Mrs. Price rose. “I have work in the kitchen, so I’ll leave you two gentlemen to your discussion.”
Evan stood up gallantly. “Of course, Mrs. Price. It was delightful to meet you.”
“The pleasure was mine, my lord.” She made a quick exit.
“What can I help you with, my lord?” Cameron asked.
“Well,” Evan began, “you know that I’m courting Lady Rose Jameson.”
“Yes,” Cameron said dryly.
“She is a great admirer of your music.”
“She is?”
“Of course, didn’t you know that? I was under the impression that you worked closely with her on the waltz for the duchess.”
“Yes, we worked together,” Cameron said, thankful that Xavier hadn’t come to throttle him. “She never mentioned any particular taste for my music.”
“Well, she has mentioned it to me.”
“I’m flattered. But what do you want from me?”
“I’d like to commission a song for Rose. Not a waltz necessarily. Perhaps a ballad.”
“I don’t write lyrics, my lord,” he said, although for Rose, he probably could.
“You don’t? Well, that’s not a problem. I’m more interested in the music. I think it would mean a great deal to her. I…I’m planning to propose marriage to her, and I would like to serenade her with a piece of your music.”
An invisible knife stabbed Cameron in the heart. “You’re proposing?”
“Yes. Not right away. I want to have the song first.”
Cameron sighed. He could write a song for Rose. He could write a whole symphony or opera about her. About only one part of her. He could compose an entire piece on her lips alone, or her sapphire eyes, or her peachy satin skin. It would be the easiest commission ever. He could do it in his sleep.
But he would not. Not if it was to be a gift from another man. He couldn’t.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I’m leaving for London on the morrow.”
“When will you be back?
“I won’t. I’m moving there permanently.”
“You could still write the piece, could you not?”
“I’m afraid not, my lord. I’m taking a job that won’t allow me the time for private commissions.”
“Could you postpone your departure? I assure you that you will be handsomely compensated.”
Cameron sighed again. He had no job lined up in London, and he needed money. “How much are you offering?”
“What is your going rate?”
“Two hundred pounds.”
Cameron expected Xavier to laugh at him. To say there was no way in hell he was going to pay such an exorbitant amount to some amateur composer. But he didn’t.
“Two hundred it is, then,” Evan said. “Surely you could see fit to postpone your departure for that sum.”