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They didn’t. They couldn’t. And he liked them the better for it. They might have found someone else to ask if they’d known he was the titled son of a wealthy earl and not, as he appeared, just a lad in his early twenties, probably a university student, out for a walk.
He had never taken his “noble” ancestry seriously. His paternal grandmother had been quite a genealogist and kept the family tree updated. To Arthur, his ancestors had nothing to do with him. Yes, so a great-grand-great-whatever grandfather had fought beside King Henry the Eighth in the Battle of the Spurs. Meanwhile, his mother’s grandmother had worked as a typist at a publisher in New York City. She’d moved up from typist to editorial assistant to editor-in-chief by her death and imbued a working-class family with a love of the arts and literature.
That impressed Arthur much more than his rich and titled relatives on his father’s side. They’d been born rich, stayed rich, and died rich. Or, in the case of Lord Malcolm’s generation, had been born land rich and cash poor, which inspired his great-great grandmother to force Malcolm into a marriage to the daughter of a war profiteer with blood money to spare.
Was that noble? Really? Did someone who’d sell a free-spirited son into a loveless marriage to the daughter of a man who’d made his fortune manufacturing mustard gas really deserve the title of “Lady”? Did Malcolm, a man who’d spent the last of his family’s fortune on paintings and prostitutes really deserve the title of “Lord”?
They were all whores, weren’t they? No wonder Arthur took so naturally to selling himself. It was a Godwick family tradition.
Charlie was waiting for him at a table in 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?”
