Page 12 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Dearest Delia,

Thank you for your last letter. It was so good to hear all of Rex and Emmeline’s news, and yours too. How lucky you are to have found a man like Muir Anderson. Your life sounds truly idyllic, and I am so very happy for you.

I beg you will forgive me for refusing to tell you where I am living, and to use such subterfuge in the sending and receiving of correspondence but I fear it is for the best. It has kept me hidden this long and I do not intend to reveal myself until the duke is dead. Only then will I believe myself safe.

I know that I have been wicked indeed, and stupidly reckless in writing that dreadful story, but I never expected it to be such a success, I swear. It was revenge for everything I have lost that motivated me, a way of soothing my own impotent rage, but now I see just what a fool I have been, for I have jeopardised my sanctuary. If only it had sunk without trace, as I expected it to do. What an utter henwit I was to think no one would recognise my description of Sefton and revel in his humiliation. I have tried to withhold the final chapters from publication, but only succeeded in delaying them a little, which seems to have increased the demand tenfold! I made a legal agreement which is binding, however, and must now honour it, come what may. At least the exercise was financially rewarding, something I may have cause to be thankful for when I find myself cast out in the cold when the truth about me is discovered.

I am living on borrowed time, I fear, and if things go badly, I may return to you sooner than you expect, if only for a little while, before I disappear again.

Please send Aunt Lucy and dear Rex all my love and kiss all my new nieces and nephews. One day I shall do so myself, I promise.

I miss you all and love you so much.

Your own, Genevieve x

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lady Genevieve Hamilton to The Lady Cordelia Anderson.

4 th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Larkin stood on the street for a moment after the door had closed and cursed himself again. Bloody, bloody, insensitive half-witted idiot! He had behaved appallingly, giving Mrs Finchley reason to believe he had feelings for her, that he desired her, and then he’d cut her dead when she’d been brave enough to show she reciprocated. What must it have cost her to allow him to see her desire to be kissed, only then to have her bravery thrown back in her face? He felt sick, sick at heart and sick to his stomach, and he did not know what to do for the best.

She had given him the cold shoulder ever since, and he could hardly blame her for that. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps if he gave her some space, they could go back to being friends, for they were friends, he realised, and he hated to think he might have spoiled something that was important to him—to them both—by acting so thoughtlessly.

With nothing else he could do, Larkin went home.

5 th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

The next day Larkin rose late, in a wretched temper still, racked with guilt over what had happened the day before, a situation not helped in the least by the wickedly erotic dream that had woken him in the early hours, desperate with desire for the woman living just next door. In his dream, she had lifted her face to his, just as she had in the shop, but he had not denied her. Oh, no. He’d denied her nothing at all, exploring her lush curves intimately with his hands and mouth and awaking with his body shaking with lust and the certain knowledge such things were out of the question. He needed to get out more, he decided, and find himself a lady to spend some time with before he went mad. He’d taken lovers enough during the months when he’d taken to drinking and gambling wildly but had not had the heart to find himself a mistress. Now, that seemed an utterly foolish state of affairs and must be fixed as quickly as possible. For knowing Mrs Finchley might feel the same for him only made things ten times worse, and he found it impossible to go back to sleep, dozing fitfully until Barnes finally roused him with a tray sent up by Mrs Goodall.

“There’s this, too,” Barnes said, handing him a sealed note.

Larkin took it, noting how heavy it felt, and used the knife on his tray to break the seal. Out dropped some coins, and he frowned as he scanned the short missive.

Mr Weston,

Thank you kindly for the lovely outing yesterday. We all enjoyed it very much. Please find enclosed the money I owe you for Gideon’s train.

Mrs Finchley.

His jaw clenched, frustration gnawing at his guts. The train had been a present for Gideon, and he’d told her as much, but he understood he had hurt her pride, and this was her way of salvaging it. He could not blame her, did not blame her, only himself.

“Are you still going out, sir?” Barnes asked.

Larkin put the note aside with the coins and nodded. “I am.” He turned his attention to the breakfast Barnes had brought him and did not feel like eating it. Yet he would not compound his villainy by insulting Mrs Goodall, who was the most marvellous cook and who even Barnes seemed to have taken to with no fighting over what was whose territory.

Today he had a sitting with Tilly to continue his portrait. He would concentrate on that and not think about Mrs Finchley at all.

6 th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Larkin woke on Sunday morning in much the same state as the day previous and his sense of déjà vu was only compounded by the arrival of yet another note, again heavy with coins.

Mr Weston,

Thank you kindly for arranging for your gardener to cut the grass and tidy our garden. I have enclosed the money I owe you for the work. I beg you will inform me if it is not enough.

Mrs Finchley.

Larkin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was how it would be from now on, he knew, with Mrs Finchley being scrupulously polite and observing all the proprieties and him forced to go along with it. Only days ago, she had burst into the kitchen, blushing and turned her back when she’d discovered him in only his dressing gown. The memory made him smile but was horribly melancholy too. He’d done this, just as he’d ruined things with Elmira. Perhaps if he’d not flirted and encouraged her to think of him as some heroic lover, Elmira might have been his friend and trusted him with the truth. Perhaps they would be friends still. Instead, he had messed up another friendship by not knowing what it was he wanted from it.

“Bloody idiot,” he muttered, causing Barnes to look up from the drawer where Larkin’s clean shirts were kept.

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nothing,” Larkin said gruffly. “Mrs Finchley paid for the gardener.”

“Ah. I wondered if that was it,” Barnes said with a frown.

“And so now, instead of doing her a kindness, I’ve forced her to pay for something she cannot afford.”

Barnes nodded, looking chagrined. “A difficult one, if the lady insists upon paying. Perhaps there is some other small way we can make up for the cost?”

“Like what?” Larkin asked morosely.

“Gammon.”

Larkin stared at his valet, wondering if he was being insulted.

“Gammon, sir,” Barnes clarified. “You won that lovely big piece of gammon once, at cards, don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yes. I gave it to my mother. That was ages ago,” he protested, wondering where Barnes was going with this.

“Yes, sir,” Barnes said with exaggerated patience. “But if you was to say you won a piece of gammon or a joint of beef, then they couldn’t pay you for it, ’cause you hadn’t paid for it either.”

Larkin considered this. “That’s not a bad idea, Barnes. Well done. I’m going to the club on Saturday next. You get something in ready and you can give it to them on Sunday morning. If you give it to Mrs Moody, she’ll cook it for their lunch while they’re at church, before they know anything about it, and then it will be too late.”

“Very good, sir. I just noticed the ladies all going off to church a few minutes ago, actually. Will you be joining them?” Barnes asked with studied nonchalance.

“No,” Larkin replied tersely. “I’ve work to do.”

Barnes pulled a face. “Mrs Goodall won’t like it, working on a Sunday, sir.”

“Then Mrs Goodall can take the day off,” Larkin retorted. “If it’s good enough for her, I don’t see the good lord can object to me putting some paint on canvas.”

“Right you are, sir,” Barnes replied and, correctly interpreting his master’s mood, made himself scarce.

12 th October 1850, The Sons of Hades, Portman Square, London.

Larkin made his way through the luxurious rooms of the club he owned with his friends, the scent of leather, polish, cognac and cigar smoke lingering in the air. It was early evening and there were few punters about, though he noticed one of the rooms they rented for private games was taken. At one time, he’d practically lived here, with only Leo spending more time among the comfortingly familiar rooms than he did. What had begun as a lark for them all, a place for them to escape their fathers’ eagle eyes and behave badly, had become a successful enterprise, a joint venture where only men they deemed worthy could come and drink or gamble, do business, or simply put their feet up and escape whatever trials they wished to avoid.

Making his way up the stairs to the rooms put aside for the owners, Larkin’s spirits lifted a little upon opening the door to the main office and seeing Leo at the desk.

“Lars! It’s been an age,” Leo said, setting aside the ledger he’d been perusing and getting up to greet him.

“Well, whose fault is that?” Larkin said, embracing Leo warmly. “You’re getting fat, old man. Married life agrees with you,” he teased, patting Leo’s stomach.

“Get away with you,” Leo said, laughing. “I’m as fit as a flea, and married life does agree with me. When are you going to set aside your bachelor ways and join us, eh?”

“Yes, come in, Lars, the water’s fine,” drawled a deep voice and Larkin turned in surprise to discover Jules sprawled in an armchair.

“Jules! You here too?” Larkin grinned as Jules stood and held out a hand.

“Well, Leo here said there was a game afoot. A dragon that needs slaying, or some such drivel.”

“Well, he’s right,” Larkin admitted. “And I’d be glad of your advice. Your help too, if you’re up for it.”

“Let’s have a drink,” Leo suggested, lifting the cognac decanter that habitually sat on the desk and setting out three glasses.

Once Leo had supplied everyone with a healthy dose of brandy, Larkin explained about his new neighbours and the tragedy of the late Mr Merrivale’s estate.

“I remember hearing about that,” Jules said, shaking his head. “It was at The Crooked Penny, and a more justly named club there never was, for you’re as likely to get cozened there or your throat slit as anywhere in London.”

“That’s what I’d heard too. I’d wager anything the game was rigged,” Leo chimed in.

Jules nodded. “There was certainly a good deal of talk when it happened. Apparently Merrivale was half seas over and clearly out of his head with desperation. Even the clientele at the Penny, charming as they are, protested he was in no state to play, but Jenkins goaded the fellow so blatantly Merrivale was never going to refuse, what with the state he was in.”

Larkin’s jaw tightened at this revelation, though it was nothing more than he’d expected. He glowered into his drink, turning his glass back and forth in his hands. “Poor old Merrivale, fool that he was. He ought never to have been playing so deep with so many people depending on him, but he did and now he’s left his family out in the cold.”

“Are they in debt?”

Larkin shook his head. “I don’t believe so. From what I gather, anything of value was sold to cover his creditors. The house and a few contents were all that remained, but that’s what’s of value to the ladies. It’s their home and they mourn the loss of it. I just keep thinking how I would feel if Mitcham Priory was taken from my family by foul means, and I was powerless to get it back.”

“Sticks in the throat,” Leo agreed, his expression serious. “So, what are we going to do about it?”

“I’m going to win it back,” Larkin said, more determined than ever to do it, to make amends to Mrs Finchley for the way he’d toyed with her affections. Though it pained him to admit it, he could not call it anything other than what it was. He had flirted with her, mildly yes, but she was a woman who was plainly vulnerable after everything she had endured. Every code of honour screamed at him that such women were to be protected, and he, of all people, had behaved badly.

Leo and Jules exchanged glances but, unlike Montagu, they did not imply he had lost his mind.

“How?” Jules asked.

“That’s what I need you for. I’ve asked Montagu to find out what he can about the fellow, a Mr Jenkins. As soon as I hear from him, I’ll know how to proceed, but I’m thinking of an exclusive invitation to a high stakes game. A fellow like this Jenkins would likely give his right arm for membership here, so such an invitation would be irresistible, don’t you think?”

Leo nodded, smiling wickedly. “I do. And then we’ll fleece him.”

“I’ll fleece him,” Larkin amended. “But I’d appreciate your help.”

“Then you have it,” Jules said with his usual lazy smile. “I shall look forward to it. Haven’t been to a game in an age. Can’t say I’ve missed it, though,” he admitted.

“How is the lovely Selina?” Larkin asked, amused that the once reckless rake had become such a devoted husband and father.

“Increasing, again,” he admitted with a grin that showed how pleased he was by this news. “But don’t put it about. I’ve not told my parents yet.”

“Congratulations!” Leo and Larkin both exclaimed.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” Leo added with a wink.

Jules snorted and rolled his eyes. “Stow it. Pour me another drink and let us celebrate properly. We’ll have a hand or two before dinner and then take advantage of our own excellent chef. So long as I’m home before midnight, I’m in the clear.”

Larkin laughed, shaking his head over his friend’s curfew. “Will you turn into a pumpkin, or will Selina lock you out?”

Leo laughed and then coughed. “I said the same,” he admitted ruefully, and Larkin mocked them both for being hen-pecked as he was supposed to do, but the words felt hollow, and he could not but wish he too had someone waiting for him to get home.