This Wicked Gift by Courtney Milan Page B

books spread out in
front of him, Lord Wyndleton believed. He looked up.
    “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.”
    B Y 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