Another Place in Time

by Tamara Allen

  He forced himself to smile. His smile was a poor thing—tight and insincere—but it was the best he could do in the circumstances. “Whatever you think, Winterbourne. I’m in your hands.”

  Winterbourne’s cheeks pinked. “Ah, excellent,” he said. “I’ve—ah, also taken the liberty of asking Lady Prentice if I might take you as my guest to a ball she’s hosting this evening. She was only too happy to have another gentleman guest.”

  Adam hated balls above all things. “How kind,” he said woodenly. “Thank you.”

  “Well,” the earl said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll let you two get on, then. It sounds like you’ve got lots to do.”

  He couldn’t have made his eagerness to escape clearer. Irritation surged in Adam. The man had sent him a sheaf of bills totalling nine hundred and forty-two pounds yesterday, and now he was blatantly pawning Adam off on his son. And as pleased as Adam was to avoid spending more time in the man’s company, he resented being treated so poorly.

  “Wait a moment,” Adam said, his tone deliberately high-handed. And quite deliberately leaving off the earl’s honorific. He refused to call the man my lord. Bad enough that Adam was paying off the fool’s debts.

  The earl halted mid-step. He did not look pleased. “Yes?”

  “I received another packet of bills from you yesterday,” Adam said. “Which was something of a surprise. I thought I made it clear we were to go through everything on Monday.”

  The earl’s face flamed with what looked to be mingled anger and mortification. “Well, there were a few I missed. My apologies”—he didn’t sound the least bit sorry—“I thought we had an understanding.”

  “Our understanding was that the items you showed me on Monday disclosed the total sum of your debts.”

  If anything, the earl’s face flamed harder, and the son looked mortified too. He glanced to the side, as though to pretend he wasn’t hearing this.

  “Fine,” the earl snapped. “By all means deliver them back to me.”

  “Oh, you have a thousand pounds to spare just now do you?” Adam asked, raising his eyebrows. When the earl flushed and looked away, Adam nodded. “I thought not. Well, I’m not about to let your tailor starve because you can’t manage your affairs, but there has to be a limit.” He heard the son give a slight gasp at his bluntness, but didn’t even pause. “You have until tomorrow at four o’clock to present your remaining bills to my secretary, Lord Winterbourne. Anything you pass over by then will be paid. However, let us be clear on this: that will be the end of it. You will not get a penny more from me. My brother’s happiness is important to me, but he has cost me very dearly with this match.”

  The earl’s face went purple with anger, but he nodded. “Very well. Then, I’ll see to it now. Good day, Freeman.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and strode away, closing the door sharply behind him.

  Silence.

  Adam turned to look at his escort for the day. Lysander Winterbourne was staring at him, wide-eyed, and Adam wondered what the young man was thinking.

  He probably thought Adam was a perfect boor. He probably thought Adam should just meekly hand his money over for Lord Winterbourne to squander for the favour of his insipid sister’s hand.

  Winterbourne gave a stiff and very awkward smile.

  “Shall we go?” he suggested. “I thought we might call on my sister, Lady Hazlett. You met her at the engagement ball, I’m sure?”

  Adam remembered her—she was the oldest Winterbourne sibling, and although she looked rather like her younger brother, she was not beautiful, as he was.

  “Very well,” he said. “If we must.”

  He realised he sounded ungrateful, and for a moment—when he saw how Lysander Winterbourne’s face fell at his brusque words—he even regretted it. But the fact was, he wasn’t grateful, and for good reason.

  Lysander Winterbourne would no doubt have a day or two of discomfort squiring him around. Well, it was probably the first bit of work—if you could call such a thing work—that the man had ever had to do.

  Perhaps it would do a Winterbourne good to think of someone else’s preferences for once in his life.

  By their fourth afternoon call, Lysander was flagging.

  Simon’s brother was taciturn. He was cold and proud, and at times he bordered on being actively rude. Lysander was on tenterhooks, wondering what he might say.

  Lysander already knew just how blunt the man was capable of being. To the end of his days, Lysander would never forget seeing his father scolded like a naughty schoolboy in his own drawing room. It had been a frank display of power by Freeman over the earl, and it had provoked a mix of responses in Lysander. Shock, of course, and outrage. And other, more troubling feelings he didn’t care to think about.

  Since Freeman made little effort to be amiable during their calls, Lysander felt obliged to be twice as charming as usual. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that his efforts were wasted. They were on their fourth visit now, and after several hours of introducing his reluctant charge to people he’d known for years, Lysander had to admit that it was becoming clear to him why Freeman remained so very tight-lipped and grim.

  It was impossible to miss the incredulous looks that came their way, the muttering as they approached. Even worse were the openly snide remarks about the vulgarity of commerce. Most mortifying of all, when Lysander had introduced Freeman to his great aunt, Lady Beresford, the old witch had pursed her thin lips, averted her gaze and offered the man two fingers to shake, a calculated insult. Lysander had wanted to die.

  Lysander could just imagine what they’d be saying after he and Freeman left each house. They’d put on a show of pitying Lysander for having to put up with a presumptuous social climber and agree the man was insufferable. They’d probably say the same sort of things Lysander’s own father had.

  “He practically reeks of his filthy mills.”

  Right now, Lysander and Freeman were on opposite sides of the room. Freeman stood near the fireplace, a silent and barely tolerated bystander in a group of four gentlemen. His lips were pressed together, his expression distinctly unimpressed as he listened to The Honourable Freddy Leighton braying about something or other.

  Lysander wondered why on earth Freeman had agreed to this. He was clearly hating every minute. Simon might not mind being patronised and despised—Lysander had been out with him often enough to know that much—but his older brother did. Adam minded a great deal.

  He simmered with hot, angry, palpable resentment.

  “Your Mr. Freeman is very handsome,” a light, feminine voice said in his ear.

  Lysander turned his head to see Perry’s sister standing at his shoulder. Lady Arabella Cavendish was nineteen and impishly pretty in sprigged muslin.

  “He’s not my Mr. Freeman, Bella,” Lysander said in a repressive tone.

  Arabella ignored him. “He looks like a hero from a novel. All brooding and serious.”

  Lysander had to admit she was right. Freeman was tall, an inch or two over six feet, a hand span more than Lysander’s respectable five foot eight. Broad through the shoulders and lean hipped, he was a fine figure of a man, his clothes elegant but sober. His thick, dark hair was cut very short, hugging his well-shaped head and lending him a strong, uncompromising profile, and his sherry-brown eyes were sharply intelligent.

  “Mama says he’s as rich as Croesus,” Arabella added dreamily.

  “Arabella—” Lysander kept his voice low but injected a warning note. He’d known Arabella her whole life and was well aware of her tendency to speak her mind. It was the sort of trait that could result in a young lady being labelled as fast, affecting her prospects for making a decent marriage. “Your mother would have your hide if she could hear you.”

  She snorted in a most unladylike way. “You should hear what she says behind closed doors. Father can’t afford another season for me after this one—they need me to marry money. Mama would tie me up in pink ribbon and
send me to Mr. Freeman on a silver platter if she thought it would net me a proposal from the man, whatever his pedigree might be.”

  “For God’s sake, Bella!” Lysander hissed.

  “I can’t say I’d mind myself,” she went on, unrepentant. “He’s a handsome devil. I wouldn’t care about being shunned by the ton if it meant acquiring a husband who looks like that. The only admirer I’ve got at the moment is Sir Toby Edwards, and he’s sixty if he’s a day.” She sighed.

  Lysander just shook his head, reluctantly amused, and let his gaze wander back to the subject of their conversation.

  Freeman might be rude and blunt, but Arabella was absolutely right about him being handsome. Lysander liked the man’s sleek cap of hair. Liked too those straight, dark brows, even though they kept pulling together in a frown. Liked even more the intense amber gaze that reminded him of a bird of prey. Singular and unblinking.

  “You’re staring,” Arabella murmured in his ear.

  Lysander was mortified to feel a blush spreading over his face and quickly looked away.

  “I wasn’t staring,” he muttered. “I was just lost in thought.”

  Just then, Freeman broke away from the group of gentlemen he’d been speaking with. He walked over to Lysander and Arabella, his step decisive, lips still pressed together.

  “Mr. Winterbourne,” he said when he reached them, his voice clipped. “I fear we must be wearing out our welcome. We’ve been imposing on Mrs. Dalton’s hospitality too long.”

  Lysander glanced at the clock. They’d only arrived twenty minutes ago.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Let us take our leave of our hostess, then.”

  A sharp little elbow dug into Lysander’s side.

  “Oh, sorry”—he sent Freeman an apologetic look—“before we leave, may I present Lady Arabella Cavendish?”

  Arabella smiled brightly and pronounced herself delighted to make Mr. Freeman’s acquaintance. Oh well, at least one person had been welcoming to Freeman, even if it happened to be someone who was looking for a rich husband.

  No sooner had Freeman murmured a polite sentiment in response than Arabella launched into an interrogation, asking him what he thought of London and its many sights and splendours.

  For a while, Freeman tolerated her attentions, answering her tumbling questions politely, but eventually he grew bored. Lysander saw it by the faint frown that appeared between his dark brows and the increasingly curt answers he gave her. Plainly, he had no interest in this passably pretty and well-bred girl. No interest in being flattered and flirted with. When he next glanced at Lysander, the cold resentment of that tawny gaze was slightly softened by an unmistakable plea.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Bella,” Lysander said, “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal Mr. Freeman away now. We have another appointment that we cannot be late for.”

  Arabella eyed him in a calculating way. “Is that so?” she said. “And what appointment would that be, Mr. Winterbourne?”

  “With my fencing master,” Lysander said promptly. “It’s time for my weekly lesson, and Mr. Freeman is keen to meet the great Monsieur Gris.”

  Later, Lysander wondered where that egregious lie had come from, but for now, all that mattered was that Arabella’s suspicious look melted away, replaced by resignation. She bid the two men a civilised farewell, and they crossed the room to take their leave of Mrs. Dalton.

  “Do you really have an appointment with your fencing master?” Freeman asked once they were on the street outside. It was the most the man had unbent all day, and Lysander found himself smiling ruefully.

  “No, but you obviously wanted to leave, and it was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment.”

  Freeman gave a short laugh, but he looked disappointed. “Pity,” he said. “I’ve heard of Gris. Going to his academy would be infinitely preferable to making another call.”

  “Well,” Lysander said, thinking on his feet, “there’s no reason we can’t drop by. Monsieur Gris may have lessons on, but we could watch. Maybe even have a bout if the place isn’t too busy. Do you fence?”

  Freeman blinked, seeming surprised by Lysander’s offer. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I fence. I haven’t for a while, but I’m a tolerable swordsman.”

  Lysander grinned, pleased by the turn of events. “Well, good, then! Let’s go. It’s not far at all from here. A mile or so, if you don’t mind the walk?”

  “I’d welcome it,” Freeman replied. “I feel like I’ve been cooped up in stuffy drawing rooms all day.”

  “Excellent,” Lysander said. “Monsieur Gris’s rooms are just off Mayfair. It’s this way.” He turned on his heel and started walking, and Freeman followed, falling into step beside him.

  “I appreciate this,” Freeman said after a brief silence. “It’s been a long day.”

  “It’s the least I can do after subjecting to you to so many afternoon calls,” Lysander said, shrugging. Then he added lightly, “Though whether you’ll enjoy being soundly beaten remains to be seen.”

  Freeman met his sideways look with a wry smile of his own. “You think you will soundly beat me, do you?”

  “It’s been said that I’m not too shabby with a blade,” Lysander replied modestly.

  “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 a gentleman’s skill?”

  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 entirely different. 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 you had been serious,” he blurted out now. “Not after the treatment you’ve had today. I’d apologise if I thought it would do any good. I do apologise, 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 because he didn’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 that you minded, 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 see who is the better swordsman?”

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

  Monsieur Gris was a trim, 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.

  “Mr. Jessop is quite good,” the fencing master said in a low tone, “but don’t be deceived—Mr. Winterbourne is holding back considerably.” He arched a brow at Adam. “Even at half strength, he is a pure pleasure to watch though, don’t you agree? His form is beautiful. Oh, look! Did you see that croisé?”