Page 58 of A Flaming Lady's Secret Valentine
“How long?” Raphael asked.
“Long enough to find something to use.”
“Name your price, then.”
“I want your wages.”
Raphael gave a burst of mirthless laughter. “You are mad. Besides, what do you think the duke will think when I can no longer fund my lifestyle and you are rolling in it? No, do better.”
“Seems to me that you are in no position to lead our little negotiation.” Pincher clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Two hundred pounds.”
“That is over half my income. No.”
“You do not need all that,” Pincher argued.
The truth was that Raphael did need it. He was not the only one who survived on his wages. He siphoned a large part of it to his mother so she could lead a better life. Her income was decent enough, but she had debts and more to pay from when Raphael was a child and they were flat-hopping in London.
If he agreed to Pincher’s offer, she could find herself in the debtor’s prison. He was powerless to walk out and find another job, because who knew what Pincher would reveal in his absence. No one else would hire him to tend to their ledgers if they knew what he had done. He had to keep his position at the estate one way or the other.
“Five pounds a month,” Raphael suggested. Ideally, he would not pay Pincher a penny, but he was out of choices. He had to do everything he could to protect his mother and Cecilia.
“Ten pounds.”
“Eight.”
Pincher smirked. “Eight pounds a month. That is a start, I suppose.”
“What more could you want? I told you, I will not pay any more than that.”
The groom stalked forward and began stroking the horse’s poll. Up and down his wide grubby hand travelled, in slow taunting motions.
“Your earnings are not all you have,” Peter said. His gaze flickered to the end of the path behind Raphael . . . to the lane along which sat his cottage. “Oh, aye. I think you’ve a lot more you could give me.”
Chapter 21
“One can only marvel at the brilliance of the English countryside. It is no surprise our fair country births the greatest poets in history. Look at those rolling chartreuse hills! Look at the planes of earnest East Anglian bloom! Look at that duck pond!”
Look at this twig, and that rock, and how disproportionate my head is to the rest of my body, Cecilia narrated inwardly. She kicked a stone from the sole of her walking boot and it shot off down the knoll.
Lord Radcliff had been at Berilton Court for a day and a half and already Cecilia was ready to see the back of him, preferably rolling down the knoll atop which they stood. Her father had been doing everything in his power to bring Cecilia and Radcliff together.
The night prior he had sat them side by side at dinner, then forced them to perform quite possibly the most out of tune rendition ofThe Sweet Lass of Richmond Hillin existence after their meal,with Daphne accompanying them unevenly on the pianoforte. There had been talk of a picnic as well, and while Cecilia had made excuses including sudden onset hay fever and an aversion to finger food, the lunch had gone on regardless.
As Lord Radcliff continued to vaunt the beauty of the countryside, Edward and Daphne were strolling somewhere behind them. Cecilia watched as they laughed with one another, their friendship so buoyant and effortless.
All good things should be effortless, she thought. The beauty of her home was a product of nature and luck. Her love for Raphael was a given. She wished he were here now, walking alongside her instead of an earl she had no regard for. She would listen to him speak about anything that took his fancy or stand with him in silence while the brisk wind curled around them.
“Lady Cecilia?” she heard Lord Radcliff ask.
Cecilia turned her head brusquely. Her dark ringlets whipped into her face, catching in her mouth and eyes. She shook her head to free herself, to no avail. Radcliff dashed forward, almost tripping over a rock. Clumsily he brought his hands to her face and she reeled back in surprise.
“Thank you, that is . . .” Cecilia rubbed her face and took a step back, pushing his fingers away. “I can manage, thank you.”
“You are incredibly self-sufficient,” the earl panted. “It is one of the things I admire most about you, which says much about the quality of your sufficiency, because the rest of you is unmatched.”
If he believed she was so self-sufficient he should leave her to her own devices.
“That is kind of you to say, Lord Radcliff.”
