Page 13 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Larkin,

I did a little fishing as you requested. Jenkins is, as you supposed, an unsavoury character. Rumours of cheating, fraud and violence abound and so I beg you to have a care if you decide to pursue your quarry.

For your information, it appears country life does not suit this estimable fellow, and he is in London at present. I am reliably informed he is staying at the Punch and Judy in Covent Garden.

For heaven’s sake, keep your wits about you if you deal with the villain. For if you wind up in the Thames because of information I’ve handed over, I will never forgive myself, or you and your father will murder me.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Lucien Barrington, The Marquess of Montagu, to The Hon’ble Larkin Weston.

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

Maggie looked out of the window with a sigh. London on a grim, wet day only made her homesickness all the keener. A wet day at the manor was an excuse to cosy up and read by the fire. Even walking down muddy lanes in the rain, with the wind blowing through the trees overhead, and knowing she would soon be warm and dry was a very different feeling from that she’d had today. Hurrying home from church, along streets filthy with refuse and surrounded by buildings, with the rain pelting them and the wind blowing them this way and that was not in the least bit pleasant. She felt certain that if they’d never had to leave their beautiful home, she would not now be feeling so very unsettled and dissatisfied. When she’d had the gardens and the home farm to attend to, there was so little time to consider her own heart. Now, she had far too much time on her hands, too much time to feel resentment over losing everything she’d loved, and then to feel guilty for her ingratitude when she was so much more fortunate than many.

As Maggie hung up her wet things to dry, so Sally would have one less thing to do, she smoothed down the skirts of her old day dress that had once been a favourite but was now faded and soft with too much wear and washing. It was comforting, though, to wear something so familiar, and no one would call on them today. No one had called upon them since that day out with Mr Weston, for they had not seen him since.

Maggie was not in the least bit surprised nor dismayed by this, she assured herself. It was simply this dreary weather and not having enough to do that made her feel as though she would run mad. Only poor Giddy was disappointed not to have seen his friend again and often asked after his ‘Westie.’

As she made her way down the stairs, Maggie sniffed appreciatively at the delicious scent wafting from the kitchens and wondered what Mrs Moody was cooking. She was a remarkably thrifty cook, unlike Mrs Goodall, who had never had to economise to such a degree, even when they ought to have done, for Maggie’s father had loved his dinner.

“Dinner is ready, missus,” Priddy told her, before dashing downstairs to the kitchen.

Maggie nodded and made her way to the small dining room. It was a rather poky room, and the fire smoked when the wind blew from the west, so they only ate in here on a Sunday. The rest of the week, they preferred to eat by a small table by the window in the front parlour that got the morning sun, if there was any.

Today, Maggie found everyone awaiting her arrival with Gideon holding his knife and fork expectantly.

“Special din-dins,” he said, with obvious excitement.

“Oh?” Maggie said, smiling at her son and smoothing down a cowlick that promptly sprang up again. “What’s special about it?”

“Moody said special, with Yorky pudding,” he told her eagerly.

“Yorkshire pudding,” Caro corrected with a smile. “It certainly smells divine, whatever it is.”

“Beef,” Aunt Connie said, sniffing the air and giving a contented sigh. “That is certainly roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

“Don’t be silly, love,” Maggie said, feeling bad for spoiling their excitement. “We can’t afford such things as roast beef. Do you know what the price of a single, scrawny chicken is here? Oh, it makes me want to weep when I think of the fat birds we had at home,” she said, and then scolded herself again for remembering things she’d do well to forget.

“Perhaps it’s toad in the hole,” Caro suggested, for their aunt looked crestfallen by the suggestion there was no roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. “We like that too, don’t we, Auntie?”

“Eww!” Gideon cried, his face the picture of horror. “Not toads! Can’t eat toads. Nasty, nasty, nasty—”

“No toads, darling,” Maggie said hurriedly, before Gideon could make himself sick with the idea. “It’s just a silly name for sausages. It’s sausages in a Yorkshire pudding.”

“Sausages?” he repeated suspiciously. “No toads?”

“No toads,” Maggie assured him with a smile.

Gideon sighed with relief and, as the crisis was averted, Maggie turned to speak to her sister again, just as Mrs Moody came into the room, hefting an enormous platter. Upon it was a magnificent roast beef, surrounded by roasted potatoes and parsnips.

“Good heavens!” Maggie said in alarm, wondering if the woman had blown the entire month’s budget on one meal. “What on earth—”

“Settle your feathers, Mrs Finchley,” Mrs Moody said as she set it down on the table. “It’s a present. Mr Weston had a bit of luck at cards yesterday, so Mr Barnes told me. Won a fine piece of gammon and this bit o’ beef. Well, it’s only him next door and he can’t be eating all that by himself, so he’s kept the gammon, seeing as he’s partial to it, Mr Barnes says, but he said to give the beef to us. For Master Gideon ought to enjoy a good roast dinner, as he’s a growing lad. What but that’s nothing but the truth, I accepted, seeing as how you was all at church.”

Maggie stared at the monumental piece of meat and then looked at her son, who was practically salivating as Priddy set down a vast Yorkshire pudding.

What could she do but accept the kind offer? Yet her pride recoiled against something that felt very much like charity. Luck at cards indeed, she fumed inwardly. This was his way of returning the money she had spent on paying him for the gardener. Maggie felt so annoyed by his high-handedness she felt sure a single morsel of beef would stick in her throat and was dismayed to be proven wrong. The meat was succulent and cooked to perfection, and she was not such a fool as to cut off her nose to spite her face. So she tucked into the feast, finding pleasure in the happiness her family took in the rare treat.

Indeed, there was so much meat that Mrs Moody assured them they would have cold roast beef sandwiches for tea, and she would also make pies and grind what was left over for rissoles. They had also the pleasure of dripping on toast to look forward to, sprinkled with a little salt, which had been a regular Monday morning treat when Maggie was a child.

So they all ate far too much and retired to the parlour and sat by the fire, talking and sewing as Gideon played with his toy train on the floor. Maggie watched her son with a smile and let her aunt and sister’s chatter lull her into a pleasant state of apathy as she considered all the ways she could return Mr Weston’s charity to him without costing herself a fortune.

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

It was midweek before an opportunity presented itself to Maggie. The sun was shining and even contained a little warmth which felt lovely upon her back as she took Gideon outside to play in the garden. He had driven everyone distracted during the past week of rain, thundering up and down the stairs, climbing on furniture and generally causing chaos as the confines of the small house chafed at him. Maggie found herself torn between impatience for his naughtiness and sorrow, as she understood how much energy he had and how badly he needed to run about and play. At the manor they’d had so much space, and so many trees to climb—and muddy clothes had been far easier to deal with when a laundry room and plenty of staff were at their disposal—but there was no sense in retreading that well-lamented path. The manor was gone. That was all there was to it.

As Gideon ran up and down, alternately kicking and throwing his ball, Maggie had to admit that the gardener had been a godsend. He’d done a marvellous job cutting the grass back and removing the encroaching brambles. Though she could ill afford the cost, she couldn't regret paying for the work, because it gave Gideon somewhere to play.

“Catch, Mama!” Gideon said, and flung the ball towards her in a haphazard manner.

Maggie laughed, reaching to catch it, but just missing.

“Nevermind. Try ’gain,” Gideon said encouragingly, running to pick the ball up again.

This time he stood closer to her and threw it again, but it went awry somehow, and Maggie missed it once more.

“No, Mama. Must catch like this,” Gideon said gravely, showing her the way he stood with his hands at the ready. “Westie showed me how. I’m good at catching. I show you.”

He handed her the ball back, and Maggie threw it to him. He caught it deftly and gave a whoop of triumph, running around waving the ball over his head.

Maggie’s throat tightened. If Gideon had a father, he would teach his son such things, how to play cricket and catch a fish, and all the things that fathers were supposed to do with their male offspring. All Gideon had was the kindness of a neighbour, and she’d spoiled everything by acting like a bold little madam, in the middle of a bazaar no less. The memory caused every part of her to stiffen with regret and humiliation. The first tense pulses of a headache throbbed at her temples.

Gideon had run off farther up the garden and Maggie hurried after him, worried in case he escaped next door, but she found him sitting on the lowest branch of an apple tree, munching on one of the many apples littering the ground. The branches overhead were laden with them too. At once, Maggie hurried back to the house to ask Mrs Moody for a basket. Gideon helped her fill it, which he thought a great game for about five minutes before he returned to playing with his ball. Still, Maggie had a fine haul of fruit, which she lugged back to the house.

“Heavens, there’s plenty there. I’ll make a nice apple pie,” Mrs Moody said, looking pleased at the sight of the overflowing basket. “And a crumble tomorrow, and I can make apple cake.”

“There’s lots more too,” Maggie said happily, emptying the basket into a large bowl and setting the rest on the table once it was full. “Do we have any jars?”

“Yes. I discovered loads of them in the scullery. Dozens of the things, there are,” Mrs Moody said, looking at Maggie in surprise. “You’re going to make something?”

“Yes!” Maggie said, feeling pleased with herself. “Apple butter. I often used to make it, and jams and preserves too, when we lived in the country. I like such jobs.”

Mrs Moody nodded her approval, as Maggie picked up the basket again.

“Come along Gideon, back outside with you,” she said, and smiled as her son ran out of the door ahead of her.

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

Larkin set down his brushes and stretched the tense muscles in his back before stepping away to look at the painting of Tilly. He had brought the large canvas home in a carriage so he could work in his studio to finish it, now he felt satisfied with the likeness. Capturing the texture and the way light and shadow fell upon the various fabrics the child wore was a challenge, and he preferred to do this in his own studio. Mrs Harris had lent him the dress for reference, and he’d arranged it over some cushions to approximate the same pose. He considered the silk of the pretty gown and smiled, proud of the lightness and the soft gleam he’d given it. It was certainly the best thing he’d done so far and, once people saw it, even more of the great and the good would clamour for him to paint them.

He walked to the window and looked out, finding himself wishing Gideon would pop up like he had so often before that fateful outing to Regent Street. He supposed Maggie must be standing watch over the boy, determined he would not go wandering next door again. The thought made him unaccountably melancholy, which was ridiculous. Gideon might be an engaging scamp, but Larkin had no desire to play babysitter.

His next project would be Miss Caroline, he determined, returning to thoughts of his future career and putting all else aside. If Maggie wanted the girl to find herself a worthy husband, such a portrait would do her a great deal of good, and capturing the unknown beauty would certainly give him credit for having discovered her. More importantly, any romantically minded young man would take one look at the divine Caro captured upon canvas and fall instantly in love, he thought with amusement. He wondered if Maggie would refuse to allow him to paint her sister but knew at once she would not. Maggie would endure any discomfort to ensure her aunt’s and her sister’s happiness. Of this much, he was certain. His only difficulty would be ensuring she did not feel the need to repay him.

Deciding he needed a break, Larkin made his way down the stairs to the kitchen in search of coffee and cake and entered the kitchen to find Barnes looking at a table laden with glass jars.

“What’s all that?” he asked as his valet looked up.

“Apple butter,” Barnes said with a grin. “Mrs Finchley sent it over as thanks for the beef.”

Larkin laughed despite himself. “Oh, the devil. I ought to have known she wouldn’t let me get away with that.”

“Aye, a proud one is Mrs Maggie,” Mrs Goodall chimed in, looking at the jars with approval. “It’ll be good, for she always had a fair hand for such things, but what we’re to do with that much of it, I do not know. You’ll be eating apple butter until next Michaelmas, you ask me,” she said with a snort.

“You’ve been with the family a long time,” Larkin observed, giving Barnes a look that encouraged him to make himself scarce. His valet was nothing if not quick-witted and returned a nod before leaving the room.

“Oh, since before Maggie was a twinkle,” she said amiably. “Mr Merrivale was such a card, always laughing and joking, it was a happy household. Even after Maggie’s mama passed, he always made sure to pay her attention. Doted on her, he did. Then he married again, to Miss Caro’s mama. Well, she was a little doll. The sweetest natured lady you ever met, and so lovely, though Caro is even more beautiful, if you ask me. But when she died, the heart went out of the master. He still doted on his girls and always paid for new gowns and brought them gifts, even when he’d no money to do so, but he wasn’t present, even when he was there, if you understand me?”

“I do,” Larkin said, accepting the cup of coffee she poured him and a generous slice of fruit cake. “He was mourning.”

“He was, and it affected his brain, I reckon. Had to be that, for marrying that awful woman was the worst thing he ever did. Well, save for topping himself. We was going on very nicely, you see, for Maggie had practically been running the household beside me since Caro’s mama died. Couldn’t have been more than eleven, I reckon. But she’s got her head screwed on. Leastways, I thought she did until she married Captain Finchley.”

“Oh?” Mr Weston said, his ears pricking up.

“Wet blanket, he was,” Mrs Moody said, pursing her lips with disapproval. “I don’t know what old Merrivale was thinking to allow it when they’d only known each other days. But like I said, he wasn’t thinking, not about what was best for Maggie, anyhow. Though it is wicked of me to say so, she’s lucky she’s been given a second chance, for it would never—”

Mrs Moody gasped and clapped a hand across her mouth in horror. “Oh. Mr Weston!” she exclaimed. “Hark at me, rattling on about private things and I never… never gossip about my family. How did you get me to speak so?” she demanded, looking at him accusingly.

Larkin held up his hands in a peaceable gesture. “I said nothing, Mrs Goodall, I only listened, but you may rest assured I would do nothing to hurt Mrs Finchley or any of them. I, like you, worry for them, but I am in a difficult position, being a single man. If I pay them too much attention, people will talk. Yet, I would help them however I could.”

Mrs Goodall gave him a long, hard look and then nodded. “Aye. You’re an honourable fellow, I reckon. Mr Barnes told me about Gideon making a nuisance of himself and what you did, playing with the lad and then making introductions for Miss Caroline and getting the gardener to tidy their place up. You did them a great kindness when you’d no need to. That piece of beef, too. You never won that—and don’t tell me you did, for I saw the receipt for payment.”

“You’ve caught me out,” Larkin said with a smile. “And it seems Barnes is not as discreet as I assumed. But you’re right. I only want to help, but Mrs Finchley is set on thwarting me too, it seems,” he remarked ruefully, gesturing to the jars of apple butter.

“Ah, well. That’s not so bad. Keep her on her toes, it will. Boredom is what will drive poor Maggie out of her wits. She’s a managing sort of female, born to run a large household, and sitting about doing nothing will drive her distracted.”

Larkin considered this and had a sudden vision of the lady standing side-by-side with his mother at Mitcham Priory, organising one of the many large charity events she put on each year. He started in shock, pushing the image away and wondering what the hell he was thinking. Yet instinctively he knew his mother would like and approve of Mrs Finchley, and a strangely unsettling sensation gnawed at his guts. No. No, that would not do at all, he told himself, and buried the image down deep where it would not trouble him again.

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

“I’ll go!” Maggie called as the door knocker sounded, for Priddy was upstairs changing Gideon after an incident with jam tarts in the kitchen, and Wallace was filling the coal scuttles.

Priddy was such a tiny little dab of a girl, they could not expect her to lug the heavy coal scuttles about. Maggie had tried to get Wallace to allow her to do the dirty job, which was far beneath his dignity, but he’d become quite cross with her, so she’d been forced to retreat.

It had been well over three weeks since she had seen Mr Weston, and she had become accustomed to the idea that she was safe from doing so, which only made it all the more shocking to find the man himself standing on her doorstep. He removed his hat politely and bowed, smiling with his customary warmth, just as if he’d not witnessed the most embarrassing and shaming moment of her life the last time they’d met.

“Oh!” Maggie said stupidly, at a loss for anything more useful to say.

“Good morning, Mrs Finchley.”

“I-I didn’t expect you,” she said, and then cursed herself, as it sounded like an accusation. “I mean, good morning, Mr Weston.” Though far more polite, the words still sounded stiff and most unwelcoming, but he appeared undaunted and stood waiting.

Drat the man. She really, really, did not want to invite him in.

“Was there something you wanted?” she asked, refusing to give way.

“Yes,” he replied, but said no more.

Well, now he was being difficult on purpose. “Are you willing to share the information or am I to deduce it myself?” she asked, softening the acerbic words with a polite smile. “Morse code, perhaps?” she suggested, and then wanted to bite her tongue out. Mr Weston had not done the least thing wrong. She was the one who’d behaved badly, not him. It was just that seeing him unexpectedly had put her in such a dither she was cross with him for making her feel foolish.

“We could try, but I’m not sure I’m very proficient,” he said apologetically, though amusement lurked in his eyes.

Maggie sighed and shook her head. “Forgive me. That was appallingly rude. Please, do come in, Mr Weston.”

She led him to the front parlour and sat down, waiting. Mr Weston entered, careful to leave the door ajar in case she assaulted his person again, she noted cynically, and sat at her invitation.

“Will you take tea?” she asked, praying he would not.

“No, thank you. I will not keep you long. It is only that my latest commission is almost completed, and I wished to discuss the possibility of painting Miss Caroline.”

Maggie’s heart gave a jolt. Well, here was a reminder, as if she needed one, of just why Mr Weston had taken such an interest in them. For Caro’s sake, she must put her own hurt pride aside and do what was best for her sister.

“I believe you know our financial situation, Mr Weston,” she said bluntly, for there seemed little point in not being certain of what he was offering.

“I have no intention of charging you,” he said, his expression more serious now as he lifted a hand to forestall any comment she might make. “And before you suggest otherwise, this is a mutually beneficial exercise. The portrait of such an unknown beauty will cause a stir among the ton that will not only promote my work but will do much to enhance Miss Caroline. If the portrait is exhibited before she comes out, every other young miss will plague their fathers for a similar work and I guarantee all the young eligible men of the ton will be in love with her before she sets foot in a ballroom.”

“And many of the ineligible and less than respectable men too,” Maggie added with a frown, though she could not deny the truth of his words, nor would she deny Caro this opportunity, yet she feared what such celebrity might do to her sister, who was rather shy by nature.

“I assure you that having Lady Montagu as her sponsor will make even the most hardened libertine think twice. Montagu would tear them apart,” he said with a smile.

“I had not considered that,” Maggie said, admitting herself relieved. “Very well. When would you wish to begin? And where? For she cannot be seen to be visiting a bachelor household, even with a chaperone. I won’t have anything tarnish her reputation.”

“Quite so, which is why I have arranged to use the same room in Montagu House that I used to paint Miss Barrington. Lady Montagu was delighted at the prospect of seeing you all again. So you and your aunt could take turns to sit with Miss Caroline or visit with Lady Montagu. I hope this is satisfactory.”

It wasn’t in the least satisfactory if it meant Maggie had to spend extended periods of time in company with Mr Weston, but she could hardly say so. She reminded herself he was a professional artist and took his work seriously. He would be too caught up in capturing Caro’s beauty to pay her any mind. If she took a book, she might return the compliment too, she thought with a stab of amusement. Unless he began flirting with Caro. That was such an appalling prospect she felt herself blanch, but she was being ridiculous. Mr Weston was far too much of a gentleman to flirt with her sister in front of her.

“Mrs Finchley?”

Mr Weston’s enquiry pulled her from her anxious musings and Maggie scolded herself for sitting in silence for so long. Lord, but he must be getting the idea she was not only no better than she ought to be, but a halfwit too.

“I beg your pardon. I was only considering the ramifications of such a sitting, but I believe that is satisfactory,” she replied, appalled by how stiff and unfriendly she sounded. Once again, she reminded herself the situation was only awkward because she had made it so and tried to look less ill at ease. “I appreciate what you are doing for my sister,” she added, managing to sound a degree less frigid with disapproval.

At that moment, the door burst open, and Gideon ran into the room.

“Westie!” he exclaimed, and threw himself at Larkin with such force he toppled him back against the sofa.

Maggie stood, horrified, and about to haul her son off the poor man, but Mr Weston only laughed, his big hands grasping the little boy by the waist and holding him up in the air, staring up at him as Gideon squealed with delight. “Why, you little rogue! How big you are. I’ll bet you’ve grown a full inch since I saw you last.”

“Big, big!” Gideon chortled happily as Mr Weston straightened and set the boy on the floor, giving Maggie a sheepish smile.

“I beg your pardon. It’s just it’s been rather quiet without Gideon appearing out of the blue at odd moments.”

Maggie wrung her hands together, feeling instantly at fault. If she had not behaved badly, Mr Weston would not be forced to stay away in fear of her throwing herself at him again. Indeed, when she came to think of it, it was a wonder he dared to call on her at all.

Perhaps something of her chagrin showed on her face for Mr Weston, looked at once concerned. “I hope you have not felt the need to keep him away. Whilst I must work for much of the day, I can always spare a little time for this young scamp, if you do not mind it?”

Maggie swallowed hard, refusing to allow herself to become maudlin for the loss of something she’d never had. She must do what was best for Gideon and the fact remained, he needed a masculine figure in his life. If Mr Weston was kind enough to give up his time for her son, she could not be so cruel as to refuse for the sake of her own wounded pride.

“You are very good, as always, Mr Weston,” she replied, fighting a catch in her voice, but apparently not well enough as his gaze softened, and he took a step towards her.

“Mr Weston! Why, I did not hear you come in. Maggie, why have you not ordered tea for our guest?” Aunt Connie said as she burst into the room, beaming at Mr Weston as if he were a long-lost relative.

“Indeed, Mrs Finchley very kindly offered me refreshments, but I am not staying, Miss Merrivale. If you will excuse me?”

“Oh, so soon?” Aunt Connie lamented, but waved him goodbye as Maggie dutifully followed him to the door.

“I can see Westie again soon?” Gideon demanded plaintively, tugging at her hand.

“Yes, darling. I’m sure you will,” she said soothingly.

“Why don’t you come to tea tomorrow, Gideon, if your mama says you may?” Mr Weston offered, though he looked cautiously at Maggie as if expecting a refusal.

“Mama!” Gideon exclaimed, bouncing on the spot.

Despite the turmoil of her own feelings, Maggie could not help but smile. “Gideon would be delighted to attend, Mr Weston. If you are certain it is not too much of an imposition.”

“Not in the least. I should be happy to see him. At four o’clock, then?”

“Yes, thank you. I shall ask Wallace to escort him. To the back door, if you don’t mind it?”

“Of course not. We can’t set all the curtains twitching, can we?” he replied with a boyishly crooked grin that seemed to strike a painful dart to her chest. “Well then, Master Gideon, I’ll see you tomorrow, and before you ask, yes, I’ll make sure there are lots of cakes.”

“Cake! Cake!” Gideon chanted and ran back into the house. “Caro! Caro! I having cake with Westie!”

“Thank you,” Maggie said as Mr Weston nodded at her, then turned and walked away.