This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

“Let me guess,” she said. “You conveyed my invitation to Christmas dinner to the marquess and he sacked you for the effrontery. Ah, well. It doesn’t matter.” She smiled at him, so he would know she was not serious. “In any event, I made more money last quarter than you, so we shall make do.”


Lavinia may have been the only woman in all Christendom to invest the excess from the household accounts in railways. He walked over to stand by her.

“You also spent more money last quarter than I did,” he said, laying a hand on the imported silk of her shawl. He took the excuse to stroke her shoulder.

“This? Oh, no. This was quite inexpensive. Now, tell me—am I going to have a marquess appearing at dinner tomorrow?”

“No, thank God. I did intend to ask him—truly I did—but he stopped me before I dared. It was probably for the best.”

“He is the most dreadfully lonely man.” She shrugged. “But I suppose it is his choice.”

“Speaking of lonely. Or what is far more interesting to me, let us speak of being alone. I notice that something—or rather, some ones are missing.”

“James has the boys. He shut the shop early today and he’s taken them all out to see the Italian players.”

That would explain the unearthly quiet.

“Mrs. Evans is in the kitchens. And I’ve sent the maids to the market. I don’t believe anyone will come into the sitting room. Not for hours.”

William smiled and extended his hand. “Mrs. White,” he said slyly, “I think that your very expensive shawl would look far lovelier and more expensive on this floor.”