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.
He didn’t need to speak to make her giddy, not when he looked at her with that breathtaking intensity. For one scalding moment, she thought he was going to address her. He might even step toward her. Her hands curled around the edge of the desk in anticipation. But instead, he shook his head and turned back to the shelves.
A pity. Not today, then. Maybe not any day. And with Mr. William Q. White ignoring her again, it was time for Lavinia to set her fancies to one side and give herself over to seriousness. She counted the coins from the cash box and piled them into stacks of twelve, making sure to exactly align the pennies atop each other before starting a new pile.
Lavinia prided herself on her ability to get the take exactly right. Her longest stretch of perfection was thirty-seven days in a row, spanning the entirety of October. That run had been ruined by a penny’s difference on November 4. She had no intention of letting October’s record stand, however. It had been twenty-two days since her last error. Today would be number twenty-three.
She’d counted and double-counted every transaction. If she was so much as a ha’penny short, she’d eat Mr. William Q. White’s extremely wet hat. Her hands flew as she placed dirty coins into careful piles. Four, six, eight, and with the loose coins, that made seven shillings, and four and one-halfpence. Less than she’d imagined. She bit her lip in suspicion and glanced at the tally in the ledger.
Trepidation settled in an indigestible mass in Lavinia’s belly. There, written in black and white in the daily ledger, was the final sum. Ten shillings, four and one-half pence.
She wasn’t half a penny short. She was missing three full shillings.
Lavinia recounted the coins, but there was no error. Of course not; Lavinia did not make errors in accounting. Nobody would take her to task for the missing coins. Her father was too ill to examine the books, and her brother would never question Lavinia’s jurisdiction over the shop.
Still, she did not like to question herself. How had she made such a stupendous error? She felt a touch of vertigo, as if the room were spinning in circles around the ledger.
She knew what she had to do. It hurt—oh, how it stung. Those three shillings could be the difference between a small goose and no goose at all. But with her father’s creditors clamoring, and the cost of his medicines growing almost monthly, the family could not spare more than a handful of pennies’ loss each day. Lavinia slid open the drawer to make up the difference from her precious Christmas hoard.
She always placed the bag in the same spot—precisely halfway back and flush against the left side. But her fingers met no velvet mass lumpy with coin. She groped wildly and found nothing but the smooth wood of the drawer from corner to corner. Lavinia held her breath and peered inside. There was nothing in the drawer but a cracked inkwell, and that—she checked—contained nothing but bluish smears.
“Hell.” It was the worst curse word she could imagine. She whispered it; it was either that, or shriek.
She wasn’t missing a few shillings. She was missing the full two pounds. All of Christmas had just disappeared—everything from the decorative holly down through her carefully planned menu.
“Vinny?” The words were a tremulous query behind her.
With those words, the rising tide of Lavinia’s panic broke against an absolute certainty. She knew where her precious two pounds had gone.
Lavinia placed her hands on her hips. She forced herself to turn around slowly, rather than whirling as she wished. Her brother, still wrapped for the blustery weather outside, smiled weakly, holding out his hands in supplication. Water dripped from his coat and puddled on the floor.
James was four years younger than her, but Mama had always said to subtract ten years from a man’s age when calculating his sense. James had never seen fit to prove Mama’s formula wrong.
“Oh.” He peered beyond her to the coins, stacked in grim military ranks along the edge of the counter and the ransacked drawer. His lip quirked. “I see you’ve, um, already tallied the cash.”
“James Allen Spencer.” Lavinia reached out and grabbed his ear.
He winced, but didn’t dodge or protest—a sure sign of guilt.
“What,” she demanded, “have you done with my two pounds?”
IT WAS WARM INSIDE the lending library, but William White still felt cold inside. His hand clenched around the solitary bank note in his pocket. The paper crumpled in his fist, cutting into his palm. It had been ten years since anyone had wished him a merry Christmas. Fitting, that it would happen on this day—and that Lavinia Spencer would be the one to do so.
Christmas was a luxury for the wealthy—or, perhaps, an illusion for the young and innocent. William had not been any of those since the winter evening a decade ago when he’d been cut off from the comfortable life he’d been living.
He stared past the books shelved in front of him, their titles blurring with the smooth leather of their bindings. The scene clouded into an indistinct, foggy mass.
Tonight, a solicitor had finally tracked him down. William had been leaving his master’s counting house, having just finished another pitiful day of pitiful work, performed for the pitiful salary of four pounds ten a quarter. As soon as he’d set foot outside, he’d been set upon by an unctuous man.
For one second, when the lawyer had introduced himself, a flush of uncharacteristic optimism had swept through William. Mr. Sherrod had seen fit to remember the promise he’d made. William could come home. He could forget the menial work he did as a clerk. He could abandon the grim day-to-day existence of labor followed by sleep and bone-chilling want.
But no. It turned out Adam Sherrod was not generous. He was dead.
He’d remembered William in his will—to the tune of ten pounds. Ten pounds, when he’d been responsible for the loss of William’s comfort, his childhood and, ultimately, William’s father. Ten pounds, when he had promised most sincerely to take care of William, should it be necessary. It had become necessary ten Christmases ago, and Mr. Sherrod had not lifted a finger to help.
William had no real claim on Mr. Sherrod’s money. He had, in fact, nothing but the memory of a promise that the man had kicked to one side. But still, he’d remembered.
Thus dissipated one of the elaborate dreams he’d fashioned to motivate himself on the hardest days. He would never return to Leicester. He would never be able to rise above his father’s errors; hell, he would never even rise above his fellow clerks. This evening, he’d been damned to live in the hell of poverty for the rest of his life. There would be no salvation.
That last legacy should have been no surprise. After all, it was only in fairy tales that Dick Whittington came to London as an impoverished lad and ended up Lord Mayor. In reality, a man counted himself lucky to earn eighteen pounds a year.
So yes, Christmas was for the young. It was for blue-eyed angels like Miss Lavinia Spencer, who would never be confronted with the true ugliness of life. It was for women who wished customers a merry Christmas without imagining the holiday could be anything other than happy. Christmas was not for men who’d had one of two fantasies shattered in one evening.
It was the second fantasy that had drawn William here.
Miss Spencer was slim and vivacious. She couldn’t help but move her hands when she talked. She smiled far too much. She blushed far too easily. And her hair was forever falling out of its pins into unruly cinnamon waves that clung to her neck. She was one of those souls who remembered countless trivialities—names of customers, names of cats, the health of everyone’s spouse.
If he’d received even a fraction of those ten thousand pounds, as promised…Well, that was a subject for many a cold and lonely night indeed. Because he’d have found a way to get her into his bed, over and over.
William paused, his hand on the spine of a book, and attempted
to banish the image that heated thought conjured. Miss Lavinia Spencer, undoing the ties that fastened her cloak. The wool would fall to the floor in a swirl, and those cinnamon waves of hair would slip from their pins. He couldn’t think of that. Not now. Not here. It was not, however, his strength of mind that sent the vision away. It was the sound of speech.
“Vinny, you have to understand.” The recalcitrant whine of her brother was barely audible from where William stood, obscured by the shelves.
Over the past year, the elder Mr. Spencer had come into the shop less frequently. William had noted with some disapproval that it was Miss Spencer who’d taken his place downstairs. She’d greeted customers and accepted deliveries. Her brother, James, had been conspicuously absent from useful employment.
“It was just a temporary loan. He needed the money to pay the guards so he could get at his goods without his creditors finding out.” James ended on a querulous note, as if his bald assertion yearned to become a question.
“Bribe the guards, you mean.” That was Miss Spencer—incorruptible, of course. She was speaking in an almost whisper, but the shop was quiet enough that William could hear every word, echoing amongst the books.
“But Mr. Cross promised me ten percent! And he even drew up a proper partnership agreement. Since you never let me help in here, I thought I could find a way to pay Papa’s bills on my own. I was going to buy you a Christmas present. When’s the last time you had a new dress, Vinny?”
“I’d rather have my two pounds. You are getting to the part where you took the money without asking me?”
“I thought I’d be able to slip it back in before you found out. After all, Mr. Cross’s warehouse was supposed to contain three hundred bricks of tea, and several casks of indigo. Ten percent would have been a fortune.”
There was a moment of disapproving silence. “I see. Since you do not seem to be weighed down by exorbitant shipping profits, I must conclude your foray into trade was unsuccessful.”
A sullen scuffle of shoes followed. “After I gave him the two pounds, Cross told me we needed fifty more to pay the excise men.”
“I see.”
William had heard of similar tricks before. It was the sort of fraudulent promise made by ruffians who preyed on the greedy and the indolent—a pledge of fabulous wealth, soon, if only the mark in question handed over a tiny amount. It started with a few shillings. Next, the trickster would require three pounds for a bribe, followed by fifty for customs. The fraud only ended when the target was bled dry.
“Well, of course I saw through him then,” the younger Spencer continued. “I called him a cheat. And then he told me he’d have me up in front of a magistrate for failing to deliver on my promissory note.”
“Your what?”
“Uh.” James drew the syllable out. His hesitance echoed among the books. “You recall that partnership agreement?”
“Yes…?” She did not sound the least bit encouraging.
“It turns out that paper I signed was actually a promissory note for ten pounds.”
The inarticulate cry of protest Miss Spencer made was not angelic at all. William peeked around the corner. She was seated on her stool, her head in her hands. She rocked back and forth, the seat tipping precariously. Finally she spoke through her fingers. “You didn’t read it when you signed it?”
“He looked honest.”
Wood scraped against the slate floor as Miss Spencer pushed her stool back and stood. William pulled his head behind the shelves before she could spot him.
“Oh, my Lord,” she swore, downright unrighteous in her wrath. “A man offered you a partnership predicated upon attempted bribery, and you didn’t question his integrity?”
“Um. No?”
William did not dare breathe into the silence that followed. Then James spoke again. “Vinny, if I must appear before a magistrate, could we claim—”
“Be quiet,” she snapped furiously. “I’m thinking.”
So was William. Frauds and cheats, if they were any good, made excessively good barristers for themselves in court. The common person could not risk a loss at law. William would not want to stand in young James’s shoes before a magistrate. He gave it even odds the boy would prevail.
“No,” Miss Spencer said, almost as if she’d heard William’s thoughts, and decided to correct him. “We’d win, but we’d have to pay a barrister. No magistrate.”
“Vinny, do we have ten pounds? Can’t we make him just go away?”
“Not if we want to pay the apothecary.”
There was a bleak silence. Likely, Miss Spencer had forgotten William was in the room. If he were a gentleman, he’d have apologized minutes ago and taken his leave.
“We are not without options,” Miss Spencer said.
Options. William had a fair idea just how many options Miss Spencer had. He suspected the number was equal to the population of single men who frequented the library—and perhaps included the married men. As the reading men of London were, by definition, neither blind nor completely idiotic, he knew there were many others who entertained charged fantasies about Miss Spencer. In fact, he rather suspected that old Mr. Bellows, the wealthy butcher, would offer her marriage if she gave him the slightest encouragement. Ten pounds would be nothing to him—and the butcher was hardly alone in his lust.
William could not countenance the thought. He could not envision her beneath that fat, toothless man. And besides, the upright Miss Spencer chided her brother about bribery and petty theft. She would never stray from a husband, no matter how many teeth the man lost. If she married, William would never be able to pretend—not even on the darkest, loneliest nights—that he would one day have her.
He’d had enough dreams shattered today.
“I have a plan.” There was steel in Miss Spencer’s voice. “I’ll take care of it.”
“What must I do?” James asked instantly.
Miss Spencer was silent. “I think,” she said quietly, “you’ve done enough for now. I’ll take care of it for you. Just give me his direction.”
Silence stretched, ungracious in its length. Finally her brother heaved a sigh. “Very well. Thank you, Vinny.”
Like the foolish coward that he was, her brother complied. William could hear the scratch of pen against paper. James hadn’t even asked her what her plan entailed, or insisted that he take care of the matter himself. He didn’t care what she might have to sacrifice for him.
William’s fists clenched around the bank note in his pocket. If he were a gentleman, he’d hand Miss Spencer his ten pounds and solve all her problems.
Then again, William hadn’t been a gentleman since he was fourteen.
No. His ten pounds—his last, minuscule legacy from childhood—would buy him the one fantasy he had left. If she had to sacrifice herself, it might as well be in his honor. She’d wished him a merry Christmas.
Well, she was going to give him one.
THE ADDRESS HER BROTHER had inked was still damp on the page when Lavinia’s reverie was interrupted.
“He calls you Vinny?”
She looked up and felt her cheeks flush. It was Mr. William Q. White, leaning against the shelves. Of all the people to intrude at this moment. She’d thought the conversation had been quiet. She’d thought him safely ensconced back in the finance section, behind five shelves of books. Obviously she’d been wrong on both counts.
How much had he overheard? How embarrassed ought she to be at playing out that ridiculous drama in front of this serious man? Had she said anything stupid? And how absurd was it that, despite all that had transpired in the last half hour, her heart raced in pitter-patters because Mr. William Q. White had actually started a conversation with her?
As she always did when she was nervous, she began to babble. “Yes, he calls me Vinny. It’s a pet name for—”
“I know your Christian name, Miss Spencer.” His gaze did not move from hers. Instead, he walked across the room to her and stepped behind the counter. He
stood too close. If she’d been sitting in a regular chair, she’d have had to crane her neck. Seated on a stool, her feet swinging well above the ground, she still had to lean her head back to look him in the eyes.
He smiled at her, a long, slow grin. In giddy excitement her stomach turned over. That dangerous curve of his lips was a new expression for him. Assuredly new. She would have remembered another one like it. Lavinia swallowed.
He set his hand deliberately atop hers.
Oh, she knew she should pull away. Pull away, and slap him for taking liberties with her person. But her brother had left her so cold—and his hand was so warm—and by all that was holy, after a year of encouraging Mr. William Q. White to do more than just look at her, she was not about to raise objections to a little liberty.
“I know what Vinny is short for. As it happens, I prefer Lavinia.” He leaned over her.
He said it as if he preferred her, not just her name. Lavinia’s lungs seized. She could smell the starch of his cravat. He’s going to kiss me, she thought. Her nipples pressed, painfully peaked, against her stays. His thumb ran along her wrist, down the curve of her fingers. Lavinia felt her lips part. She might even have arched up toward him, just a little. She focused on the pink of his mouth, so close to hers.
He’s going to kiss me, and I am going to let him.
Instead, he released her hand. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers against hers as he stepped away.
“Miss Spencer, I do believe we’ll talk tomorrow.” He smiled. Before she could point out that tomorrow was Sunday, and the lending library would therefore be closed, he tipped his hat at her and set it on his head. “Come find me at one.”
And then Mr. William Q. White strode away, the tails of his coat flapping at her. The bell jingled. The door shut. Lavinia raised her burning hand to her unkissed lips and looked down.
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.
The Heart of Christmas Page 19