This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)(23)

WILLIAM HAD THOUGHT he’d made up his mind to refuse Mr. Sherrod’s solicitor. But Lavinia had dared him to hope. If she was willing to forgive a black stain on his honor, ought he not be prepared to swallow a little oiliness in exchange?

He’d met the man at first light, early on Christmas Eve. They’d had an appointment in a dingy upstairs office, just off Fleet Street. The solicitor had dressed for their morning appointment with sartorial stupidity. He wore a ghastly waistcoat of red-striped purple—or was it purple-striped red?—paired with a jacket and trousers in a cheap, shiny blue fabric. An ostentatious gold-headed cane leaned against his chair.

“Right,” the solicitor said, shuffling a pile of papers on his desk. His tone was all brisk business. “I assume we’ve come to an understanding, then. You’ll file for relief in Chancery, contesting Mr. Sherrod’s will on the grounds of insanity. I will protest, saying that the foibles of his mind were precisely what one might expect in a man of his age.”

“And then I’ll get the money?” Two weeks ago, five thousand pounds might have meant surcease from drudgery, an escape from his cold world. It would have meant hot fires and fresh meat and large, comfortable rooms. Today, he could think of only one thing he wanted. Five thousand pounds meant Lavinia. It meant he could ask her to marry him, selfish idiot that he was. He could lift his eyes to her face. He could offer her everything she deserved—riches and wealth, without any hint of privation. She would have everything of the best.

No. Not everything. The man that came with it would not be up to her standards.

“Well,” the solicitor hedged, “you might not get the money immediately. You might have to wait until after Chancery has sorted matters out, after it has conducted a hearing or…or two on the matter. But surely then, you’ll have his fortune.”

She would want him to grasp at any chance for her. Wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she want a man who was able to hope?

William swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. “What would I have to tell the courts?”

“Simple. Tell them Mr. Sherrod was mad. Manufacture stories, explaining that he saw things that were not present, that he spoke to pixies. Find folk who would attest to such tales. It would be a simple matter, if you paid—ahem, I mean, if you found enough of them.”

“You expect me to lie, then.”

“Goodness. I would never suborn perjury. I want you to tell the truth.” This supercilious speech was somewhat weakened by a wink. “The truth, and nothing but the truth. A hint of embroidery, though, would not be amiss. Think of a court case like a woman’s frock—you hide the parts of the figure that are not so flattering, and frame the bosom so that everyone can look at the enticing bits.” The solicitor made a gesture in the direction of his own chest. “Just enough embellishment to convince the court of your claim, hmm?”

No matter what this greasy lawyer told him, William was fairly certain he had nothing but a tiny chance at success. He might not find people to testify. The court might not believe them. Sherrod’s widow would undoubtedly claim otherwise. Still, a tiny chance was a chance nonetheless.

Was this hope that he felt, this grim determination to see the task through? Was it hope that wrapped around his throat, choking him like a noose? Was that morass, sinking like a stone in his stomach as he gritted his teeth and prepared to do business with this oily man, what he needed to accept?

Yes.

He opened his mouth to give his assent.

But as he did, he heard that voice again.

You don’t have to do this.

The voice was wrong. He did have to do this. Today, when he went in to work, he might lose everything. He might have no position, and Lavinia could be pregnant. He had to accept any chance, no matter how small, that could help.

No, you don’t. You don’t have to do this.

This time, he recognized the words for what they were. They didn’t come from some outside agency. He was the speaker. Even if he denied it—even as he betrayed himself—he’d always retained some semblance of his honor. It had not disappeared. It had simply been here, waiting for him to follow.

For so long, he’d simply believed he had sunk so low in society that he did not dare to lift his face. Oh, yes, he’d dishonored himself. But he couldn’t find honor by seeking forgiveness. He could not wait for Lavinia or anyone else to absolve him of his sins.

If William ever hoped to have some measure of honor, he had to be an honorable man.

The solicitor must have seen his hesitation.

“Think,” he said, “on the revenge you could take on the man who destroyed your father.”

He’d dwelled on that dark thought for a decade. But how could he expect forgiveness for his own sins, if he could not grant absolution to the man who’d wronged him?

He would have to give up any chance at those five thousand pounds. That meant he would give up any chance at having Lavinia—but then, when Lavinia had told him to hope, she hadn’t meant that he should hope for her.

She’d wanted him to hope for himself.

“No,” he said. It felt good in every way to know that he could choose to be honorable, even knowing the cost.

Confusion lit the solicitor’s face. “No? What could you possibly mean by no?”

“No, I won’t embellish the truth past recognition. No, I won’t tell lies. No, I won’t seek revenge to keep you in Chancery fees. I’m not that kind of man.” He had been, once, but he was no longer.