This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER, William had cowered in the office where he worked, for fear of losing his position. Today when he walked in, he felt not even a hint of disquietude.

Why had he been so afraid? He was young. He was competent. And even if he were turned off, he would find something else. Losing a position where he was regularly treated like the grimiest gutter refuse was not something to fear. It was something to celebrate.

When the door to the office opened just after nine and in walked Lord Blakely followed by his glowering grandson, William felt triumph.

When he was let go, it would be a financial setback. It might take weeks to find work again; his wages might even be reduced. He ought to have been terrified. But this was not a punishment, to be allowed to walk out of this dark and dismal place. It was an opportunity.

The two lords stepped into the back office. After a few minutes Mr. Dunning walked up to William and whispered that he’d been asked to enter the room. They were unlikely to be inviting him to a picnic lunch. Just before he stood, Mr. Dunning laid his hand on William’s shoulder—an empty gesture of pointless support.

William smiled and stood, calm. Let them sack me. Please.

He’d expected the back office to appear precisely as he’d left it yesterday.

But when he arrived, there had been one tiny alteration. Lord Blakely still peered at him from beneath white, bushy eyebrows, examining him as if he were some strange insect. But the marquess had not seated himself in his throne behind the desk. Instead, he’d ensconced his grandson in the position of power. Lord Wyndleton sat, ill at ease. He smoldered with a repressed anger so fierce that William thought he would leave scorch marks where he tapped his fingers against the desk.

Three account books, a small portion of the work William had done over his years of employment, made a small pile on the edge of the desk.

The old marquess picked up one negligently and thumbed through the pages. “Sometime between the months of January and—” a pause, and a last glance at the end of the third book “—April, Bill Blight here made a mistake.”

William did not mind being stripped of his position and his wages. He no longer fancied losing his dignity alongside. “My lord, my name is William White.”

Naturally, Lord Blakely took no notice of the interjection. “Bill Blight made an error. Find it and then sack him. When you can lay the mistake before me, I shall allow you to leave.”

Lord Wyndleton sighed heavily, but reached for a book. He opened it and stared intently at the first page. His grandfather watched, silent, for a few minutes as the young lord scanned the entries. Finally he shook his head and walked out, leaving the two younger men together. William heard the front door to the building rattle shut; shortly after, the jingle of his carriage sounded.

As soon as they were alone, the young lord looked up. “Did you make a mistake between the months of January and April?”

William rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“Well, tell me what it was. I haven’t got all day.”

“I don’t know. Between the months of January and April, I must have accounted for upward of four thousand transactions. Of course there was a mistake somewhere in the lot—it’s impossible not to make one. If your grandfather were even halfway rational, he wouldn’t sack his employees for minor imperfections.”

William had thought the insult to the marquess would be enough to have him sent on his way.

“Hmm,” Lord Wyndleton said. “Four thousand transactions.” He glanced up at William, and then shook his head as if it were somehow William’s fault he’d been so efficient. “What a bloody nuisance.”

With that, the man turned his head down to the books. Minutes passed. His eyes moved slowly down column after column. He turned one page, then another. At the turn of the tenth page, William sighed and sat down without permission.

The old marquess might have turned him off for that offense in an instant, too; his grandson didn’t even appear to notice.

At the twentieth page, William began to wish he hadn’t been so meticulous in his accounting. If he’d missed a shilling on the first page, at least he would have been able to leave.

At the twenty-sixth page, Lord Wyndleton sighed loudly. “I bloody hate this,” he muttered.

How sweet. They had something in common. It was time to escalate his plan to get sacked.

William was already bored. And he had nothing to lose. “I hear you are interested in scientific pursuit.”

Lord Wyndleton’s eyes moved only to glance down the page of numbers in front of him. He turned his hand over. It might have been an unconscious gesture. It might have been the barest acknowledgment of William’s uttered words.

William decided to take it as acknowledgment. “Well, then. I should think you’d enjoy numbers.”