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Arthur was nearly at the terrace when he stopped next to a golden velvet chaise lounge. Another painting was propped up in the seat, another original he recognized at once.
The subject was a handsome gentleman wearing a three-piece suit, with black hair and dark eyes, the subtlest smile on his lips…Lord Malcolm Godwick, thirteenth Earl of Godwick. The portrait he’d last seen hanging in the hallowed halls of Wingthorn, the Godwick ancestral estate. It should have been there now, so what was it doing here?
Arthur went quickly to the French doors and peered through one of the panes. For a split second, the sight was so uncanny, he thought the painting over the fireplace had come to life. A woman stood on the terrace in the rain, black trench coat belted tightly at her narrow waist and black umbrella overhead.
Not a painting come to life. Just a coincidence. Her umbrella was being held by someone, a young man facing the city. He needn’t turn around. Arthur would have known that rust-colored hair anywhere.
He pushed open the door and stepped onto the spacious garden terrace. It was filled with so many green plants and small trees, it was like walking into a miniature forest. He went straight to the iron railing to find his brother wearing an expression of pure defeat. Charlie was clutching the umbrella and staring down at his own shoes.
“What the hell are you doing?” Arthur hissed, shielding his face from the rain with his hand. Before Charlie had a chance to answer, Arthur turned to the woman. “Who are you, and why are you forcing my brother to hold your umbrella in the freezing rain?”
Arthur had expected a much older woman for some reason—maybe because of the commanding tone of her note—but no, she was young. Thirty, if that. She had chestnut-brown hair that hung in a long French plait over her left shoulder. Her face was lovely and her eyes wide, intelligent, and grey as the rain. Pale olive skin. Peach lips, full and soft. She wore a white-collared shirt under her coat, a pearl choker draped around her graceful neck.
And what was she doing while Charlie held the umbrella over her head? Feeding raw meat to a raven perched on a brass ring on the railing.
“Things aren’t what they seem,” she told Arthur. “Your brother offered to hold it for me. Didn’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie nodded without emotion. Something about the woman, the way she looked at Arthur, so cool and superior, convinced him he was dealing with some kind of ice queen. Who else would make an eighteen-year-old stand in the cold autumn rain holding her umbrella?
“Charlie, go inside,” Arthur said.
His brother didn’t budge. He stood there in his stupid skinny jeans and leather jacket that he’d probably bought with a credit card “borrowed” from their mother.
“Go inside and warm up,” Arthur said, this time more forceful. “I’m handling this.”
“He may go, but someone has to hold my umbrella while I’m feeding the baby,” the woman said, smiling at the raven.
Arthur rolled his eyes. He held out an open palm and accepted the umbrella from Charlie, who’d been holding it with a white-knuckle grip.
As Arthur took over umbrella duty, Charlie bent his head and whispered a miserable “Sorry.”
Arthur put his arm around his brother’s neck. He couldn’t help it. Charlie didn’t return the embrace, but accepted it without protest.
Charlie disappeared into the penthouse. Arthur watched as the woman fed another morsel of meat to the raven. It took the red flesh right out of her fingers, so well-trained it ignored the hunk of bleeding meat in the butcher paper in her other hand.
“All right. What did he do this time?” Arthur asked.
She smiled. “Whatever happened to, ‘Hello, how do you do?’”
“Hello,” he said. “How do you do? And what did Charlie do this time, and why do you have one of our paintings inside? Better?”
“Much better.”
“Hello.”
That came from the raven. Arthur stared at it, wide-eyed. “Did that bird just speak?”
The woman laughed softly. “He did.” She sounded surprised. “He’s never done that in front of anyone besides me, though. Not that he says much besides ‘hello’ and ‘baby.’ This is Gloom. Gloom, this is Lord Arthur Godwick. Say ‘Hello, my lord.’”
“Hello, baby.”
Arthur smiled despite himself—he’d never been flirted with by a bird before—and replied, “Hello, Gloom.”
The evening had taken on a strange, dreamlike quality. The girl in the red raincoat with her summons. Silver-grey clouds, fat as circus tents hovering overhead. The elegant ice queen feeding a talkative raven.
“You can pet him if you like,” she said. “He’s in a good mood when he’s eating. Just watch your fingers. He’s not too picky about the sort of meat he eats.”
Arthur couldn’t resist. He raised the back of his hand and stroked the silky black breast feathers of the bird. “The longer you wait to tell me what Charlie’s done, the more scared I get.”
