This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)(5)
It was only then she realized he hadn’t been angling for a kiss at all.
He’d taken the slip of foolscap containing the address of the man who’d cheated James.
CHAPTER TWO
LAVINIA WOKE TO A CLOUD of thick, choking smoke. Her first panicked thought was that the books downstairs had somehow caught fire, that their livelihood, half owned by creditors, was going up in flames. But then her conscious mind caught up to her racing fears and she correctly cataloged the smell.
It was the more mundane—and rather more unpleasant—scent of burning porridge.
Frowning, Lavinia pulled a wrapper over her nightdress and padded out into the front room.
James, his hands blackened with soot, was juggling a pot. The vessel let off billows of gray smoke, its sides streaked black.
“Ah,” he said essaying a weak smile. “Lavinia! I made breakfast for you.”
She didn’t dare respond, not even with so little as a raised eyebrow.
He peered into the pot, frowning. “There’s still some white bits in here. Isn’t it odd that porridge turns yellow when it burns? I’d have thought it would go directly to black.” He prodded the mass with a spoon, then shrugged and looked up. “Want some?”
Over fifteen years, Lavinia had become quite fluent in the foreign tongue known as Younger Brother. It was a tricky language, mostly because it employed words and phrases that sounded, deceptively, as if they were proper English.
For instance, the average woman off the street would have thought that James had just offered her burned porridge. Lavinia knew better. What James had actually said was, “Sorry I stole your money. I made you breakfast by way of apology. Forgive me?”
Lavinia sighed and waved her hand. “Give me a bowl.”
That was Younger Brother for: “Your porridge is disgusting, but I love you nonetheless.”
By unspoken consensus, as they prepared a tray to bring to their father in bed, James cut a slice of bread and Lavinia slipped it on a toasting fork. Ill as their father was, there was no need to punish him with either the details of James’s transgression or an indigestible breakfast.
And perhaps, Lavinia thought as she choked down the nauseating glutinous mass, that was the essence of love. Love wasn’t about reasons. It wasn’t about admiring fine qualities. Love was a language all on its own, composed of gestures that seemed incomprehensible, perhaps even pointless, to the outside observer.
Speaking of the inarticulate language of love, what had Mr. William Q. White meant by his outrageous behavior last night? Come find me, he’d said. His words had seemed to come straight from her imagination.
But surely he hadn’t meant for her to look up the address he’d given when he applied for a subscription? Surely he didn’t mean she should pay him a visit? A woman who intended to keep her virtue did not visit a man, even if he did have lovely eyes and a voice that spoke of dark seduction. Especially if he had those features. Lavinia had gone nineteen years without making any errors at all on that front.
As it happens, I prefer Lavinia. Come find me.
She didn’t need to remember the heat of his gaze as he looked at her to know he hadn’t asked her to pay an innocent little morning call.
And yet what had her streak of perfection gotten her? Months and months of painstaking tallies had done her no good. Her coins were gone and the very thought of the barren holiday that awaited her family made her palms grow cold.
This somewhat dubious rationale brought Lavinia to the dark, imposing door of 12 Norwich Court. It was not quite an hour after noon, but a dark gray cloud hovered over the tall, bulky houses and blocked all hint of the feeble sun. A wild wind whipped down the street, carrying with it the last few tired leaves from some faraway square and the earthy scent of winter mold. Lavinia pulled her cloak about her in the gloom.
This residential street—little more than a dingy alley, really—was occupied at present only by an orange cat. The animal was a solitary spot of color against the gray-streaked buildings. In the next hour, Lavinia’s life could change. Completely. Before she could reconsider, she rapped the knocker firmly against the door. She could feel the blood pounding in her wrists.
And then she waited. She’d almost convinced herself there was nothing unsafe or untoward about this visit. According to the subscription card, Mr. William Q. White had a room on the second floor of a house owned by Mrs. Jane Entwhistle—a cheerful, elderly widow who sometimes visited the lending library in search of gothic novels. Mrs. Entwhistle would doubtless be willing to play chaperone at Lavinia’s request. She might even be kindhearted enough to look the other way.
The door opened.
“Oh, Mrs. Entwhistle,” Lavinia started. And then she stopped.
It was not the bustling widow who’d opened the door, nor Mary Lee Evans, the scullery maid who was the object of Mrs. Entwhistle’s complaints.
Behind the threshold, Mr. William Q. White stood in his shirtsleeves. He was in a shocking state of dishabille. Beneath that single layer of rough white linen, Lavinia could make out the broad line of his shoulders, and the sleek curve of muscles. His cuffs had been folded up, and she could see fine lines of hair at his wrist. She peeped behind him. Surely the respectable Mrs. Entwhistle wouldn’t countenance such laxity of dress.
The widow was nowhere to be seen.
She glanced down the street. The cat sat, licking its paws, on a step three houses down.