Page 57 of The Pearl (The Godwicks 3)

“A rich titled brat, face of a god, body of a soldier, cock of a horse, who eats your cunt on command. You think those grow on trees? I wouldn’t be working for you if they did, believe me. I’d be a bloody forest ranger.”

Regan really was going to have to get a new assistant soon, someone who knew how to take orders and keep her opinions to herself.

Zoot kept on, “I know you’re miffed at him, Boss—Christ knows why, still think it’s your fault—but you’ve actually been something almost like happy the last two weeks, and it’s not because you’re one of those daft American bints who gets wet when the leaves change colors and Starbucks brings the pumpkin spice latte back.”

“Didn’t I tell you that you could go? If not, I’m telling you now.”

“He’s funny,” Zoot said. “And he’ll take the piss. He worries about you though, and I can tell he’s decent all the way down.”

“Godwicks aren’t decent. They’re indecent.”

“Right there, but it’s the best kind of indecent if you ask me.”

“I didn’t—” Regan’s voice broke as tears suddenly filled her eyes and a knot formed in her throat. She forced herself past it. “—askyou.”

Zoot was staring at her, wide-eyed with shock. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” Zoot said, laughing softly. “I saw you snap your ankle two years ago falling off your Jimmy Choo’s, and you didn’t shed one bloody tear. You better call the boy back.”

“I believe I told you—”

“Going. Have fun freezing your tits off out here, Boss.”

Regan waited until she was inside to wipe her tears, but they were already dried on her cheeks. She opened the note to read whatever worthless message he’d left for her. Probably anotherI’m sorrythat didn’t help anything or save anyone.

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t worthless. It was, simply, three words.

Judith Slaying Holofernes.

She closed her eyes. Did he know about her dream? Impossible, and yet the impossible seemed to be happening more and more often these days. She felt something like relief, actually. Now she had an excuse to see him again.

When she went inside, Zoot was putting on her red coat to leave.

“Have my car brought round, please,” Regan said. “And I’ll need Arthur’s address.” Zoot opened her mouth, but Regan shushed her. “And not a word from you about it.”

9

The Wounded Dove

The last of the evening light was fading as Regan walked slowly toward the Godwicks’ red brick townhouse. The facade was imposing—five or six stories, she couldn’t tell from the exterior. The street was quiet, exclusive. Old money and older titles lived here.

The house was set back a few feet from the walk and she had to open a small iron gate to reach the front door. Her heart was in her throat when she rang the bell. She fully expected a servant to answer the door, but no, it was Arthur.

“Regan,” he said. From the look in his dark eyes, she knew she was the last person he expected to see standing there and yet the person he was most glad to see.

“I got your note and—”

“Could you come with me to the garden, please? I need your help.”

She was too surprised by his strange urgency to ask any questions. She followed him into the entryway and down a corridor toward the back of the house. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt with red specks on it that looked like blood.

“Are you all right? Is that blood on your shirt?”

“Just a scratch,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Physically, maybe. But emotionally? She’d hurt him. She wanted to tell him she was sorry, but the words stuck in her throat.

They passed a formal dining room, blue wallpaper and a grand oak table, and then into a gleaming white kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been updated since Queen Victoria’s reign.

He opened the back door and led her into a dark garden overshadowed by a tall rowan tree, its crimson leaves raining down with every breeze. Arthur brought her to a shoebox sitting on top of an iron garden table. He opened it.

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