Page 68 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
“The time for action, Your Grace?” Raphael repeated. Edward was staring at him with a look of horror. “You are investing in Radcliff, then?”
“Oh, yes,” the duke replied. “We must build for the future. I shall not have my little girl living in squalor, no matter how greatly I esteem her future husband. We will have you head to Norwich this afternoon and meet with the solicitors, Mr Travers. Sound good? Good.”
The pencil snapped in Raphael’s fingers. He stared down at it, refusing to look anywhere else.Her future husband.The words echoed in his mind. Looking for Edward to Radcliff, he confirmed from their expressions what he already knew.
Lady Cecilia was engaged.
The duke’s hands felt like vices around his shoulders. The sound of the clock was deafening,tick-tick-tickingtoo slowly toward his lunch break. Raphael’s chest was quickly burning with anxiety and anger. The duke released him and began speaking with Radcliff, something about ‘travel to London’ and ‘things righting themselves’.
Raphael felt another hand on him and he flinched back. This time it had been Edward, seizing his wrist. Without asking Raphael, Edward called for his father and said, “Might we take an early luncheon? All the better to come back to your discussions refreshed, would not you say?”
At the first sign of agreeance, Raphael rose unsteadily from his seat. He just about babbled a ‘goodbye’ before staggering out of the library.
*
When he arrived before his cottage, the lock had been smashed and the door was ajar.
Raphael kicked it open softly, convinced even in his daze that the house hadnotlooked like this before departing that morning. He crept inside, two fears warring inside him. The cottage was deathly quiet, save for the cracking floorboards and fire. He thrust his keys into his pocket and rounded the corner into the living area.
There, sitting in his armchair and flicking through his copy ofHamlet, was Peter Pincher. The groom did not try to move as Raphael threw his ring of keys onto the counter. Raphael glanced at a nearby apple corer, then at his sharpest key, noting their positions.
“You took your time,” Pincher said, leaning back in his chair. “Here I thought men like you led lives of leisure. This place is no better than a midden.”
“Then leave.” Raphael ground his teeth. His mind swirled with thoughts of Cecilia’s engagement. He barely had room to fit in his hatred of Peter Pincher.
“Not until I get what I’ve come for.” Pincher pushed the armchair back so hard that it fell over. The sound reverberated through Raphael, igniting his ire. Pincher spun on his heel. “So, are you going to pay up?”
“I delivered your pound of flesh days ago.”
“I told you that was only the start.”
“Piss it all away already, have you?” Raphael snarled. “Shame.”
“Will be when I expose you for what you are.” Pincher wiped his nose in his hand and looked around. “Another three pounds and I will bother you no more this week. That is a promise.”
“Even if I was inclined to believe you, I have not three pounds on me.”
“No?” Peter said sarcastically. He stomped towards the dresser by the door to the bedroom and tore open the top drawers. Taking fistfuls of linens, he cast them aside. “Not even in here? What about . . .” He continued to Raphael’s desk and pushed his effects onto the floor. “Not in here either! Strange, that.”
Without stopping for breath he thundered toward Raphael, coming so close he could smell the groom’s stale sweat. Pincher squared his shoulders, snarling like a hound.
“I will have my money today, shitsack,” he spat. “Show me, else—”
Raphael could not explain what happened next. His hand darted up and curled around Pincher’s throat. He wanted him to be quiet, needed him to bequieted. Raphael’s fingers dug into his windpipe, and he relished the feel of his larynx against his palm. Pincher pushed himself away, and Raphael started.
You are not a thug. This is not you!
Pincher’s fist came fast and hard. Raphael dodged as much as he could, and the groom clipped him in the jaw. His anger about Cecilia overspilled, and he received Pincher’s next blow like an act of war. Raphael slipped away just in time, and the attacking fist landed in the press door. All manner of earthenware clattered to the ground, but Raphael did not care.
With a guttural cry, Pincher barrelled towards him. Raphael had spent little time boxing in London, but he understood well enough how to use a man’s weight against him. On instinct he dashed out of the way, knocking Pincher behind the head, grabbing him by his greasy mane. He saw only red as he slammed Pincher’s face into the countertop, worshipping thecrack!that sounded from the blow.
“Damme you!” Pincher screamed with a gurgle, clutching his bloodied face as he came up for air. Raphael watched in horror yet thirsted for more blood. Peter swung blindly again, and Raphael delivered a blow of his own. The man crumpled against the cabinets, falling to his knees.
‘I shall not have my little girl living in squalor!’
He grabbed Pincher by the neckline of his shirt and threw him onto the floor. Possessed, Raphael beat Peter Pincher within an inch of his life, stopping only when the man spat blood in his face.
“You think this will stop me? Come on, show me more!” Pincher bellowed, his voice breaking. “Kill me, cocksucker. You will have to kill me to get what you want.”
