This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)(26)

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 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.”

BY 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.