The Pearl (The Godwicks #3) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,33

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