Page 38 of Mr Winterbourne's Christmas

Angry now, Lysander banged his fist on the table, making the brandy glasses jump. “Not another word about Bella!”

The earl fell silent, glaring at Lysander. At length he said, more calmly, “Arabella Cavendish will profit handsomely from this debacle. It’s a shame your own sister will not fare so well.”

Exasperated, Lysander said, “Please don’t pretend you’re aggrieved on Gwen’s behalf. I assume the terms you came to with Sir Edmund were that you would receive money. You are plainly in debt again.”

The earl stared at him, saying nothing, but his silence was its own kind of confirmation.

Lysander added, “And the loan Adam gave you for the estate repairs—you have spent it, yes?”

The earl’s shoulders rounded in defeat at that. “Yes.” He glanced at Adam, and added hoarsely, “I didn’t mean to, but some...debts of honour arose. A gentleman cannot allow such debts to go unsettled.”

Shame engulfed Lysander. Gaming debts, of course. God forbid his father should ever welch on a lost wager, and too bad if that meant the people on his own estate had to continue living in filthy, unsafe houses.

“I intended to pay it back,” the earl added, almost resentfully.

Adam’s expression was grim. “Why did you let Althea persuade you to invite me here?” he asked. “It was obvious I’d see the promised works hadn’t been done.”

The earl just stared at the polished surface of his desk.

“You invited him after you came to terms with Sir Edmund, didn’t you?” Lysander said. “You knew he’d demand you repay the loan and you thought you’d be able to do it, from the money Sir Edmund was giving you in exchange for a respectable wife.”

The earl looked up, meeting Lysander’s gaze. He didn’t say anything, but it was obvious Lysander was right. He could just imagine how his father had envisaged the scene playing out, handing over the money Adam demanded from him with negligent ease. Trying to restore his lost aristocratic pride. Perhaps telling him that he didn’t need his money anymore—yes, that would appeal to his father.

“So, what now?” Adam said, his tone ice-cold. “The loan is still to be paid and the works haven’t been done. The west tower of the Abbey clearly isn’t safe, and your workers’ cottages are in a pitiful state. And besides all of that, you’ve clearly been spending money quite as carelessly as ever. What do you propose to do to resolve this, Lord Winterbourne?”

The earl’s face flushed with temper, but instead of answering Adam, he turned to Lysander. “I meant what I said at dinner. I really do want you to come and work here on the estate. Holmes will teach you everything you could possibly need to know about estate management—just as you wanted. And you can do the one thing Holmes can’t: stand up to me.” He closed his eyes, his expression pained. “I know I need to rein in my spending. You can help me with that, Lysander. And—”

“And?” Lysander prompted.

The earl opened his eyes again, looking to Adam this time. “And you may not trust me, but you trust Lysander. He’s worked for you—you know if he says the works will be done, they’ll be done.”

“I see,” Adam said. “And once the works are done, I’m to forgive the loan, am I? As I said I would at the outset, despite you having breached our agreement.”

The earl’s expression was all suppressed fury, but he nodded stiffly.

“You have some peculiar notions of honour, Lord Winterbourne,” Adam continued coldly. “You’d rather die than leave a wager unpaid—a foolish wager you had no business placing in your financial state—but you think nothing of leaving your tenants languishing in mean, filthy accommodations, or of breaking your contractual obligations to me, a man who has already cleared your debts once already.”

The earl bit out, “I wouldn’t expectyouto understand how a gentleman conducts him—”

“How dare you?” Lysander leapt to his feet so suddenly, his chair tumbled to the ground behind him, landing with an almighty crash, and his father reared back in his own chair, shocked into silence.

“Howdareyou speak to him like that!” Lysander exclaimed, leaning over the desk to glare at his father. “He’s ten times the man you’ll ever be. All you’ve ever done is bleed this estate dry with your reckless, spendthrift ways. You’re nothing but a—”

“Lysander,” a hand tugged at his coat, urging him back to his seat.

Lysander turned away from the white-faced earl to face the man he loved.

Adam was smiling sadly at him. “Thank you, but it’s all right. Sit down and let’s see if we can’t resolve this.”

Lysander sighed and did as he was bid. “How is it to be resolved?” he asked, eyeing Adam.

Adam’s sherry-brown gaze was steady and oddly bleak. “You father’s plan isn’t so terrible,” he said. “You could have your dream, Lysander. You could come home to Winterbourne and run the estate. And he’s right that I’d trust you to get the works done, even if it takes longer to finish them than was originally planned.”

Lysander’s chest hurt, the pain so sharp it felt as though it had been pierced with a blade. Did he really mean so little to Adam, that Adam could pack him off and forget about him?

No sooner had that bitter thought occurred to him, than he rejected it.

No. That wasn’t fair. Adam was the very best man he knew.