The Pearl (The Godwicks #3) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,67

door.

“Thank you… I’m sorry, you must be new, and I haven’t learned your name yet.”

“John,” he said and flipped his lapel over to show her his name tag. John Noone.

“Welcome to The Pearl, John.”

“Thank you very much, ma’am,” he said, opening the door. He turned back and glanced at the painting over the fireplace again. “You’ve got a bit of Lizzie Siddal in you, I think.”

“You do?”

“Both of you were painters. Same eyes, too. As Rossetti said, ‘Eyes as of the sea and sky on a grey day.’”

She stared at him. “Never expected a waiter to quote Dante Gabriel Rossetti poetry at me.”

“Yes, but I’m not your ordinary waiter, Lady Ferry. Enjoy. It’s pomegranate wine,” he said. “If you’ve never had it before, you’re in for a treat.”

He bowed again and left, shutting the door behind him.

Regan had never had pomegranate wine before, but as soon as she heard the name she knew she wanted to try it. Very romantic of Arthur to send wine up to her. She lifted the glass to her nose and sniffed. The scent was strong but not too powerful, velvety and seductive, sweet but too sweet and utterly delicious. She took a sip and it tasted as good as it smelled. She took another sip and sighed with pleasure. Arthur had excellent taste in wine. Surprising, since he so rarely drank in her presence.

She was about to take another drink when she heard a familiar buzzing sound. Her phone. She had a message.

Almost there, Arthur had written. Hit accident traffic. So sorry. Don’t start the madness without me.

She smiled. She would never start the madness without him. Only the drinking.

Take your time. Thank you for the wine. It’s wonderful.

She moved to set the phone back down on the table when it began to ring in her hand. Arthur was calling.

“What wine?” he said, as soon as she answered.

“The bottle you sent up.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“The waiter said Lord Godwick sent up—”

Arthur swore violently. “I’m not the only Lord Godwick.”

Regan’s body went cold. Her hands shook. She set the wine glass down before she dropped it.

“I didn’t tell him I used to be a painter,” she said.

“What?”

“The waiter. He knew I’d been a painter, but I never mentioned that to him.”

“I’m on my way,” Arthur said. She could hear the fear in his voice. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t drink another drop of that wine.”

“Malcolm wouldn’t poison me. I know that.”

“How do you know that?” Arthur demanded. “You don’t know him. Neither do I. We don’t know what he wants from us or—”

Her head was starting to swim. The world went watercolored. She wasn’t sure what Arthur was saying. Regan collapsed onto the chaise lounge.

“Regan? Are you there? Regan?”

Tiredly, she brought the phone to her ear. “In the dream.”

“What?”

“In the dream I had about Malcolm,” she said. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “The one with the rose vine wallpaper and the empty frame…I didn’t tell you that in the dream, Lord Malcolm loved me.”

“He loved all pretty women.”

“Not like that. I don’t know why or how but he…cared about me.”

“Regan, listen. You should probably call 999. If it wasn’t him, someone might be trying to hurt you—”

“No one’s hurting me. No one. Noone.”

“What?”

Noone. John No-one. She laughed when she got the joke. “Good joke, Lord Malcolm. I fell for that one, too.”

“Regan—”

Without knowing what she was doing, Regan ended the call and the phone dropped onto the floor.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chaise. There was no reason for Arthur to worry. She felt incredible…like she could fly if she wanted to. Still, it was lovely to hear Arthur so worried for her. He did care about her. He really did. Sweet lad. Her beautiful brat. If only she could love him, wouldn’t that be…lovely? Too bad she couldn’t. She’d sworn she’d never get married again, and Arthur had to get married. He have little brats of his own. He was the hare.

Heir, not hare. Regan giggled drunkenly to herself. This pomegranate wine was making her silly. When was the last time she giggled? Never?

Arthur wasn’t a hare. That was a hare.

A brown hare, long-eared and white-footed loped past the fireplace and toward the garden terrace doors.

Regan rose from the chaise and followed it. How had a hare gotten into the penthouse? She was on the top storey.

It wanted out. She saw it sitting up on its hind legs at the doors, terribly