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“I wouldn’t judge you if you did.”
“I know you wouldn’t.” She bussed a kiss on her grandmother’s head. “But that isn’t me. I could only give myself to a man I truly loved.”
“That wasn’t what you said about that boy you met at Girton.” Gran sniffed.
“Don’t remind me.”
“Love is wonderful. I miss your grandfather every single minute of every hour of every day. It does have a way of catching you when you least expect it.”
Evaine thought back to the hideously scarred duke’s face and surly attitude. “I doubt there is any chance of that happening. Besides, he may be impoverished, but he is still a duke. I’m done with aristocratic men.”
“Famous last words.”
“Lord Lucan is only here to raid the place of any valuables before surrendering it to the crown in lieu of paying his back taxes. I have offered to assist him so that he can leave as soon as possible.”
“Whoever heard of a poor duke,” scoffed Gran. “How much is he paying you? If I might inquire.”
Evaine opened her mouth to answer and stopped. “Ten percent,” she blurted out. Lying again. She had to tell her grandmother something to show that the effort was worth her while.
“Ten percent of what?”
“Of the value of whatever we find. I already spotted three things that together should bring in thousands of pounds.” She hoped she hadn’t been wrong in her estimates. She considered herself something of a lay expert. Disappointingly, she had no artistic talent of her own, only an eye and a taste for it.
“No hourly fee?” asked Gran with suspicion. “What if you do all that work and don’t find anything of value?”
Considering the state of the mansion, it was a real possibility.
“I suppose I can ask him for a wage in addition to the percentage. We’ll have to renegotiate.” She omitted mentioning that she and the duke had never negotiated in the first place. They were in such desperate straits that she wasn’t above taking advantage of a concussed man by telling him his memory was faulty and that he had promised to pay her. He had said she was hired, after all, and that implied payment. Any money coming in would help.
“When do you start?”
“Tomorrow morning. Will you be alright if I leave you alone for a few hours a day?”
“I am a grown woman who can take care of herself,” Gran said indignantly. “I shall occupy my time with mending. Since you’re such a poor hand with a needle.”
Evaine laughed, for it was true. She knew her grandmother balked at the store-bought, mass-manufactured clothing that she favored. Gran said it didn’t last as well as homespun. She had made the pretty red cloak as a gift for Christmas one year, and the garment showed every loving, perfectly placed stitch. It was Evaine’s favorite thing to wear.
“Get some sleep, love. You have a big day ahead of you.” Gran lowered the wick on the hurricane lamp. Evaine tumbled into her bed and was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
Chapter 7
Gareth
Gareth had half-convinced himself that Evaine Ballard’s presence the night before was a figment of his imagination when her slight form darkened his kitchen doorway. She wore a simple white shirt with a high collar beneath a black jacket with a nipped-in waist, and an ankle-length skirt. A more elegant ensemble than the one she had worn yesterday, which had been a patched and shapeless old brown thing. Over it, she wore the bright-red cloak.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I am not. It’s barely eight o’clock, and besides, we never agreed upon a time to begin. You said ‘tomorrow.’ It is now tomorrow and I am here.” She strode to the row of hooks beside the door leading out to the garden and hung up her red cloak. “We did not discuss terms yesterday. I want twenty percent of everything we find.”
Gareth nearly spat out the horrid tea he was drinking. He’d brewed it too strong. It was bitter without any milk or sugar. “Twenty percent? Unreasonable. Two percent. At most.”
“Plus an hourly wage. After all the percentage is immaterial if we do not find anything of value. Both two and twenty percent of zero are still zero.” She began taking down ceramic vases from a shelf and turning them upright to examine the bottoms. “My grandmother and I are ill-equipped to survive the winter. I cannot afford to wait months for you to make your sale to the rapacious Americans. Therefore, I will require upfront payment to feed myself and my grandmother. I could come down to…” She tapped her plump lower lip with her forefinger thoughtfully. “Eighteen percent.”
He stalked over to her, looming over her with all the menace he could muster. “You are delusional.”
She turned to him, holding a small, thin-necked copper-colored vase. “Tell me. Would you have recognized what this is?”
“The Peachblossom thing?”
