This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

There was a moment of disapproving silence. “I see. Since you do not seem to be weighed down by exorbitant shipping profits, I must conclude your foray into trade was unsuccessful.”


A sullen scuffle of shoes followed. “After I gave him the two pounds, Cross told me we needed fifty more to pay the excise men.”

“I see.”

William had heard of similar tricks before. It was the sort of fraudulent promise made by ruffians who preyed on the greedy and the indolent—a pledge of fabulous wealth, soon, if only the mark in question handed over a tiny amount. It started with a few shillings. Next, the trickster would require three pounds for a bribe, followed by fifty for customs. The fraud only ended when the target was bled dry.

“Well, of course I saw through him then,” the younger Spencer continued. “I called him a cheat. And then he told me he’d have me up in front of a magistrate for failing to deliver on my promissory note.”

“Your what?”

“Uh.” James drew the syllable out. His hesitance echoed among the books. “You recall that partnership agreement?”

“Yes…?” She did not sound the least bit encouraging.

“It turns out that paper I signed was actually a promissory note for ten pounds.”

The inarticulate cry of protest Miss Spencer made was not angelic at all. William peeked around the corner. She was seated on her stool, her head in her hands. She rocked back and forth, the seat tipping precariously. Finally she spoke through her fingers. “You didn’t read it when you signed it?”

“He looked honest.”

Wood scraped against the slate floor as Miss Spencer pushed her stool back and stood. William pulled his head behind the shelves before she could spot him.

“Oh, my Lord,” she swore, downright unrighteous in her wrath. “A man offered you a partnership predicated upon attempted bribery, and you didn’t question his integrity?”

“Um. No?”

William did not dare breathe into the silence that followed. Then James spoke again. “Vinny, if I must appear before a magistrate, could we claim—”

“Be quiet,” she snapped furiously. “I’m thinking.”

So was William. Frauds and cheats, if they were any good, made excessively good barristers for themselves in court. The common person could not risk a loss at law. William would not want to stand in young James’s shoes before a magistrate. He gave it even odds the boy would prevail.

“No,” Miss Spencer said, almost as if she’d heard William’s thoughts, and decided to correct him. “We’d win, but we’d have to pay a barrister. No magistrate.”

“Vinny, do we have ten pounds? Can’t we make him just go away?”

“Not if we want to pay the apothecary.”

There was a bleak silence. Likely, Miss Spencer had forgotten William was in the room. If he were a gentleman, he’d have apologized minutes ago and taken his leave.

“We are not without options,” Miss Spencer said.

Options. William had a fair idea just how many options Miss Spencer had. He suspected the number was equal to the population of single men who frequented the library—and perhaps included the married men. As the reading men of London were, by definition, neither blind nor completely idiotic, he knew there were many others who entertained charged fantasies about Miss Spencer. In fact, he rather suspected that old Mr. Bellows, the wealthy butcher, would offer her marriage if she gave him the slightest encouragement. Ten pounds would be nothing to him—and the butcher was hardly alone in his lust.

William could not countenance the thought. He could not envision her beneath that fat, toothless man. And besides, the upright Miss Spencer chided her brother about bribery and petty theft. She would never stray from a husband, no matter how many teeth the man lost. If she married, William would never be able to pretend—not even on the darkest, loneliest nights—that he would one day have her.

He’d had enough dreams shattered today.

“I have a plan.” There was steel in Miss Spencer’s voice. “I’ll take care of it.”

“What must I do?” James asked instantly.

Miss Spencer was silent. “I think,” she said quietly, “you’ve done enough for now. I’ll take care of it for you. Just give me his direction.”

Silence stretched, ungracious in its length. Finally her brother heaved a sigh. “Very well. Thank you, Vinny.”

Like the foolish coward that he was, her brother complied. William could hear the scratch of pen against paper. James hadn’t even asked her what her plan entailed, or insisted that he take care of the matter himself. He didn’t care what she might have to sacrifice for him.

William’s fists clenched around the bank note in his pocket. If he were a gentleman, he’d hand Miss Spencer his ten pounds and solve all her problems.

Then again, William hadn’t been a gentleman since he was fourteen.

No. His ten pounds—his last, minuscule legacy from childhood—would buy him the one fantasy he had left. If she had to sacrifice herself, it might as well be in his honor. She’d wished him a merry Christmas.