This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

“Aren’t you some kind of lowly clerk or some such? How do you know arcane details about the legalities of contracts?”


William smiled faintly. I made love to a beautiful woman hardly seemed to be an answer that would keep him in his lordship’s good graces. “I read,” he finally said. It was true. Just not the whole truth. “I’ve been training myself to take over an estate.”

“Expectations?”

“No, my lord. None. Just…” William nodded once. “Just hopes, really.”

Lord Wyndleton drummed his fingers against the desk. “If I had my way,” he said quietly, “I’d leave England entirely. I’ve wanted to explore the Americas—but lacking funds, of course, it’s never been an option. It is now. But I need someone here. He would have to be someone who could be trusted to make sure my funds arrived wherever I had need of them. Someone who could not be suborned by my grandfather. Someone competent and efficient—perhaps even someone who likes finance—even if he does make the occasional mistake sometime between the months of January and April. Now—” Lord Wyndleton leaned back and looked at the ceiling “—if only I knew someone like that.”

The viscount was curt, rude and demanding. But he was not a tyrant like his grandfather. And he was fundamentally fair in a way that the marquess had not been. William shrugged. “And here I thought you didn’t like roundaboutation.”

“Well,” Lord Wyndleton said, “are you in need of a position?”

“As it happens, yes. Although I regret to inform you, my previous employer is not likely to speak highly of my character, as I helped his grandson uncover the secret of his financial independence. It was a shocking lapse of judgment on my part.”

Lord Wyndleton pursed his lips and nodded. “A shocking lapse. Can I trust you, Mr. White?”

“Of course you can,” William said, holding his breath. “You’re going to pay me seventy-five pounds a year.”

The viscount leaned back in his chair. “I am?”

William had chosen the salary to be deliberately, obscenely high. He’d had no doubts his lordship would argue him down to a reasonable thirty—perhaps forty—pounds. Forty pounds. On forty pounds, a man might rent decent quarters for himself and a wife. He might have children without worrying about whether he could provide for them. Forty pounds a year meant Lavinia. He was about to open his mouth to lower his demand when the young lord spoke again.

“Seventy-five pounds a year.” Lord Wyndleton sounded distinctly amused. “Is that supposed to be a lot of money?”

“You’re joking. God, yes.”

His lordship waved a hand negligently. “My mother and sister live in Aldershot. If you are good enough to get me out of London before my grandfather notices,” he said quietly, “I’ll treble that.”

He stood as William stared after him in shock.

“Come along,” he said. “I believe you have your resignation to tender.”

BY TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, William and his new employer had barred the old marquess from his grandson’s personal finances. The viscount’s first purchase had been a coach and four. They’d obtained money for changes, and his new employer had been on his way. William went to Spencer’s circulating library.

He made it there by three. The building was lit with a dim glow; the door, when he tried it, was unlocked. Good. She hadn’t yet closed the shop for Christmas Eve.

He opened the door. She was sitting at her stool again, winding a strand of hair through her fingers. Up. Down. Soon those would be his fingers there, stroking her hair. Rubbing her cheek. There was a thread of melancholy to her movements.

She glanced up and saw him, but her face did not light. Instead, it shuttered in on itself. Lavinia, the woman who smiled at everyone who entered her shop, pressed her lips together and looked away. It was not the best of beginnings.

William advanced on her.

She spoke first. “I have a Christmas gift for you.” Still she kept her eyes on the desk in front of her. Her hands lay on the table—pressed flat against that solid surface, not relaxed and curved. Her fingertips were white.

“I don’t want a gift, Lavinia.”

Still she didn’t look at him. Instead she pulled open a drawer—the quiet protest of wood against wood sounded—and she rummaged inside. When she found whatever it was she was looking for, she lobbed it in his direction. As she still hadn’t looked at him, her aim was poor. He stretched to catch what she’d thrown. It was a pouch barely the size of his hand. The container was light. It might well have been empty.

“I told you,” she said quietly, her eyes still on her hands. “I told you, you wouldn’t want to know what I would have to do to pay back your ten pounds.” Her voice was small.

His heart stopped. “I don’t want ten pounds from you.”