This Wicked Gift by Courtney Milan Page A

me from my duty by yammering on. That means,   Bill ,
I dislike you.”
    “That,” said William, “makes us a pair. I despise men who let their vast fortunes go to waste. You’re
so helpless, you can’t even get thirty miles on a
Christmas Eve. You’re spending your morning glowering at books instead of going
to Tattersall’s and purchasing a very swift horse.”
    “If my grandfather did not control my
fortune, I would have done precisely that.”
    The viscount was angry. He was, also,
William realized, entirely serious.
    William stared at him for a few moments,
his own pique dissipating. “You really don’t like finance,” he finally said.
“Your grandfather doesn’t control your fortune.”
    “Ha.” Lord Wyndleton undoubtedly intended
that single syllable to be a dismissal.
    “It wasn’t I who made the mistake. It was the marquess.”
    “Do be quiet.”
    “He ought never have left you alone with me.”
    Lord Wyndleton slammed his pen down. “Oh,
Lord almighty,” he muttered to the desktop. “What are you going to do to me?
Annoy me to death?”
    “You see,” William continued, “I’ve
recorded the accounting for your trust every month since I started here. Those
funds became yours, free and clear, upon your majority.”
    Viscount Wyndleton cocked his head and
turned it. It was a gesture reminiscent of his grandfather—and yet on him, it
seemed attentive rather than predatory. His eyes were steady and almost
golden-brown. For a few seconds he stared at William, his lips parted.
    William knew precisely what that look
meant. He was entertaining hopes. Then he let out a breath and shook his head.
“No. When the trust was established, the money would have become mine on my
majority. But six years ago I came to an agreement with my grandfather. I
signed over control of my funds after my majority. In exchange he let me—well,
never mind that. Your information is wrong.”
    He paused, tapping his pen against his
wrist. “Next time, if you have something to say, come out and
say it. I don’t hold with talking in such a roundabout   fashion, as if you’re a cat circling
your prey. Pounce already and be done with
it.”
    For a second William thought the young
lord intended to leave his words at a rebuke. But then Lord Wyndleton looked up
again. “But thank you,” he said. “It was well-meant.”
    So the grandson was not the grandfather,
however alike they might have seemed at first. What had started as resentment
on William’s part had turned into something—something more. He wasn’t sure what it was yet.
    William stood. “I’ve seen the statements.
I’ve recorded the accounts. I know every detail, and they’re in your own name.”
    “Couldn’t be. There
must be some legal nicety you’re missing. Blakely is too meticulous. I signed a
contract, and I have no doubt the matter it covered was executed immediately.   He   wouldn’t miss the opportunity to keep
me under his thumb.”
    “This contract—you signed it six years
ago?” The hackles on William’s neck rose. His calm dissipated. A great and
sudden weight tensed on his shoulders. “You’re two-and-twenty now?”
    Lord Wyndleton waved his hand and turned
back to the books, dismissing William. “This isn’t getting me any closer to my
mother’s home.”
    William strode forward and slapped his
hand over the page Lord Wyndleton was reading. “I’m pouncing. The agreement
wasn’t executed because it couldn’t have been. Legally you were an infant. The
contract was   a nullity. It’s the
rankest abuse of power for your guardian to have required you to give away what
was rightfully yours in exchange for…for something else that is rightfully
yours.”
    Lord Wyndleton let out his breath, slowly.
“Are you sure?”
    “I can prove it,” William said. “Tell them
you need to verify my figures against another set of books. They won’t deny
you.”
    A curt nod, and
William left the room. Forty-five minutes later, with the