This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)
Courtney Milan


CHAPTER ONE

London, 1822

IT WAS FOUR DAYS until Christmas and four minutes until the family lending library closed for the evening. Lavinia Spencer sat, the daily ledger opened on the desk in front of her, and waited for the moment when the day would end and she could officially remove her five pennies from the take. Every day since summer, she’d set aside a coin or five from her family’s earnings. She’d saved the largesse in a cloth bag in the desk drawer, where nobody would find it and be tempted to spend it. Over the weeks, her bag had begun to burgeon. Now, she had almost two pounds.

Two pounds in small, cold coins to the rest of the world. For Lavinia, the money meant pies. Spices, sugar and wine to mull them with. And, once she scoured the markets, perhaps a goose—a small goose—roasted alongside their usual turnips. Her two pounds meant a Christmas celebration that would make Papa sit up and smile. Six months of planning—but the effort had been worth it, because Lavinia was going to deliver a holiday meal just like the ones her mother had prepared.

The business they’d conducted today had been frenetic. Lavinia finished adding columns in the daybook and nodded to herself. Today’s take—according to her records—had been very fine indeed. If she hadn’t miscalculated, today she’d let herself take six pennies from the till—half a shilling that made her that much more certain of goose, as opposed to mere stewing fowl. Lavinia took a deep breath. Layered atop the musk of leather-bound volumes and India ink, she could almost detect the scent of roast poultry. She imagined the red of mulled wine swirling in mugs. And in her mind’s eye, she saw her father sitting taller in his chair, color finally touching his cheeks.

She reached for the cash box and started counting.

The bell above the door rang—at a minute to closing. A gust of winter wind poured in. Lavinia looked up, prepared to be annoyed. But when she saw who had entered, she caught her breath.

It was him. Mr. William Q. White—and what the Q stood for, she’d not had the foresight to demand on the day when he’d purchased his subscription. But the name rolled off the tongue. William Q. White. She could never think of him as simply a monosyllable last name. His name had rolled off her tongue, as it happened, far too many times in the last year for her own good.

He took off his hat and gloves at the threshold and shook droplets of water from the sodden gray of his coat. Mr. William Q. White was tall and his dark hair was cropped close to his skull. He did not dawdle in the doorway, letting the rain into the shop as so many other customers did. Instead, he moved quickly, purposefully, without ever appearing to rush. It was not even a second before he closed the door on the frigid winter and entered the room. Despite his alacrity, he did not track in mud.

His eyes, a rich mahogany, met hers. She bit her lip and twisted her feet around the legs of her stool. He spoke little, but what he said—

“Miss Spencer.” He gestured with his hat in acknowledgment.

Unremarkable words, but her toes curled in their slippers nonetheless. He spoke in a deep baritone, his voice as rich as the finest drinking chocolate. But what really made her palms tingle was a wild, indefinable something about his accent. It wasn’t the grating Cockney the delivery boys employed, nor the flat, pompous perfection of the London aristocracy. He had a pure, cultured voice—but one that was nonetheless from somewhere many miles distant. His Rs had just a hint of a roll to them; his vowels stretched and elongated into elegant diphthongs. Every time he said “Miss Spencer,” the exotic cadence of his speech seemed to whisper, “I have been places.”

She imagined him adding, “Would you like to come with me?”

Yes. Yes, she would. Lavinia rather fancied a man with long…vowels.

And oh, she knew she was being foolish and giddy about Mr. William Q. White. But if a girl couldn’t be foolish and giddy about a man when she was nineteen, when could she be foolish? It was hard to be serious all the time, especially when there was so much to be serious about.

And so she took a risk. “Merry Christmas, Mr. White.”

He was examining the shelves. At her words, he turned toward her. His eyes slid from her waist up to her face, and Lavinia ducked her head and stared at the stack of pennies in front of her to hide her blush.