Page 1 of Introducing Mr. Winterbourne

Chapter 1

“The toast of the ladiesthis season is the dashing Mr. W—. As well as being as handsome as Narcissus, the young gentleman is an acknowledged whip and a swordsman of considerable renown. Furthermore, it has been recently reported that, when Mr. W—— was informed that his sister’s name had been impugned by another gentleman, he challenged the offender to a bout of pugilism in Hyde Park and blackened the fellow’s eyes. Those who are observant may have noted the absence of one Lord E—— from drawing rooms this past fortnight ...

Sadly. Mr. W—— is a man of little fortune. His improvident father has reportedly all but emptied the family coffers, which may explain why Mr. W——’s sister has just accepted the hand of the wealthy Mr. F——, lately of Manchester. Indeed, it was that very match that was the subject of the said Lord E——’s highly improper remarks and the cause of his recent inclemency ...”

The London Lady, April 1821

**

THE DAY ON WHICH LYSANDERWinterbourne’s life changed forever was, for the most part, a very ordinary one.

In the morning, he rose early and went for a bruising ride with his friend, Lord Perry Cavendish. He’d been stuck in Town for months, and it was good to get out into the country. Thankfully it wouldn’t be for much longer. In fact, he planned to be on his way to Winterbourne Abbey on the morrow, and to avoid coming back to Town for a good long while.

After a hearty gallop, Lysander and Perry partook of kippers and ale in their favourite inn, then drove Perry’s curricle out along the Brighton Road to watch a boxing match being held in an open field.

A quantity of ale was consumed—mainly by Perry—and they were very lucky he didn’t overturn his curricle on the way back to Town. By the time Lysander rolled back home, it was almost six o’clock.

“His Lordship has asked that you attend him in Her Ladyship’s private drawing room,” Quincy, his father’s humourless butler, informed Lysander. He delivered the news in a doom-laden tone, as though the purpose of Lysander’s father’s request was to deliver some terrible news, but Lysander had known old Quince for too many years to worry much about that.

When he entered the sitting room, it was to find his mother, Lady Jemima, reclining on a chaise longue, reading a novel, while his father sat, somewhat incongruously, at his wife’s dainty escritoire, reading a letter, a frown on his face.

They both looked up at Lysander’s entrance.

Lady Jemima, who at one-and-fifty was still beautiful, albeit somewhat rounder than the willowy subject of the portrait on the wall behind her, smiled warmly at him. He was her favourite child, the youngest of the family. Lord Winterbourne hadn’t worn quite so well as his wife. Too many good dinners were stretching the limits of his plum-coloured waistcoat, and the blue eyes Lysander had inherited were rheumy from too many brandy-fuelled late nights at the tables.

“Lysander, darling,” Lady Jemima said, putting down her book. An inveterately lazy woman, she made no move to rise but merely held her hands out, and Lysander stepped forward to take them, bending his head to press a quick kiss to each set of fine knuckles.

“Mama,” he said. “You look lovely today.”

It wasn’t a lie, and besides, she loved compliments. His words made her beam with pleasure.

“Thank you, darling. Have you had a nice day? How is dear little Perry? Did he mention his mother? It’s simplyyearssince I’ve seen Annabelle Cavendish.”

Lysander chuckled. “‘Dear little Perry’ is six foot two and weighs fourteen stone, Mama. And it’s difficult to get more than a grunt out of him, never mind news of his mother.”

Lady Jemima looked surprised. “Really? It doesn’t seem so very long since the two of you nearly set the stables at Winterbourne Abbey on fire.”

“For goodness sake, Mimi,” Lord Winterbourne sighed. “That was ten years ago.”

Lady Jemima looked comically surprised.

“Quince told me you wanted to talk to me,” Lysander said to the earl, taking the chair next to the escritoire and stretching out his slim legs. “Was it something in particular?”

“Ah,” said Lord Winterbourne. He cleared his throat. “Yes, it is rather.”

He sounded so serious that Lysander was struck by a sudden worry that this was going to be a repeat of their discussion from last week. Recently his father had taken it into his head that Lysander needed to be settled in life. His eldest brother Alexander would inherit the title—for what it was worth these days—and Hector was in the army. Lysander was the only one of the Winterbourne boys who lacked a neatly mapped-out future—though not for want of ideas on his part. He wanted nothing more than to help manage the estate he’d grown up on and had firmly told his father so last week.

In response, the earl had raised the prospect of Lysander taking orders in the Church of England. When Lysander had protested that he had no calling whatsoever, his father had waved his objections away—who needed a vocation to join the Church of England? Especially when one’s cousin Henry (once removed) was a bishop? But Lysander had argued and begged and cajoled and pleaded until, eventually, his father had reluctantly agreed to allow Lysander to return to Winterbourne Abbey and to try out working with Mr. Holmes, the estate manager. And finally, tomorrow, Lysander was due to leave.

“I need your assistance with something,” the earl said. “It won’t take more than a day or two.”

Lysander’s immediate reaction to those words was a wary sort of relief. This didn’t sound like a repeat of their last conversation at any rate.

“Oh yes?”

“It’s nothing difficult,” the earl went on in an airy tone. “I’d just like you to spend a day or two with Mr. Freeman. Show him around Town a little. Help him get a bit more comfortable in Society.”

For a moment, Lysander just stared at his father, trying to make sense of what the man had just said.