Page 1 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Dear Jack,

We have arrived safely in town. It’s hot and dusty and smelly and I so miss the peace of the countryside and our lovely house. But I must not think of it, or I shall lose my temper all over again and what little china I have has already suffered more than I can afford. Yet I am heartsick and want to rage at Papa for what he has done to us, and at the same time I miss him so dreadfully I want to cry and not stop. Oh, what a terrible mess it all is. I cannot help but remember how frustrated I was by life just a few short months ago, and yet now with hindsight it seems my life was an idyllic existence I cannot bear the loss of.

I know I am making a terrible imposition upon you, forcing you to keep our whereabouts secret, but our stepmother cannot know where we have gone. I will not allow poor Caro to marry that vile man, not while there is breath in my body. I can only pray she will meet a good, kind man whilst she is here and marry him, and then she will be out of danger.

Our new neighbour is a Mr Larkin Weston who was so kind as to help carry the heavy packing cases inside for us, for we still have no servants. Mr Larkin’s valet has been so good as to make some arrangements for us and we shall have a maid of all works, a cook, and a lady’s maid arriving tomorrow. Thank heavens, for Aunt Constance is rather a trial to my nerves.

How I wish I had a female relation who could advise me. Papa was so rackety after Mama died, I never had a come out of my own and now I am feeling all at sea. I must hope I can make friends who will be good enough as to guide me how to go on.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Magdelina Finchley to her friend and neighbour Mr Jack Woolgar.

17 th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Larkin stood with a tiny brush in his hand, poised with the tiniest dab of blanc de Krems to add a glint of light to the eye of his latest portrait. It always astonished him how a little detail could bring such life and vibrancy to a figure that was ostensibly flat paint on canvas. Just a little touch here and—

Bang, bang, bang!

Larkin swore, snatching his hand away just in time. “Devil take the boy,” he muttered, setting down the brush and hurrying to the window. It was the third time this week and Larkin was losing patience.

Bang, bang, crash, bang, bang, bang

Larkin pushed the sash up with some force before sticking his head outside.

“Master Gideon!” he shouted.

An overgrown hedge rambled along the fence below and, a moment later, a small boy appeared at a gap in the boundary. With his tumble of golden curls and big blue eyes, he appeared to be an adorable putto, but for a pair of wings and a harp. However, Larkin had concluded in the weeks since Gideon and his mama had moved in next door, this was merely a disguise. The child’s namesake might have been an angel, but he had been sent by the devil to temp Larkin back into misbehaving. Though he had never before resorted to murdering small children, drinking and carousing were all too appealing when boredom threatened, and if he couldn’t work, that was an ever-present risk.

“’How you do, Mister Westie?” the boy said, cheerfully waving a wooden spoon at him.

“Mister Weston,” Larkin corrected automatically before shaking his head. The child could call him what he liked if only he was quiet. “Gideon, do you remember that little chat you had with your mama about banging saucepans and saucepan lids out in the garden?”

The boy looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded.

Good. Progress. “Excellent,” Larkin said, smiling at the lad. “And do you remember what she said?”

Gideon pursed his lips, scratching his ear with the wooden spoon. “Fink so,” he said, though he looked uncertain.

“Clever lad,” Larkin said, encouraged. “And what was it she said, Gideon?”

Gideon stared at him for a long moment, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then ran off. The banging resumed.

Larkin groaned and closed the window.

“He’s a fine, sturdy little fellow, that Gideon. Ain’t he, sir?”

Larkin turned to observe his valet bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits into the studio.

“He’s driving me mad is what he is,” Larkin retorted, snatching a biscuit from the tray and stuffing it in his mouth.

“Well, hard for the boy, and the ladies, what with having no papa for the child,” Barnes said with obvious sympathy.

Larkin sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I know,” he said, for he felt a deal of sympathy for Mrs Finchley, whose husband, a Captain Finchley, of the Queen’s troops had been killed at the Battle of Sobraon in the Punjab, barely two months after they’d married. This information had been gleaned through Barnes via the lady’s maid as Larkin had seen little of her, and not a glimpse of her sister and aunt who lived with her. Mrs Finchley was a lovely young woman, though, who seemed to carry the world upon her shoulders. Larkin really did not wish to add to her troubles, but his career had suddenly taken off and he was much in demand for portraits. It was hard enough to work with Gideon crashing about but, if he had a sitter, it was also most embarrassing.

“Perhaps you could gift the boy something he could use a bit more quietly like?” Barnes said, noting his master’s puckered brow.

“Paints?” Larkin suggested.

“Half of that lot could kill him,” Barnes said in alarm, looking at the mess of vials of coloured powders and glass jars and bottles of turpentine and linseed oil.

“I wasn’t about to get him oil paints. Just a little set of watercolours,” Larkin said impatiently. “What do you think?”

“I think the lad gets enough quiet playtime with the ladies. What he needs is to let off steam. A bit of rough and tumble.”

Larkin gave his valet a stony look. “I’m not becoming the child’s nanny, Barnes, so don’t even suggest it.”

Barnes shrugged. “You want peace and quiet?”

“How about a ball?” Larkin suggested. “That’s got to be quieter than crashing saucepan lids.”

“Reckon so,” Barnes agreed.

Larkin let out a sigh of relief. “Barnes, take what funds you deem necessary to buy such an article and have yourself a pint on the way back for your trouble.”

Barnes brightened at the offer. “That’s very good of you, sir. I shall, thank you.”

Larkin waved this away. In his darkest moments over the past months, he had relied far too much on Barnes, who had gone above and beyond. He owed the fellow, and did not wish to risk losing him to someone else.

Watching Barnes take himself from the room, Larkin poured himself a cup of coffee and took another biscuit, regarding his painting with a critical eye. It had taken him a long time to give his work the credit it deserved. Not having spent years studying like many artists, he had worried that people only commissioned him because he was gentry, and not because he was the best there was. Yet he had worked long and hard, and he was not blind to the progress he had made. Having undertaken a personal study of the master’s he admired, he now believed he was close to being worthy of placing his work beside theirs. Yes. Not bad, he thought with a surge of satisfaction. Not bad at all, though perhaps it needed a little—

Crash! Bang, bang, bang! Crash!

Larkin sighed.

17 th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Maggie winced as she ran up to her front door, the crashing of saucepan lids quite audible from the front step. Exchanging a look of exasperation with Sally, her maid, Maggie let herself in, ran through the house, and hurried out into the back garden.

“Giddy!” she called to her son, dismayed to discover him marching about the overgrown jungle that was their garden, crashing two lids together like cymbals.

Giddy paused, the saucepan lids suspended momentarily, before giving her a dazzling smile and smashing them together once more. “How you do, Mama?” he asked cheerily.

“Giddy, what did I tell you about making such a racket in the garden? Mr Weston is an artist, and he cannot work when you make such a terrible noise.”

“Not noise,” Giddy objected. “Music.”

“Well, we’ll have to agree to differ on that score,” Maggie said, hastening out, prising free one of the lids and taking the boy’s hand. “Come inside. I expect Cook has a biscuit for you, not that you deserve one. You know very well I told you not to take the saucepans outside. That was a naughty thing to do.”

She had also instructed Caro and Aunt Connie, and the cook, not to let Giddy make such uproar, but she was hardly surprised. Caro lived in a daydream, Connie in another world entirely, and Giddy could wrap Cook around his little finger.

“Mrs Moody,” Maggie said, herding her son into the kitchen, where the heavenly scent of fresh baked bread and the sweet vanilla of sugar biscuits lingered in the air. “He’s taken the saucepans again!”

“Ah, well, only the little one and a couple of lids,” the cook—who was as far from suiting her name as night was from day—replied with an indulgent smile. “Boys will be boys.”

“Yes, but this boy is driving our poor neighbour distracted,” Maggie said, tugging at the black ribbons of her bonnet with one hand as she helped Giddy into a seat at the table with the other. “And I don’t wish to aggravate the poor man.”

Having found out a little about the man in question, the absolute last thing she wanted was to antagonise him. They had come to town intending to find Caro a husband, and it turned out Mr Larkin Weston was a most eligible parti . The son of a wealthy baron, his father a war hero no less, he was rumoured to be plump in the pocket and a rising star in the art world. He was also devastatingly handsome. It had all Maggie had been able to do not to gape at him upon their first meeting. After all, she had heard of him via the scandal sheets and read many stories about the wicked club he ran with his disreputable friends. She had assumed he would be old before his time and showing signs of dissipation. No, indeed. He had been tall and athletic, with an unruly shock of chestnut hair that glinted gold in the sunlight, and warm brown eyes. Not at all what she had expected, had she expected to meet him at all. It was a stroke of good fortune, though, and having had little in the way of luck since her husband was killed, Maggie was not about to let it, or him, slip through her fingers.

Admittedly, Mr Weston’s reputation was concerning, but since moving in Maggie had seen no wild parties or ladies of ill repute coming and going, nor any recent mention of him in the scandal sheets, so perhaps the stories were exaggerated, or perhaps he had put such wild goings on behind him. As Mrs Moody said, boys would be boys.

“There you go, Master Gideon,” Mrs Moody said, ruffling Gideon’s angelic golden curls fondly as she placed a plate of biscuits and a cup of milk before him. “You tuck into those and drink your milk.”

“Fanks, Moody,” Giddy said, with a grin calculated to melt the hardest of hearts.

Mrs Moody, already smitten, just bent and pressed a noisy kiss to his cheek. “Oh, I could eat you up,” she said with a sigh, before shaking her head and returning to her work.

“Be good,” Maggie told her son, wagging a finger at him. “No saucepans, no lids. No crashing.”

Giddy stuffed another biscuit into his mouth, his blue eyes dancing.

Maggie sighed and climbed the stairs to discover Caro sprawled on the floor of the parlour, cutting out pictures from old copies of La Belle Assemble and the Ladies Cabinet and adding them to her scrapbook. Having a fair hand with a pencil, Caro then filled in the scene around the figures, setting them in lavish ballrooms or elegant parlours.

“Caro, where is Giddy?” she asked, arms folded.

A pair of impossibly green eyes, framed with sooty black lashes, gazed up at Maggie.

Caroline Merrivale, Maggie’s half-sister, shared their father’s raven hair, which curled around her flawless face and made a sharp contrast against her fair skin. Though they saw each other every day, her beauty still made Maggie’s breath catch sometimes; she had never seen a girl to rival Caro and remained utterly convinced that her sister was the most beautiful creature in the world. She was also kind-hearted, generous, and, at times, a complete ninny.

“Giddy?” Caro asked, blinking at Maggie. “Isn’t he with you?”

“No,” Maggie replied, striving for patience. “I went out, remember? And I asked you and Connie to ensure he did not disturb Mr Weston.”

“Well, and why should he?”

“Because he was out in the back garden making enough noise to wake the dead!” Maggie exclaimed.

Caro gave a delicate shudder. “One ought not to speak of waking the dead,” she reproved, before slanting an anxious glance at the ornate cuckoo clock on the wall to the left of the fireplace.

Maggie glared at her sister before throwing up her hands. She was all out of patience today. Unfortunately, at that moment, Aunt Connie floated into the room. She seemed to float everywhere, despite being built on far grander proportions than the rest of them. Her enormous bosom entered the room ahead of her, and the wide skirts in fashion did little to flatter her width, giving the impression of a fine ship in full sail. She also had Caro’s lush black curls, flawless skin and flashing green eyes. According to their father the story she told of having lost her heart to an unsuitable man many years ago was pure fiction. Connie, however, was adamant. In her version of the story, her beloved had then vanished, and she had refused all others. Believing her beloved to be dead, she had retreated into her own world of romantic novels, cakes, and wistful nostalgia. Connie could certainly be alarmingly vague, but she was an absolute darling and, to Maggie’s eye, was still beautiful, though she was close to fifty years of age.

“Oh, there you are,” Aunt Connie said, giving Maggie a reproachful look as she wafted over to the most comfortable chair in the room and settled herself with the grace of a feather falling gently to earth. “I’ve been looking for you this age.”

“I went out,” Maggie said. She had specifically reminded Aunt Connie of this earlier but knew to her cost there was no benefit in pointing that out.

“Well, you might have told me,” Connie said with a sigh, lifting a hand to her temples and rubbing gently. “Giddy has been making the most frightful racket.”

“So I understand,” Maggie replied, wondering if she had been terribly wicked in a past life. Perhaps that was why everything was going wrong and the people she loved most in all the world made her want to throw things, often at their heads. The trouble was, if she remonstrated it would either start a row or put everyone in a sullen mood and since their father had died, she seemed a lot less able to withstand such an atmosphere. It was simply easier to let things go and keep the peace. All the same, she could not help but ask the question. “Did you not think about telling him to stop?” Like I asked you to do , she did not add.

“I did,” Auntie admitted. “But I was reading the bit where Darcy proposes, you know, and—” She sighed, shaking her head. “Well, you understand.”

Maggie understood she was the only person in this house with the slightest grasp on reality. “I do?” she replied quizzically, though she ought to know better.

“Well, really, Maggie, darling. How could I interrupt him?” Auntie looked quite put out.

Maggie just about refrained from rolling her eyes, but it was a close thing. “Yes, yes. I quite understand. A shocking thing to interrupt a proposal in full flow. How cross they would be.”

“Don’t be silly, dear, they’re characters in a book. They wouldn’t know,” Auntie replied, apparently serious.

Maggie opened her mouth and closed it again. She’d only give herself a brain fever if she kept on. At that moment, the cuckoo clock—Aunt Connie’s most treasured possession—chimed, apparently for no reason, as it was not yet three o’clock.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!

Deciding this was an opportune moment to leave her aggravating relations to their own devices, Maggie was about to go upstairs and change her gown, when there was a knock at the front door.

Pausing at the mirror in the hallway, she gave herself a cursory glance, seeing a rather harried woman with unusual blue-green eyes and thick, curling blonde hair that was escaping its pins on all sides, as usual. The sombre black dress she wore seemed to enhance her pallor and she pinched her cheeks, trying to add a little colour. People found it hard to believe she was Caro’s sister, but Maggie took after her mother. Not that she had ever seen her, for Mama had died bringing her into the world, but the portrait that Papa had moved to her bedroom when he had married Caro’s mama showed a remarkable resemblance. It was one of the few items Maggie had refused to leave behind when they had run away and was still a comfort to her.

Taking a few moments to replace errant pins, Maggie smoothed her gown and went to answer the door.

“Oh, Mr Weston,” she said, her heart sinking as she saw her neighbour on the doorstep. As usual, he was dressed elegantly but carelessly, his necktie shockingly askew and his hair rumpled as though he’d not long risen. His artistic temperament, she supposed, wondering how such disarray suited him when on any other man it would look dreadful. “I know why you are here, and I am so very sorry. I only went out for a short while, but Caro and Aunt Constance find Gideon rather a handful.” If they even remember he’s there, she added silently.

“Please do not trouble yourself, Mrs Finchley,” he said, smiling warmly at her. “I’ve actually brought the little—er— scamp a present.”

With that, he held aloft a parcel, awkwardly wrapped, but there was no disguising the shape of it.

“Oh!” Maggie gazed at him in surprise. “Goodness, but… how very kind of you.”

Mr Weston grinned, and Maggie felt an odd fluttering in the vicinity of her rib cage at the engaging and surprisingly boyish expression. “In all honesty, Mrs Finchley, it’s not in the least kind, but self-preservation. I thought it might be quieter and keep him away from kitchen utensils. I hope you will forgive me.”

Maggie gave a sudden laugh, pleased by his ingenuity and tact. “Well, it is still kind of you. Please, do come in, and you may give it to him yourself. He’ll be so pleased.”

Thanking her politely, Mr Weston walked in, following her down the corridor to the front parlour. Upon opening the door, Maggie was unsurprised to discover Caro was no longer sprawled over the floor, but sitting demurely upon a chair, apparently reading a book. The black mourning gown and the copious tresses of black curls did not make her look pale but only enhanced her beauty, the soft ruby of her lips and the sooty lashes, and the impossible green of her eyes.

Mr Weston came into the room in Maggie’s wake, and she was unsurprised to see his mouth fall open when his gaze landed upon Caro. She almost danced on the spot. Had that been love at first sight? How could it not be, when Caro was so heart-stoppingly beautiful?

To his credit, Mr Weston collected his wits quicker than most men did and they made their introductions. When Priddy, the maid of all work, appeared and bobbed a curtsey, Maggie ordered a tea tray be sent up and asked her to tidy Master Gideon up and bring him to the parlour.

“How are you finding the city, ladies? I’m afraid you have not seen it at its best these past weeks. It’s not the place to be when it’s hot, I’m afraid, but there is a good deal to see and do now the temperature is milder,” Mr Weston said, his engaging manners and warm smile putting everyone at ease.

Maggie watched Caro surreptitiously, wondering what she made of Mr Weston. She had deliberately said little about him, hoping to pique her sister’s interest, but Caro had not seemed curious in the least. Her manner towards him today was everything it ought to be, polite and friendly without being familiar, but the spark of interest or pretty blush Maggie had hoped for on being face–to-face with such a splendid gentleman was absent. Well, really. Was the girl blind?

“We’ve seen so little of it so we cannot really say,” Caro said with a wistful sigh. “I had hoped to go to the theatre and—”

“A séance,” Aunt Connie said, pressing her hands to her ample bosom. “So I might speak with—”

“Well, there is so much we have not seen or done,” Maggie said in a rush, before Auntie could give the impression they were all as dotty as she was. Whilst Maggie was not about to swear there were no such things as ghosts or the afterlife, it was a dangerous subject to embark upon with a stranger in the house. “But it has taken us some time to make the house habitable, for it needed a little work, you understand?”

And hadn’t that been an understatement? Maggie suppressed a shudder at the memory. It had been filthy and disgusting, but she was too polite to say such things, assuming the previous inhabitants might have been acquaintances or friends of Mr Weston.

“I’m surprised it didn’t fall down around your ears,” Mr Weston said frankly. “Old Mr Grantham was a shocking miser. I can only imagine what horrors you discovered.”

“Dreadful,” Auntie said, shaking her head, her lips pursed in a little moue of revulsion, though why Maggie could not fathom.

On discovering the worst of the dirt, Aunt Connie had retired to the only clean room in the house, too overcome with distaste to bear the strain. So Maggie and Priddy, bless her heart, had done it themselves. Caro had offered, though she’d not put up much of a fight when Maggie had refused. She could not have Caro ruining her lovely hands when her big chance was fast approaching. Maggie’s time had come and gone, and she would not allow herself to regret that, for she had her darling Giddy to show for it, and surely that was compensation enough for the loss of her home and the life she had loved so dearly.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.

Drat and bother.

Maggie held her breath, hoping against hope, but no—

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.

Mr Weston frowned and took out his pocket watch. “It’s only twenty past three,” he said, confused.

“Cecil doesn’t like strangers,” Auntie said, whispering behind her hand to Mr Weston, as though she did not wish the clock to hear her.

“More tea, Mr Weston?” she asked desperately, practically snatching the cup from his hand.

He jolted and looked as though he might refuse, but she was already pouring.

“Thank you,” he said, before adding cautiously, “Cecil?”

“The cuckoo. Called Cecil,” she said briskly. “Have a biscuit.”

She thrust the biscuits at him, and he gave her an odd look but took one.

“Don’t be silly, Maggie, dear,” Auntie said, sounding impatient. “The cuckoo isn’t called Cecil. It’s just a wooden clock. Mr Weston will think you’re queer in your attic if you go around saying such things.”

Maggie swallowed a burst of hysterical laughter. “I beg your pardon, Auntie. Heavens, where has that boy got to, I thought he’d be here by now. I do hope he hasn’t absconded with Mrs Moody’s saucepans and—”

“It’s my dead fiancé, you see.”

Mr Weston looked from Maggie to her aunt, but Maggie could think of no way to stop the runaway train now in motion. This was it. Calamity before they had even begun. Mr Weston would tell all his friends the family were bedlamites and no one in their right mind would ever marry Caro.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr Weston said, looking bewildered, as well he might. “What is?”

“Cecil,” Auntie said, reaching for another biscuit and holding it between surprisingly dainty fingers. “Is my dead fiancé. He’s haunting me. He lives in the cuckoo clock.”

Maggie covered her face with her hand, her cheeks scalding with mortification. Any moment now, Mr Weston would excuse himself and leave and never be seen again. He’d probably move to Timbuktu if he had any sense. She wondered wistfully if he’d take her with him.

Mr Weston’s eyebrows went up. “How, er—if it isn’t an indelicate question—did he come to live in a cuckoo clock?”

Maggie groaned inwardly. At least she thought it had been inward, but Caro sent her a fierce glare and Mr Weston glanced in her direction, so perhaps not.

“Auntie Connie is very spiritual,” Caro said, her soft voice dreamy and soothing. Lord, things must be bad for Caro to realise she must try to help. “She feels things deeply.”

“How fascinating,” Mr Weston said, and rather to Maggie’s surprise, he did look interested, and not in the horrified ‘wait until I tell all my friends about this’ way she had expected. “But how—?”

“Giddy!” Maggie practically shrieked as the door opened and her son came in. “Look, my darling. Mr Weston from next door has come to see you and he’s brought you a lovely gift.”

“Present?” Giddy said, his eyes lighting up.

“Yes, Master Gideon,” Mr Weston said, smiling at the lad and reaching for the parcel beside him on the sofa. He held it out to Gideon, who glanced at his mother for approval. Maggie nodded, and the lad darted forward and took the parcel from Mr Weston.

“What do you say, Giddy?” Maggie prompted gently.

“Fank you,” Giddy said, and then plopped his bottom down on the rug and began ripping the paper off. “A ball!” he exclaimed, beaming as he held the leather ball up to show his mama.

“Oh, and such a handsome ball it is, too. What colour is it, Giddy?” she asked him.

“Red and white,” the boy said, touching a chubby finger to the red sections and then the white that had been sewn together to make the ball. “Play with it now, Mama?”

“You may,” Maggie said, smiling at his eager expression. “But only in the garden, never in the house. Promise?”

“Not in the house,” Gideon replied solemnly, and then ran from the room shouting. “Moody, Moody! Look what I’s got!”

“I think he liked it,” Caro said with a giggle and Maggie noted the look of admiration Mr Weston sent her and his accompanying smile.

“Perhaps it will keep him from plaguing you so with those dreadful saucepans,” Maggie said, praying it would be so.

“Oh, Maggie, that boy and his saucepans. He made such a racket earlier,” Auntie said, wagging a finger at Maggie. “You really ought to have told him off, the naughty boy.”

Maggie swallowed the words brewing on her tongue and instead turned to Mr Weston. His eyes glinted, a look in them that suggested he knew just what she was thinking. Maggie felt colour rise to her cheeks and looked hurriedly away.

“Thank you, ladies, for a delightful visit,” he said, bestowing a charming smile upon them all. “But if you will excuse me, I must return to my work.”

Everyone stood, but Caro finally roused herself to ask a question of their guest.

“What kind of paintings do you do, Mr Weston?” Caro asked him before he could take his leave of them.

“Portraits, mostly,” he replied, and then paused.

Maggie understood why, for the sun, which had been hidden behind thick cloud for most of the day, suddenly appeared and a shaft of golden light filtered through the lace curtains, illuminating Caro’s lovely face. Mr Weston looked mesmerised, held by some unseen force as he gazed upon her.

“Has anyone ever painted you, Miss Caroline?”

“Me?” Caro said, eyes growing wide. “Good heavens, no. Why would they?”

Maggie almost laughed at Mr Weston’s evident consternation, but Caro wasn’t fishing for compliments. She knew she was considered lovely, but they had come from a rural place with few people and everyone, having known her from birth, had become familiar with her astonishing looks. In the city, things were different, and finding men stopping in the street to stare at her had been a shock to Caro, and one to which she was still not accustomed. That men wished to gaze at her was an idea she was struggling to appreciate. Maggie didn’t blame her. It was most disconcerting.

“Because you are beautiful, Miss Caroline,” Mr Weston replied candidly. “I should like very much to paint you. If you would allow it.”

Caro blushed and looked to Maggie uncertainly.

“We are all proud of Caro,” Maggie said with a smile, taking her sister’s arm. “But this coming season is to be her first and we have no friends here, Mr Weston. I hope you understand that we must tread carefully.” For more reasons than she could enumerate.

“Of course,” he said at once. “I would certainly be very happy for you or your aunt to chaperone her at all times, but do you not have a sponsor, Miss Caroline?”

Caro shook her head. “Sadly not. Papa always intended for Mrs—”

“Things did not work out as we’d hoped they might,” Maggie said hurriedly, sending Caro a glare of warning. They must avoid offering extra information about themselves. “So we are all at sea, I’m afraid.”

Mr Weston looked thoughtful. “I wonder,” he murmured. “I cannot make any promises, but I might help you there.”

Maggie stared at him, heart thumping. “How so?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice calm when every instinct wanted to grab hold of his arm and plead with him, yes, yes, please, anything!

“If you would be so good as to leave the matter with me, I shall give it some thought. I’m certain my mother would be pleased to help, but sadly, she rarely comes to town. However, she does have a good many friends. It’s possible I might at least ask one of them to make some introductions.”

“Oh, Mr Weston,” Maggie said, so overcome with relief at this lifeline her words trembled a little. The worry that they would be all alone and become objects of pity or derision among the ton had kept her awake at night. “I-I cannot tell you how grateful we would be.”

Mr Weston held up a hand, shaking his head. “I have done nothing yet, and I cannot promise I will, but I shall try. Upon that, you have my word.”

With that, he made his goodbyes, and his escape. Maggie only prayed he did not look back upon the visit and conclude that, temporarily dazzled by Caro’s beauty, he’d gone and lost his mind.