still childishly plump but with wide blue eyes, a pert little nose and abundant blonde ringlets emerging from under her somewhat plain bonnet.
‘My lord, this is my sister Elizabeth. Lizzie, Lord Mortenhoe has called to see Charlie and unfortunately has encountered Giles and Hector.’ Miss Winslow held out her hand. ‘My lord, I can only apologise once more and leave you to the care of Bunting and Charles’s valet. If I delay much longer, I shudder to think what havoc will have been wrought upon the gardens in the Square.’
‘Miss Winslow, good day. I trust you have an uneventful walk.’
She smiled up at him, drawing on her gloves. ‘No hope of that, my lord. Good day to you. Come, Lizzie.’
Justin was left with the impression of amused tranquillity, a pleasing sensation. Not a beauty, the elder Miss Winslow, with her soft brown hair, oval face and wide grey eyes, but a soothing presence, which was very much in tune with his needs just now.
The valet descending upon his Hessians with a cry of distress distracted him from further thoughts of the Misses Winslow. ‘The merest dabbing with a little warm water, my lord, then a buff with my own polish and a chamois cloth, and all will be restored. If your lordship will permit me to remove both boots...’
Justin submitted and was therefore at the disadvantage of standing in his stockinged feet when his host sauntered in. ‘Mortenhoe.’ They shook hands and the younger man peered at Justin’s feet. ‘Raining, is it?’
‘No, my lord,’ the butler hastened to intervene. ‘That Dog, my lord.’
‘Oh. Enough said. Is Kyte fixing things? Good. Do you want to borrow some slippers? No? Then let’s make ourselves comfortable in my study.’
Winslow led the way across the hallway and waved his guest to a chair. As Justin sat he found he had an admirable view out over the Square to where young Master Winslow was engaged in hot pursuit of his dog while his sisters, parasols unfurled, looked on.
‘Brandy?’ Lord Winslow was unstopping a decanter.
‘Not for me, thank you. But please—’
His host needed no encouragement, pouring a good measure into his glass before dropping into the chair opposite. Justin regarded him thoughtfully. Having now, he assumed, seen all the brothers and sisters, he could see the likeness between Charles and his younger sister, despite Charles’s dark brown hair and Lizzie’s blonde curls.
But in the brother the good looks were already blurred at only twenty-seven by what, from his reputation, was a mixture of late nights and strong drink. The elder Miss Winslow with her well-bred, pleasant face seemed to have missed out; she would never have been an Incomparable, which he suspected Lizzie one day might be. Young Giles was still blessed with the chubby features of any small boy; too early to tell how he would turn out.
‘We’ll wait until Kyte brings your boots,’ Winslow announced. ‘We don’t want to be interrupted while we talk business.’
‘No, indeed,’ Justin agreed equably, hiding the stab of impatience he felt. Calm, he told himself. This is the most significant piece of business you will ever have to do, just keep calm. Without conscious thought his eyes strayed again to the window from whence Miss Winslow could be seen. She was fending off a now filthy hound, which had decided it wanted nothing more than for her to throw its ball. She was laughing out loud, he could see, and felt a sudden curiosity to hear what her laughter sounded like.
Marina’s laughter was, in fact, nearer a series of breathless and indignant gasps as she did her best to keep Hector’s large paws off her skirts. ‘Sit, sir!’ she ordered, more in the hope than the expectation of being obeyed. ‘Giles, come and get hold of this animal at once. It defeats me,’ she added to Lizzie, who was giggling, ‘how this creature manages to get muddy on a fine day like today. Thank you, Giles. Now please put a cord through his collar and let us attempt to present the appearance of a normal family out for a walk and not a group of wandering circus performers.’
Giles, finding this vastly humorous, captured Hector and allowed himself to be towed off around the flower beds that edged the curving paths in the centre of the Square. Lizzie fell in beside her sister and the two began to pace more decorously.
‘Who was that gentleman?’ she demanded.
‘Lord Mortenhoe. I did introduce you, Lizzie, you must make a push to remember introductions. It will present a very off impression when you come out if you cannot recall people’s names. A true lady takes an interest in other people.’
Lizzie, sublimely confident that her come-out would be a great success and nothing but a pleasure from start to finish, ignored this good advice. After all, poor Marina had been out for three Seasons and had quite failed to catch a husband, so really, fond though one was of her, her advice could safely be disregarded.
‘I am taking an interest, I just could not recall his name. And why is Lord Mortenhoe visiting Charlie?’
‘I have no idea,’ Marina said repressively. ‘A matter of business, no doubt, and no concern of ours.’
‘You mean that one of them owes the other some money?’ Lizzie deduced pertly. ‘Let us hope Lord Mortenhoe owes Charlie, for that would be a great comfort to poor Mama.’
‘We have no reason to suppose Lord Mortenhoe is a card player,’ Marina pointed out, giving up the effort to turn her sister’s thoughts to a more seemly topic.
‘It might be anything,’ Lizzie countered. ‘Racing, cards, hazard—anything. Someone told me Charlie would even bet on which of two flies would land upon a window first. When I am out in society and playing cards I will be like dear Papa and always win. I do not know why Charlie never does.’
Marina contemplated a lecture on how fatally fast it would be to be seen gambling and decided it was pointless just now. There were two more years before Lizzie came out—if the money lasted that long. Time enough to instil some decorum.
‘He is very good looking, is he not?’ Lizzie observed. ‘Is he an earl?’
‘Lord Mortenhoe is an earl, yes. As for looks, I am sure he presents a most amiable and gentlemanlike appearance.’ She was certainly not going to agree that the breadth of Lord Mortenhoe’s shoulders, his classically moulded features or the flexible, deep voice were more than enough to flutter any lady’s pulse. They had certainly fluttered hers, an unusual occurrence in a well-regulated existence. It was a surprisingly pleasant sensation. ‘That,’ Marina added firmly, more to herself than to her sister, ‘is all a lady should be concerned with.’
‘Poppycock,’ Lizzie announced reprehensively. ‘I think how a gentleman looks is very important. After all, fancy being married to someone with bad teeth like Mr Percival or to a man who looks like a codfish.’
Much struck by this, Marina swallowed a laugh and demanded, ‘Whoever do we know who looks like a codfish?’
‘Sir Willoughby Cavendish. Have you not noticed?’
Now it was pointed out, Marina could easily see the likeness. ‘Certainly not. And what are you about, young lady, thinking of gentlemen at all, let alone about marrying one?’
‘Well, I will have to, will I not?’ Lizzie pointed out. ‘A rich one, because of not having any dowry. So it would be nice if he was handsome too, I think.’
Kyte
