This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

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 ones as well. 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.

Well, she was going to give him one.

THE ADDRESS HER BROTHER had inked was still damp on the page when Lavinia’s reverie was interrupted.

“He calls you Vinny?”

She looked up and felt her cheeks flush. It was Mr. William Q. White, leaning against the shelves. Of all the people to intrude at this moment. She’d thought the conversation had been quiet. She’d thought him safely ensconced back in the finance section, behind five shelves of books. Obviously she’d been wrong on both counts.

How much had he overheard? How embarrassed ought she to be at playing out that ridiculous drama in front of this serious man? Had she said anything stupid? And how absurd was it that, despite all that had transpired in the last half hour, her heart raced in pitter-patters because Mr. William Q. White had actually started a conversation with her?

As she always did when she was nervous, she began to babble. “Yes, he calls me Vinny. It’s a pet name for—”

“I know your Christian name, Miss Spencer.” His gaze did not move from hers. Instead, he walked across the room to her and stepped behind the counter. He stood too close. If she’d been sitting in a regular chair, she’d have had to crane her neck. Seated on a stool, her feet swinging well above the ground, she still had to lean her head back to look him in the eyes.

He smiled at her, a long, slow grin. In giddy excitement her stomach turned over. That dangerous curve of his lips was a new expression for him. Assuredly new. She would have remembered another one like it. Lavinia swallowed.

He set his hand deliberately atop hers.

Oh, she knew she should pull away. Pull away, and slap him for taking liberties with her person. But her brother had left her so cold—and his hand was so warm—and by all that was holy, after a year of encouraging Mr. William Q. White to do more than just look at her, she was not about to raise objections to a little liberty.

“I know what Vinny is short for. As it happens, I prefer Lavinia.” He leaned over her.

He said it as if he preferred her, not just her name. Lavinia’s lungs seized. She could smell the starch of his cravat. He’s going to kiss me, she thought. Her nipples pressed, painfully peaked, against her stays. His thumb ran along her wrist, down the curve of her fingers. Lavinia felt her lips part. She might even have arched up toward him, just a little. She focused on the pink of his mouth, so close to hers.

He’s going to kiss me, and I am going to let him.

Instead, he released her hand. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers against hers as he stepped away.

“Miss Spencer, I do believe we’ll talk tomorrow.” He smiled. Before she could point out that tomorrow was Sunday, and the lending library would therefore be closed, he tipped his hat at her and set it on his head. “Come find me at one.”

And then Mr. William Q. White strode away, the tails of his coat flapping at her. The bell jingled. The door shut. Lavinia raised her burning hand to her unkissed lips and looked down.

It was only then she realized he hadn’t been angling for a kiss at all.

He’d taken the slip of foolscap containing the address of the man who’d cheated James.

Chapter Two

LAVINIA WOKE TO A CLOUD of thick, choking smoke. Her first panicked thought was that the books downstairs had somehow caught fire, that their livelihood, half owned by creditors, was going up in flames. But then her conscious mind caught up to her racing fears and she correctly cataloged the smell.

It was the more mundane—and rather more unpleasant—scent of burning porridge.

Frowning, Lavinia pulled a wrapper over her nightdress and padded out into the front room.

James, his hands blackened with soot, was juggling a pot. The vessel let off billows of gray smoke, its sides streaked black.

“Ah,” he said essaying a weak smile. “Lavinia! I made breakfast for you.”

She didn’t dare respond, not even with so little as a raised eyebrow.

He peered into the pot, frowning. “There’s still some white bits in here. Isn’t it odd that porridge turns yellow when it burns? I’d have thought it would go directly to black.” He prodded the mass with a spoon, then shrugged and looked up. “Want some?”

Over fifteen years, Lavinia had become quite fluent in the foreign tongue known as Younger Brother. It was a tricky language, mostly because it employed words and phrases that sounded, deceptively, as if they were proper English.

For instance, the average woman off th

e street would have thought that James had just offered her burned porridge. Lavinia knew better. What James had actually said was, “Sorry I stole your money. I made you breakfast by way of apology. Forgive me?”

Lavinia sighed and waved her hand. “Give me a bowl.”

That was Younger Brother for: “Your porridge is disgusting, but I love you nonetheless.”