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Full name: George William Henry Lascelles
Parents: William Pembroke Lascelles (d. 1782) and his wife Anne (also d. 1782 on the same day)
Siblings: Lucas Pembroke Lascelles, died as an infant in 1779
Schooling: Harrow, then Oxford
Guardian: Between the age of 14 and his maturity, Admiral Lascelles (brother of William)

Mr Lascelles's fortune is based upon income of his land in Oxfordshire, attached to a mostly Elizabethan house, Uthcaire. While Mr Lascelles does dabble in investments, he does so very carefully, having witnessed his father's failures in trade, and harboring himself a distaste for merchants.

The estate is run by a manager in Mr Lascelles's absence. Most of the house itself is closed up and unused. The grounds are extensive and border a village of the same name. There is a lake on the grounds fed by an underwater spring, with an old boathouse, which was used by the family for leisure boating.

Uthcaire's master does not favour it; when not in London or Bath, he is more likely to stay with his Aunt Eliza (wife of the admiral) or any number of acquaintances and friends in the country. If he does not produce an heir, the estate is expected to go to his cousins. His testament currently details young Carl Allerton as the preferred heir, should he reach his maturity before Mr Lascelles's demise.

The house on Bruton-street follows a popular layout: A sitting room on the left of the entrance, a dining room and the kitchens in the back. On the first floor, there is a small office, a bed-chamber, and unused rooms; on the second, a library and (since early 1814) a larger study, as well as more bedrooms. The servants sleep on the third floor. The sitting room is wallpapered in a very becoming green.

The household employs three footmen, the eldest of which is his most trusted servant, Arthur Smythe. Valets and butlers do not last long in the household. The cook rules firmly over the two longest-lasting maids, Aisling and Susan.

Mr Lascelles's literary endeavours are private. His reviews are published under various pseudonyms, his plays are forever being rewritten and put aside, and his poetry is locked up tightly in his desk drawer and never shown to a living soul. Once, he attempted to publish, again pseudonymously, a painstakingly constructed, formally perfect long-form poem about Apollo and Daphne. It was unoriginal and dull and the paper rightly refused it. He has not tried again.
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