husband died. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t either if I were you. My husband was a controlling old prick, and I’m in heaven now that he’s dead and gone. But I’m only thirty, and I haven’t been fucked in months. Just this morning, I was thinking how pleasant it would be to tie a nice young man to my bedposts.”
“Tie me to your bedposts.” He had to be sure he’d heard her correctly.
“I tend to be a bit domineering in the bedroom.”
“Shocking.”
She glared at him, then smiled as if she hadn’t heard the sarcasm. “It’s why it’s so hard to find someone to keep me company.” She sighed melodramatically. “I’m too demanding for most men. But something tells me you aren’t like most men.”
She leaned back against the terrace railing and crossed her booted legs at the ankles. Once again she checked her watch. “Thirty seconds.”
“What does your tattoo say?” Arthur asked. Her face showed her surprise. “You have a tattoo under your watch. Words. What does it say?”
It wasn’t under her watch so much as hidden by her watch, as if she were embarrassed by it. That’s the only reason he asked. A tattoo is a scar. A scar is a wound. She’d poked at his wounds. Time to poke hers.
She pursed her lips, obviously annoyed. “It’s an old tattoo. Got it ages ago.”
“What does it say?” He was going to keep asking until she told him or gave up.
“It’s a quote from the painter Evelyn de Morgan, from her journals when she was a teenager. It says, ‘Art is eternal, but life is short. I have not a moment to lose.’ There you go. My husband hated tattoos, so I’ve gotten in the habit of wearing my watch band over it. And now you have fifteen seconds.”
Was he actually considering this? He hadn’t said no yet, which meant he was thinking about it. He had said he would do anything for Charlie. Being tied to Sir Jack Ferry’s widow’s bed did qualify as “anything.”
“You know,” she said, “my great-grandmother was one of the whores here in Lord Malcolm’s day. He cut quite a swath through The Pearl’s girls. There’s something rather poetic about this, isn’t there? The great-grandson of The Pearl’s most infamous customer becoming a whore for the great-granddaughter of one of The Pearl’s best whores? How the mighty have fallen. And the meek do inherit. Not the Earth, maybe, but five-star hotels sometimes.”
She laughed softly, the least meek woman he’d ever met. He liked her laugh. He didn’t want to like her laugh, but it was low and throaty, and it caused his body to be very aware of itself.
“That painting has to be hanging on the walls of Wingthorn by the time my parents come home from the States for Christmas. If it’s not, Charlie’s life is in your hands.”
“Then we best stop wasting time. Art is eternal, remember, but life is short.”
“Fine. I’ll do whatever you want,” he said. “Let me take Charlie home first.”
He started for the terrace door, but she stopped him by putting her umbrella in front of him to block his way. She held it there. He waited and knew he was getting a glimpse of his future, a slave to her whims.
She smiled. “You agreed to that far too easily. You must be the sort of man who likes being tied to beds. Yes?”
He didn’t answer. He wouldn’t answer.
“Move your umbrella,” he said. She didn’t. “Please.”
Lifting her umbrella, she smiled and put it on her shoulder and twirled it again. It glinted against the London skyline like a black halo.
2
The Gilded Cage
Arthur called for a taxi. When he started to give the driver the address of their townhouse in Piccadilly, Charlie cut in with a different address in Vauxhall.
“We’re going home, Charlie,” Arthur said.
“I’m staying with friends,” Charlie said. “You can go home after you drop me off.”
Unbelievable. Arthur wanted to argue but knew Charlie would just hop out of the car at the next light and disappear again. Fine. He knew to pick his battles.
The entire trip, Arthur kept waiting for his brother to say something, explain himself, at least apologize. Charlie simply stared out the rain-splashed window at the dark city streets, sunk deep into the backseat, his face half-hidden by his coat collar.
They reached Vauxhall. Not a word had been spoken between them on the twenty-minute car ride.
Arthur asked the driver to wait for him, and escorted his brother to the front door of the building.
“Are you going to say anything?” Arthur asked, stopping to huddle with his brother under the awning.
Charlie stared at his boots. “I said I was sorry.”
“I know. You’re always sorry. Never sorry enough not to do it again though.”
Silence.
“Why Lord Malcolm’s painting? Of all the paintings, you just had to give her—”
“It’s the only one she’d take.”
“Why?”
Charlie shrugged. Arthur could only assume she knew the story behind the painting, that it meant the world to his parents. Or was there another reason?
“You’re not going out again tonight, are you?” Arthur asked. “You’re going to stay in, right? No pubs. No parties. No hotels.”
“Yeah. Course.”
“All right. Go on. Get some rest. I’ll call when I can.”
“You’re really getting the painting back from her?”
“Yes. I hope.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter. Nothing you need to worry about. Go on. Take a shower. You smell like a brothel. Wonder why.”
“Do you hate me?” Charlie asked.
Arthur sighed. “I don’t hate you. I just wish you’d grow up.”
“Stop treating me like a child then, and maybe I would.”
“Stop acting like a child, and I’ll stop—”
“Yes, King Arthur. Anything you say, King Arthur.” Charlie shoved open the door and disappeared into the building.
“Love you, too,” Arthur muttered.
* * *
When Arthur returned to Piccadilly, he took a long hot shower, standing under the water until his skin turned red. He dressed in dark jeans, a grey t-shirt, a navy jacket, and his most comfortable boots.
He could still hear Regan’s voice taunting him. You agreed to that far too easily. You must be the sort of man who likes being tied to beds…
No. Of course he wasn’t that sort of man. But he was the sort of man who would do anything he had to do to help his brother. That’s all. Even if it meant sex with a veritable stranger who clearly loathed him.
Regan, he decided, must be one of those women who got off on hurting their partners or humiliating them. This was her darkest dream come true, then—a man selling himself to her to save his brother. The son of a peer on his hands and knees in front of her. His cock stiffened at the thought, but he ignored his erection, telling himself his body was confusing excitement with dread.
It was nighttime proper when he returned to The Pearl and parked in their underground garage. As he made his way to the lobby, he did a quick online search for anything he could find about Regan. Rule number one in The Art of War: Know thy enemy.
He didn’t get much right away except her husband’s obituary. Jack Ferry had been a hotelier and a good thirty-five years older than Regan. He’d left her very wealthy, with sole ownership of the hotel.
An image search returned photos of Regan and Sir Jonathan “Jack” Ferry at various parties in Milan, Paris, and Rome, Regan on Jack’s arm, looking like his doting daughter. A few photos showed the Ferrys with various political figures, including the prime minister at Royal Ascot. She was connected and protected. If Arthur didn’t “earn” Lord Malcolm’s portrait back from her, then he knew there was a very good chance they would never get it back.
So he was fucked, literally and figuratively.
The lift opened onto the seventh storey and Arthur walked slowly to the door. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? She was beautiful—truly, easily the most attractive woman he’d ever met. Not even that much older than him. Only nine years. All right, so she’d probably tie him up and flog him or whatever women like that did. He’d survived the Royal Military Academy, he could survive her. Nothing to do but soldier on.
And maybe, just maybe, Charlie would feel so terrible about his brother cleaning up his mess, he’d clean himself up finally.
If only.
He knocked lightly on the door. This time Regan opened. She waved her hand and let him inside, shut the door behind him, then engaged the brass hotel lock.
“There he is,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you’d really come.”
“I said I would. Here I am.”
He stood behind the gold velvet chaise longue in front of the fireplace, as if to put a wall between himself and Regan.
“Did we see Charlie home safely?” she asked as she sauntered over to the large walnut drinks cabinet and took out two highball glasses, added ice, then whisky.
“He’s staying with friends. I use the word ‘friends’ loosely.”
“Eighteen. Hard age,” she said. “It’s a…vulnerable age. Isn’t it? Suddenly seen as an adult, and yet you have no idea how to go about it. Possibly why I married Sir Jack so young, barely twenty. Fear of being on my own, unprotected… I thought I was being smart and savvy. Instead I was being very reckless.”
She was reckless, all right. Marrying an older man when she was twenty. And him. This…whatever this was they were doing. Her rash offer. Ten for ten. His foolish, desperate acceptance.
“Did he really make you call him Sir Jack?” Arthur asked.
“Not in private, but in public. With the staff, too. ‘Wife’ was basically a staff position for him anyway.”
“He sounds like a quite a catch.”
She laughed. “Ah, well, my mother died when I was very young, and my father was gone all the time for work. I wanted safe
ty, security. Whatever faults Sir Jack had, I will always be grateful he left me quite secure.”
“Prisons are secure,” Arthur said.
“Yes, well…I know that now.” She lifted her glass in a mock toast and took a long drink.
Arthur glanced around, trying to get his bearings since he’d be spending a lot of time here in the next few weeks.
“Welcome to the penthouse of The Pearl Hotel,” Regan said. “Like it?”
“It’s impressive,” Arthur said. This was more than luxury. He’d grown up in luxury. This place was pure decadence.
“When the hotel opened in 1909, this suite was reserved for the most special clients with the most exacting needs.”
“So…rich men who needed pretty girls.”
“Or boys. If they could pay, they were provided whatever they wanted. Your great-grandfather even lived here in his day.”
“Looks like the sort of a place a rake like my great-grandfather would live.”
“I suppose that makes me a rake then. And the penthouse is once more being used for its intended purpose—to debauch young lords, my Lord Arthur.”
Arthur ignored that comment and her smile. Something had caught his eye. She’d changed the painting.
Over the fireplace, so enormous he could have burned a whole coven of witches inside it, hung a painting of a pretty young woman and her ugly old husband. Arthur could tell the young wife wanted out because she was practically banging on the window with her hands while a parade passed outside the house. The old man’s face wore an expression of Well, go on, why don’t you? Nobody’s stopping you, so it was clear they’d had this argument before.
“The Gilded Cage,” Regan said, pointing with her highball glass, “by Evelyn de Morgan. What do you think?”
“I think…if that painting is what you hang in your sitting room, I’m not sure I want to know what you hang in your bedroom.”
She laughed. “It’s a lovely painting.”
“It’s not very happy,” he said.
“Marriage isn’t very happy,” she said. “Trust me. I speak from nearly ten years’ experience. You know why I changed the painting?”
The Pearl Page 2
