This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)(25)

William did not mind being stripped of his position and his wages. He no longer fancied losing his dignity alongside. “My lord, my name is William White.”

Naturally, Lord Blakely took no notice of the interjection. “Bill Blight made an error. Find it and then sack him. When you can lay the mistake before me, I shall allow you to leave.”

Lord Wyndleton sighed heavily, but reached for a book. He opened it and stared intently at the first page. His grandfather watched, silent, for a few minutes as the young lord scanned the entries. Finally he shook his head and walked out, leaving the two younger men together. William heard the front door to the building rattle shut; shortly after, the jingle of his carriage sounded.

As soon as they were alone, the young lord looked up. “Did you make a mistake between the months of January and April?”

William rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“Well, tell me what it was. I haven’t got all day.”

“I don’t know. Between the months of January and April, I must have accounted for upward of four thousand transactions. Of course there was a mistake somewhere in the lot—it’s impossible not to make one. If your grandfather were even halfway rational, he wouldn’t sack his employees for minor imperfections.”

William had thought the insult to the marquess would be enough to have him sent on his way.

“Hmm,” Lord Wyndleton said. “Four thousand transactions.” He glanced up at William, and then shook his head as if it were somehow William’s fault he’d been so efficient. “What a bloody nuisance.”

With that, the man turned his head down to the books. Minutes passed. His eyes moved slowly down column after column. He turned one page, then another. At the turn of the tenth page, William sighed and sat down without permission.

The old marquess might have turned him off for that offense in an instant, too; his grandson didn’t even appear to notice.

At the twentieth page, William began to wish he hadn’t been so meticulous in his accounting. If he’d missed a shilling on the first page, at least he would have been able to leave.

At the twenty-sixth page, Lord Wyndleton sighed loudly. “I bloody hate this,” he muttered.

How sweet. They had something in common. It was time to escalate his plan to get sacked.

William was already bored. And he had nothing to lose. “I hear you are interested in scientific pursuit.”

Lord Wyndleton’s eyes moved only to glance down the page of numbers in front of him. He turned his hand over. It might have been an unconscious gesture. It might have been the barest acknowledgment of William’s uttered words.

William decided to take it as acknowledgment. “Well, then. I should think you’d enjoy numbers.”

Lord Wyndleton shrugged but still did not look up. He flipped to the front of the book, then back to page twenty-six. For a long while William thought the man was going to ignore him.

But the viscount finally spoke without lifting his eyes from the page. “I do like numbers. I like numbers when they are attached to little t and double-dot-x. Maybe a calculation of probability.” He spoke in swift, clipped tones, his voice unemotional and unvarying. “I dislike arithmetic. Finance bores me. It has no rules to discover. Just opportunity for error.”

“Ah,” William said. “You prefer calculus?”

Lord Wyndleton sighed and turned to page twenty-seven. Then he looked up—although he didn’t look directly at William. Instead, he leaned his head back and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “Let me tell you what I dislike. I dislike servants who make obscure mistakes, forcing me to spend Christmas Eve morn studying dusty accounting tomes. My dislike accelerates when said servant attempts to distract 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.”