we ever do to you?”
“You exist. Bad enough.”
He scoffed. “Sorry, but I don’t have time for an ‘eat the rich’ debate, especially not with a woman feeding filet mignon to her pet raven on the terrace of a five-star hotel penthouse. Whatever you think of us, it doesn’t matter. Charlie stole that painting from my parents. Keeping it would be accepting stolen goods.”
And incredibly foolish, he didn’t add. To his family, that painting might as well have been a holy icon, though he didn’t want to explain why. She’d think he was mad as a hatter.
“Call the police then,” she said. “You can tell them who you are, and I’ll tell them who I am, and we’ll see whose surname scares them more.”
Gloom flapped his dark wings and flew off as if sensing things were about to get ugly on the terrace.
“Who are you anyway?” Arthur demanded.
“Regan. Regan Ferry. Lady Regan Ferry. As in the late Sir Jack Ferry. My late husband, to be clear, not my late father. People sometimes make that mistake. And yes, he did leave The Pearl Hotel to me.”
Brilliant. Just brilliant. Could Charlie have chosen a worse person to cross? This wasn’t some sleazy pimp he could call the cops on. Sir Jack Ferry had been a billionaire in life, a hotelier extraordinaire with connections in high places.
The Godwicks were rich and titled.
Sir Jack Ferry had been rich, titled, and powerful.
Lady Bloody Ferry.
She continued, “I don’t usually take a personal interest in the boys who try to skip out on their bills, but the Godwick surname got my attention. Lord Malcolm Godwick was The Pearl’s best customer in his day. It’s nice to have him back.”
“Do I have to tell you again? You can’t keep that painting. It wasn’t Charlie’s to give.”
“Oh, isn’t it, though? That painting, according to Charlie, belongs to the Godwick trust which—also according to Charlie—is composed of all members of the Godwick family who are over the age of eighteen. Therefore, the painting is at least partially Charlie’s. Would you like me to show you where the door is?”
She was technically right. This was a legal battle they probably couldn’t win.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll give you a painting if that’s what you want, but it can’t be that one.”
“Why not?”
“That painting is my parents’ most prized possession. It’s the reason they met. It’s the reason they’re married. It’s sacred in our family.”
“Sacred? Lord Malcolm? The biggest rake and whoremonger in the history of England, and I’m including the second Earl of Rochester.”
“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