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Lady Bloody Ferry.
She continued, “I don’t usually take a personal interest in the boys who try to skip out on their bills, but the Godwick surname got my attention. Lord Malcolm Godwick was The Pearl’s best customer in his day. It’s nice to have him back.”
“Do I have to tell you again? You can’t keep that painting. It wasn’t Charlie’s to give.”
“Oh, isn’t it, though? That painting, according to Charlie, belongs to the Godwick trust which—also according to Charlie—is composed of all members of the Godwick family who are over the age of eighteen. Therefore, the painting is at least partially Charlie’s. Would you like me to show you where the door is?”
She was technically right. This was a legal battle they probably couldn’t win.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll give you a painting if that’s what you want, but it can’t be that one.”
“Why not?”
“That painting is my parents’ most prized possession. It’s the reason they met. It’s the reason they’re married. It’s sacred in our family.”
“Sacred? Lord Malcolm? The biggest rake and whoremonger in the history of England, and I’m including the second Earl of Rochester.”
“He’s sacred to us. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but please…would you consider taking another painting? Or money? I don’t have a hundred grand, but I’m sure if you give me a couple weeks—”
“No. I have what I want, and I want nothing else.”
“The portrait of Lord Malcolm isn’t worth a fraction of what our least valuable Degas is worth. And that painting means everything to my parents.”
“Meanseverythingto your parents? In that case, I wonder what the Earl and Countess of Godwick would pay to get it back...”
Arthur nodded. “Oh, of course. You asked Charlie for the one painting my parents would sell their souls to buy back.”
“Or suffer the most for losing.”
Finally, she deigned to meet his eyes. She had bright eyes, bright and gleaming. Her beauty stunned him. It shocked him with every fresh look at her. She stirred something in him, some half-buried longing trying to claw its way to the surface.
“I think I’ll hang his portrait over the fireplace in my bedroom. Or maybe over the bed…” She rested the umbrella on her shoulder and twirled it. Rain misted Arthur’s face. “Oh, you’re still here. Why is that?”
“Lady Ferry, please—”
“Regan.”
“Regan…when my parents find out Charlie gave you that painting, they will cut him off. He’s on his last warning.”
“So?”
“So? He’s only eighteen. He’ll have nothing. No job. No money. Nowhere to live.”
“I’ll give him a job at the hotel. He can wash dishes in The Oyster,” she said, speaking of the hotel’s five-star restaurant. “That’s where I was working when I met Sir Jack.”
“He won’t survive being cut off. He’s barely surviving now. He’s…he’s not doing well. He’s got a load of problems he’s dealing with. My fault mostly. Entirely.”
“Really? He blamed his troubles on a girl who broke his heart. Someone named Wendy? Ring a bell?”
“My ex-girlfriend,” Arthur said. “And I don’t want to—”
“I see.” Regan nodded. “You both liked her, and she picked the heir over the spare. Now he’s suffering from a terminal case of inadequacy. It all makes sense now.”
That wasn’t what happened, not really, but Arthur was happy to let Regan believe that.
“Please, I’m begging you,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to make this go away for him?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head to the side, the umbrella caught on her wrist so that it stayed put on her shoulder.
