The Heart of Christmas

by Nicola Cornick; Courtney Milan Mary Balogh

  He’d expected the back office to appear precisely as he’d left it yesterday.

  But when he arrived, there had been one tiny alteration. Lord Blakely still peered at him from beneath white, bushy eyebrows, examining him as if he were some strange insect. But the marquess had not seated himself in his throne behind the desk. Instead, he’d ensconced his grandson in the position of power. Lord Wyndleton sat, ill at ease. He smoldered with a repressed anger so fierce that William thought he would leave scorch marks where he tapped his fingers against the desk.

  Three account books, a small portion of the work William had done over his years of employment, made a small pile on the edge of the desk.

  The old marquess picked up one negligently and thumbed through the pages. “Sometime between the months of January and—” a pause, and a last glance at the end of the third book “—April, Bill Blight here made a mistake.”

  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.”

  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.

  He made it there by three. The building was lit with a dim glow; the door, when he tried it, was unlocked. Good. She hadn’t yet closed the shop for Christmas Eve.

  He opened the door. She was sitting at her stool again, winding a strand of hair through her fingers. Up. Down. Soon those would be his fingers there, stroking her hair. Rubbing her cheek. There was a thread of melancholy to her movements.

  She glanced up and saw him, but her face did not light. Instead, it shuttered in on itself. Lavinia, the woman who smiled at everyone who entered her shop, pressed her lips together and looked away. It was not the best of beginnings.

  William advanced on her.

  She spoke first. “I have a Christmas gift for you.” Still she kept her eyes on the desk in front of her. Her hands lay on the table—pressed flat against that solid surface, not relaxed and curved. Her fingertips were white.

  “I don’t want a gift, Lavinia.”

  Still she didn’t look at him. Instead she pulled open a drawer—the quiet protest of wood against wood sounded—and she rummaged inside. When she found whatever it was she was looking for, she lobbed it in his direction. As she still hadn’t looked at him, her aim was poor. He stretched to catch what she’d thrown. It was a pouch barely the size of his hand. The container was light. It might well have been empty.

  “I told you,” she said quietly, her eyes still on her hands. “I told you, you wouldn’t want to know what I would have to do to pay back your ten pounds.” Her voice was small.

  His heart stopped. “I don’t want ten pounds from you.”

  Finally she lifted her chin to look in his eyes. “I know,” she whispered. “But I want you to have it.”

  There was the faintest tinge of red at the corner of her eyes. His hand contracted around the fabric. She’d had options. But William’s original ten pounds had disappeared. That left…No. She couldn’t have agreed to marry another man. She wouldn’t have.

  Would she? She sat, pale and stricken. She looked miserable.

  “Don’t do it, Lavinia,” he warned. “Choose me. I came here to tell you—you wanted me to find hope. I’ve found another position, a better one. I can afford you now.”

  She jerked back as if she’d been slapped. “You can afford me, William? You coerce me to your bed. You lie to me and say you don’t love me. And you think I was waiting for you to gather the coin to purchase me?”

  William bit his lip. If he’d been a better man—if he’d been worthy of her from the start—if he hadn’t coerced her into intercourse, and then hurt her to drive her away from him not once, but twice—perhaps he might have had her. He’d as good as told her to give up hope this morning. Now she had.

  “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

  She raised her chin. “I never wanted your apology.”

  “I know,” William said. “It’s all I have.”

  She didn’t say anything. Instead, she bit her lip and looked away. Once, he’d tried to steal her choice back from her. He’d not do it a second time. He let out a deep breath.

  “Merry Christmas, Lavinia,” he whispered.

  Somehow he managed to find the door. Somehow he managed to wrest it open and walk through it with some semblance of grace. He even managed to stumble down the street. Halfway to the crossroads he realized he was still holding that damned bag she’d thrown at him, with its ten bloody pounds. He balled it up in his hand and squeezed in frustration—and stood still.

  If he had bothered to think about such a thing, he would have supposed that the sack felt light and deflated because it contained a single bank note, folded into quarters. But instead of the crisp, malleable shape of a paper rectangle he felt a single circle press against his palm.

  A circle? There was no such thing as a ten-pound coin. Besides, he realized as he ran his hands over the cloth, coins were not hollow in the middle. And this one was barely the diameter of a sixpence, but three times as thick.

  Breath held, he opened the pouch and pulled out the object inside. It was a plain, round circle of gold—a ring too dainty to ever be intended for a man’s finger. He stared at it in frozen wonder. She’d had other choices besides marrying another man. I could have pawned my mother’s wedding ring. />
  But she hadn’t pawned it. She’d given it to him.

  LAVINIA WATCHED THE DOOR where William had left.

  Her choices were few. Should she humiliate herself and run after him? Should she at least wait a decent amount of time before hunting him down and making him pay in kisses? Or should she kick the desk in frustration and give up on Mr. William Q. White ever figuring out how to express the concept of love without reference to funds?

  Lavinia sat down at her desk and put her head in her hands. She didn’t dare cry—not now, not when she needed to head upstairs to see her father. It was Christmas Eve and tonight the family needed to laugh. She needed to pretend Christmas had come without mulling wine or roasting goose. What she didn’t need to do was cry for the man’s sheer perversity.

  The bell rang.

  The door opened.

  Lavinia lifted her head from her hands. Her heart turned over. William stood, framed by the doorway against the dark of the night. Little wisps of snow covered his collar and kissed the brim of his hat. He took off his coat, folding it and setting it on the low table to his right. Then he turned and shut the door. She heard the snick of a key turning in the lock, and she swallowed. He did not say anything, but he drank her in, top to bottom, his eyes running languidly down her form.

  “Does that door behind you lock, as well?”

  She shook her head.

  “Pity.” He lifted a chair off the floor and strode past her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m rearranging your furniture.” He tilted the chair at an angle and wedged it under the door handle.

  “There. This time we shan’t be bothered by intruding little brothers.” He turned to her. She was still seated on her stool. Her toes curled in her slippers as he walked forward. He towered before her. Then he bent and picked her up. His arms around her were warm and strong.

  The doors were barred, so nobody could save her. For that matter, with the books piled in front of the one tiny window, nobody could see her. Thank God. She melted into his arms.

  He straightened. But she had only a few bare seconds of his warm embrace before he set her on the desk. He did not move away from her. Her thighs parted, and he stepped between her legs. She was still looking into his eyes. He rested his forehead against hers, and she shut her eyes.