The Firstborn

Chapter One

There were too many letters. An inordinate amount of them, spilling out of crevices and sliding out of their well-organized stacks. Most were invitations, a fact that irritated Lord Finnian Haughton to no end. Invitations to balls, to routs, to garden parties and afternoon teas, where he would be expected to deal with the attentions of no small number of simpering females. And all of them with their eyelashes fluttering while a mere turn and snap of their fans spoke a language he would never be able to decipher.

This morning's stack of cards sat on his desk, the light spilling in through the window, sending a solitary beam across the topmost letter. A glance at the direction told him more than he needed to know. The lettering was too fine and flowery, a woman's hand, and a noticeable aroma emanated from the paper, as if it had been glazed with rose water before being sent round to his townhouse.

He understood their interest in him, and his position in polite society. He was a man. A gentleman. A titled gentleman with a rather large fortune. And, most bothersome of all, a titled gentleman, possessed of a large fortune, who—according to that polite society which insisted on tossing flowery cards and invitations at him as if they were tossing bread crumbs to a duck in a pond—had decided to remain stubbornly ensconced in his current life as a bachelor.

He gave the corner of his newspaper a shake and reached out for his cup of tea. From another part of the house, he heard a knock on the front door, followed by the measured step of Gleeson showing no haste in his effort to answer it. Haughton waited, his eyes gazing at a vague point beyond the edge of the newspaper as the butler's steps made their way towards his study. Another knock, this one on his own door, and a grey, tonsured head bowed itself into the room.

"It's Mr. Winston, my lord. Shall I...?"

Haughton nodded in reply to the unfinished query. Gleeson disappeared, the steps receded, and Haughton folded his newspaper into a stiff rectangle that landed with an audible smack on top of the pile of invitations.

"Finn?"

Haughton glanced up at the door as another man, this one dressed in a coat and trousers of a dull, forgettable color, entered the sunlit room.

"Winston." Haughton sat up in his own chair and indicated the one opposite him with a wave of his hand. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

Winston strolled forward, his hands clasped around both hat and gloves, neither of which had managed to be relinquished to the butler upon his arrival. He let out a sigh as he lowered himself into his seat, scratched his chin, and ran a bare hand over his neatly trimmed brown hair.

"Have you breakfasted?" Haughton asked, his eyes taking in the obvious wear on the man's suit and the scuffs on his boots.

"Yes, early." Those two words revealed an accent that held no connection to any town or borough within fifty miles of London. Haughton had never inquired after Winston's origins, and Winston had never made any move to volunteer the information.

"So." Haughton cleared his throat. "Since you're not here to dine with me, I take it you've..."

"I've found her."

Haughton looked up from his cup. The dregs of his tea slid down his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste that threatened to linger on his tongue for some time. "And the child?"

Winston nodded, his chin dipping down to touch the simple folds of his neckcloth. "A bouncing, blustering specimen of childhood. Quite a healthy thing, he looks to be."

A breath slid out of Haughton's lungs as he allowed his own head to tip back. He found himself staring up at a ceiling painted with all manner of cherubs and pudgy, angelic creatures, their grotesque smiles having beamed down on his own head, and his father's before him, since his mother had commissioned the ghastly artwork some three decades before.