Page 37 of Ungodly Rich

Julia

Two days later, Julia hesitated at the door to her future mother-in-law’s study, then lifted her hand and knocked. “Come in!” Tara singsonged from within.

Julia drew in a breath, then ventured into a room that belonged in Buckingham Palace far more than it did in an island getaway. A gleaming antique desk sat in one corner, its surface free of clutter or papers—but then, who needed a study at their summer house? (Julia was coming to realize that rich people had many things they didn’t need.) A love seat faced a pair of delicate armchairs with striped silk pillows, and the walls were lined with portraits of dull-looking men and women, and their even duller-looking dogs.

Tara stood from behind her desk. “Thank you for coming, Julia.”

As she stepped inside, Julia noticed a vase on a side table, painted with the traditional reds and blacks of ancient Greek pottery. That must be a reproduction, Julia told herself. Surely even Tara Ellene didn’t have art in her office from the fifth century BC. Besides, realGreek pottery always depicted moments from mythology or battle, and this vase showed an intimate domestic scene, of a mother with three children.

“I asked you here because you have a decision to make,” Tara said crisply. “Martin, darling, you can join us!”

The door swung open once more, revealing a man with a receding gray hairline, in a three-piece suit that looked like it had been plucked from some Julian Fellowes show on the BBC. He was pushing a cart before him, almost the way a flight attendant would push drinks on an aircraft, except that this cart was a beautiful antique silver thing, probably once meant to hold crystal decanters. Somehow, Julia knew that Martin wasn’t here to pour her a vodka tonic.

“Martin is one of the lead curators at the British Museum,” Tara explained to Julia. “He helps us out on occasion, managing our personal collection.”

“And what a joy it is!” Martin smiled deferentially at Tara. “It was my distinct pleasure to transport these pieces from London for you.”

That was when Julia noticed the sleek wooden boxes arranged on the top of the cart, each flat and roughly rectangular, each the size of a laptop.

She watched, dumbfounded, as Martin lifted the lids one by one, revealing dozens of rings: cushion-cut diamonds, solitaire diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, pink diamonds. Countless priceless carats, all glittering ostentatiously on nests of black velvet.

They were here to pick out an engagement ring.

“Should we get Harry?” Julia turned to Tara, who chuckled in amusement.

“Whatever for? You’re the one who has to wear this; you should be the one to select it. Besides,” Tara added, “I thought it would be nice for us to have some time alone, just the two of us.”

Julia had no choice but to smile in agreement.

She’d hardly spent any time with Tara since she and Harry returned from the airport two days ago. But she’d registered the look on Tara’s face when she and Harry found his parents at the pool and shared the news of their engagement.

“Mother, Father,” Harry had said, straightening his shoulders as he approached. “Julia and I have wonderful news. We’re engaged.”

For a single heartbeat, Julia saw a flash of emotion from Tara—worry, perhaps, or dismay. It was smoothed away instantaneously, replaced by a radiant smile.

“Congratulations!” Tara had cried out. Julia doubted any other woman could seem intimidating in this moment—her feet bare, wearing a swimsuit and a loose cover-up, sunglasses perched on her head—but there was such command in Tara’s presence that she might as well have been wearing a tiara and ball gown. She moved as if she were a queen, as if she expected everyone to curtsy to her, and the power of her conviction was so great that Julia almostdidcurtsy, before realizing how absurd that would look.

That very afternoon, Harry had disappeared into a conference room with a small group of his relatives. Amid all the drama of the past few days, Julia had almost forgotten that there were business meetings at the reunion. But she didn’t mind being left alone. She’d claimed a chair by the pool, indulging in a paperback thriller she’d found in the main house. Not that she had much time to read. Family members continued to approach her, plying her with champagne, peppering her with questions and congratulations. If only Percy were there to help her keep track of everyone, but he’d joined the group in the conference room.

Valentine was in the business meeting, too. Not that Julia had any intention of seeking her out.

“Come on, Julia. Just try a few rings,” Tara urged, breaking into Julia’s thoughts.

Julia took a wary step toward the jewelry cases, as if the gems might grow teeth and jump up to bite her. Tentatively, she slipped a deep blue stone onto her hand.

Martin gave a little sigh of contentment. “The diamond was mined in Myanmar. There is a local legend that blue diamonds are the frozen tears of a goddess, forever weeping for her deceased mortal lover.”

Julia didn’t like the sound of that. She slipped it off her finger.

Martin pulled an enormous diamond ring, at least eight carats, ontoa folded square of black velvet. “This one belonged to the dowager empress of Russia. It was among her belongings when she fled to Paris after the Russian Revolution.”

“And it was acquired at auction?” Julia had heard that in her final years, the empress began quietly selling off her jewels.

“Oh, no.” Tara sounded slightly offended. “It was a personal gift to the family.”

Of course,Julia thought wryly. She was starting to realize that Harry’s family was the oldest of old money, given how long they had owned this estate—given that they had jewels that were personal gifts from the Romanovs, back when there stillwereRomanovs.

Apparently, families like Harry’s didn’t buy engagement rings at Harry Winston like other rich people. They flew their personal curator down from London with the equivalent of the crown jewels inventory. How had the Ellenes even insured all these pieces for Martin’s trip?