This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

“I’m leaving,” Lord Wyndleton continued.

“No, you are not. What you are doing is throwing a tantrum, like a child demanding a boiled sweet. It is long past time that you gave up that natural philosophy nonsense and learned to manage an estate like a lord.”

“I can read a damned account book.”

“Yes, but can you manage seventeen separate properties? Can you keep a host of useless and unmotivated servitors bent to their tasks?”

The young viscount’s gaze cut briefly toward William. William felt himself analyzed, cataloged—and then, just as swiftly, dismissed, an obstacle as irrelevant and underwhelming as a dead black beetle lying in the middle of a thoroughfare.

“How difficult can it be?”

“Bill Blight, why don’t you explain to my grandson what I had planned for you?”

“You were, I believe, going to look through my work until you found an error. My lord.” And then you were going to turn me off.

“Blight, tell him what I really intended.”

William pressed his lips together. “You were going to sack me to induce terror in your staff.”

That sort of sentence—bald and unforgiving—ought to have gotten him tossed out on his ear.

Instead, the marquess smiled. “Precisely so. Wyndleton, how do you suppose I managed to thwart your ill-fated flight this morning? I assure you, I did not need to bribe every driver in London. I keep my staff in line—and that means they do as I say, what I say, no matter the cost.”

The young viscount’s nostrils flared.

“You think you can be a marquess? Like that?” The marquess snapped his fingers. “Get your valise. Spend these two days with me—do as I say—and you’ll start to learn how it’s done. Someday you might even get to thwart me. Or you would, if you had the money to do it.”

Still Lord Wyndleton did not move. He stood next to William, his arms rigid, his fingers curving into the desk like claws.

“Come along,” the marquess said. “I shouldn’t have to spoon-feed you these lessons. If you’ll listen to me, I’ll have the carriage take you over late Christmas Eve.” The old man stood up and walked to the door. He didn’t look back.

After all, William thought bitterly, what else could mere mortals do but jump to perform his bidding? The thought almost put him in charity with the man standing nearby. The viscount slowly straightened.

“What I don’t understand,” William said quietly, “is why you don’t buy your own carriage.”

Lord Wyndleton turned to him. This close, William could see the golden brown of his eyes—predator’s eyes, or at least, a predator in training. Like any wolf cub caught in a trap, he snapped in anger at anything that came near.

“He’s holding the purse strings, you idiot.” He straightened and wiped his hands on his sleeves. “My grandfather is sacking you, yes?”

“He’ll get around to it.”

Gareth Carhart, Viscount Wyndleton, picked up the valise. He nodded sharply. “Excellent,” he said, and then he walked out of the room.

THE END OF THE DAY ARRIVED, but Lord Blakely and his grandson still had not returned. This meant that William had still not been sacked.

Winter struck directly through William’s coat as he left his place of employment. Yes, he’d had a reprieve—albeit a temporary one. He knew the marquess’s tactics. Once he got a man in his sights, he did not let up. Today William survived. Tomorrow…It was going to be another damned cold night, one in a string of damned cold nights stretching from this moment until death.

“Mr. White.”

William turned. There, in virulent yellow waistcoat, burgeoning over an ample belly, his locks pomaded to glossy slickness, stood Mr. Sherrod’s solicitor. The corner of William’s lip turned up in an involuntary snarl.

“Do you have another taunt to deliver on your late employer’s behalf?” William pulled his coat around him and started walking away, brushing past the unctuous fellow. “As it is, I must be on my way.”

The solicitor’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “Nonsense, Mr. White. I’ve come to a realization. A profitable realization. I wanted to…to share it with you.”

William stared at the chubby fingers on his cuff, and then carefully picked them off his sleeve, one by one. The digits felt greasy even through his gloves.

“Adam Sherrod,” the man said, “left the bulk of his fortune in his final testament to the serious little stick of a woman who served as his wife. Given the informal agreement he made with your father, you might contest the disposition of his estate. I had, in point of fact, hoped that you would. You accepted your fate with surprising grace the other day.”