Page 8 of Introducing Mr. Winterbourne

“Simon said you were something of a sportsman,” Freeman admitted. “But perhaps I will surprise you.” There was just the slightest edge to the man’s voice—a hint of combativeness that made Lysander’s own competitive streak prickle.

“Perhaps,” he said, and he shrugged, hinting at disbelief just to rile the man. Everyone thought Lysander Winterbourne was the most amiable man in London, but he liked to win, and he had sneaky ways of getting under his opponents’ skin.

“Perhaps you believe that fencing is a gentleman’s sport?” Freeman said. “And that a man like myself could never measure up to agentleman’sskill?”

Lysander’s step faltered, and he stopped, right in the middle of the street. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that at all—”

Freeman stopped too, and it was only then that Lysander saw that the man’s lips were twitching.

“Were you jesting with me?” Lysander asked, astonished.

“Perhaps,” Freeman replied. He raised a teasing brow, lips curving deeply into an amused smile.

Lysander stared at him, amazed. All day, the man had been glaring and frowning, but when he smiled, he was transformed. The lines of discontent that pleated his brow smoothed out, and his golden eyes danced with merriment. He seemed younger than he had before. Carefree now.

Was this really the man who had looked down his nose at Lysander’s father earlier? Who had told the man off for not paying his tailor?

It was in that moment, looking at Adam Freeman, that Lysander finally put a name to one of the more troubling feelings that the brief, painful interview between his father and Freeman had provoked in him. It was an emotion he’d felt again this afternoon as he watched Freeman being snubbed, over and over.

Shame.

Shame over his family’s unpaid bills.

Shame over the shabby behaviour of people he’d considered friends.

“Well, I shouldn’t have blamed you if youhadbeen serious,” he blurted out now. “Not after the treatment you’ve had today. I’d apologise if I thought it would do any good. Idoapologise, in fact.”

For a long moment, Freeman just stared at Lysander. He seemed shocked, truly shocked, by Lysander’s words.

“Have I spoken out of turn?” Lysander asked. “If so—”

“No, I—” Freeman fell silent, then started again. “I was just—surprised. I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“Say what?”

“Apologise to me.”

“Weren’t you?” Somehow that made Lysander feel awful, and he found he wanted Freeman to understand exactly how sorry he was. “I was mortified this afternoon. I suppose I must have witnessed this sort of thing before—perhaps I noticed it more acutely because you were my guest. I’m very sorry you were subjected to it.”

He went to start walking again, but Freeman touched his arm, stopping him.

“Have you never attended such a gathering with Simon? I can’t imagine he’d have been treated much better than I was.”

Lysander thought about that. “Perhaps I didn’t notice so much with Simon becausehedidn’t seem to mind—he accepted their insults, and I think they were less awful to him because of it.” He paused, then forced himself to be honest. “They saw thatyouminded, and they wanted to punish you for having the presumption to feel insulted.” Lysander paused and looked away, swallowing. “I’m ashamed to be one of them.”

For a long moment, Freeman was silent. Then he said, very quietly, “Thank you, Mr. Winterbourne. That was a handsome apology, particularly considering the offence was not yours. You have made me ashamed of my own behaviour. My ... brusqueness towards you”—he paused before adding—“and your father. I hope you will accept my apology in turn.”

Lysander smiled. His heart felt lighter already. “I will accept it with good grace, Mr. Freeman, though I think you have little to apologise for. Now, shall we repair to Monsieur Gris’s and discover who is the better swordsman?”

“By all means, Winterbourne.” Freeman smiled. “Lead on.”

***

MONSIEUR GRIS WAS Atrim, silver-haired man of around fifty. He spoke excellent English, with the merest hint of a French accent. His father had been a fencing master too, and Gris had followed in his footsteps, taking over the school his father had established and adding more rooms and more students.

He specialised, he told Adam, in the more advanced students, like Lysander Winterbourne.

They were standing at the back wall together—Adam and Gris—watching Lysander and another of the fencing master’s dedicated students fight, blades flashing as they lunged and feinted and parried, their feet beating out swift, irregular rhythms on the wooden floor.