Page 14 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Larkin,

Our quarry has taken the bait.

I need not tell you this is all highly irregular and if any suggestion of duplicity or fraud was to attach to the club, it would do us no good at all. So to allay suspicion, the competition Jenkins has entered has several games to get through, with the winner sitting at the ‘high table’ with us. We’ve invited a few others on the waiting list for membership, so all appears legitimate. Not that we will be cheating, obviously, but we must ensure Jenkins wins, which is not exactly the usual way of things. It will be interesting to watch him play and see if he cheats or not and if he has any tells. Both Pip and Ash have agreed to play him and take notes, obviously Jules and I will take our turn.

The date for the last game has been set for November 12th. I hope you’ll be ready for him. I might be a touch overdramatic, but I suggest you burn this missive.

―Excerpt from a letter from Mr Leo Hunt (Son of Mr Nathanial and Mrs Alice Hunt) to The Hon’ble Larkin Weston.

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

Larkin looked across the table to Gideon, who was licking jam off his fingers.

“Was that good?” he asked the boy, amused.

“’Licous,” Gideon replied solemnly.

“I believe you mean delicious,” Larkin corrected, to which Gideon nodded vigorously.

“Yes, what I said, ’licious.”

Larkin laughed and nodded at Mrs Goodall to take the cake away. “I think he’s finally full.”

“He did a fine job, all those sandwiches and two good slices of cake, and didn’t touch the sides,” Mrs Goodall said with approval.

“No more?” Gideon asked, looking a little crestfallen to see the scrumptious ginger cake taken away.

“I think you’ll burst if you eat more, and your mama will not be pleased if I make you sick. You can take some home for tomorrow, though. Look here, how about doing some drawing?” Larkin suggested, passing the paper and pencil over that he’d brought down ready for the boy.

“You draw too?” Gideon asked.

“Certainly, I will,” Larkin agreed, watching to see if he held the pencil correctly and smiling as the lad began his first artwork. Satisfied he was a in the company of a proficient artist, Larkin began a series of pictures he planned to give to Gideon to colour in.

“What are you drawing?” he asked, looking over Gideon’s shoulder.

Gideon immediately grinned and hid his picture, leaning over it. “Don’t look! Surprise,” he insisted.

Larkin laughed and returned to his own work. A moment later, he felt eyes upon him.

“What are you drawing?” Gideon asked.

“A frog on a lily pad, holding an umbrella,” Larkin said, chuckling at the delight in the boy’s eyes.

“Show me!”

Obediently, Larkin turned the page, and Gideon gazed in wonder at the drawing. “Very good drawing, Westie,” he said, giving him an encouraging pat on the arm. “Well done.”

“Thank you,” Larkin replied gravely, and the two artists returned to their work. Ten minutes later, Gideon pronounced himself finished.

“For you,” he said, handing the paper to Larkin.

Larkin thanked him and held the paper up and stared at the picture with the oddest sensation kicking about in his chest.

“That’s you, that’s me, and that’s mama,” Gideon said helpfully, pointing at each of the figures holding hands and wearing big smiles. Gideon was in the middle, with Larkin and his mother on either side. He’d made Larkin a towering figure with a massive head, enormous hands with rather too many fingers, and the biggest smile of all of them.

“Like it?” Gideon asked uncertainly, watching Larkin’s expression.

Larkin immediately pasted a smile to his face to cover the turmoil the child had wrought on his peace of mind. “Of course I do! It’s a wonderful drawing. You’ll be a great artist if you keep this up. Thank you, Gideon.”

Before he could put the drawing away, Mrs Goodall looked over his shoulder and saw the image Gideon had drawn.

She smiled sadly. “Poor boy wants a da,” she said softly, patting Larkin’s shoulder and sighing.

Larkin gave Gideon a new piece of paper, tucking the drawing he’d been given safely away. “Perhaps you should draw something for your mama,” he suggested, wondering a little anxiously what the boy would do next.

“Yes,” Gideon agreed.

“What are you drawing, then?” Larkin pressed, putting aside his latest of a fox wearing a top hat and beginning upon one of a train.

“Pony,” Gideon said, not looking up.

“A fine choice,” Larkin agreed, and then wondered if the boy hankered for a pony of his own. What was he saying? Of course he did. What boy didn’t want his own pony, and if they lived at the manor, perhaps such a thing might be possible. With no expensive rent to pay, and likely a small income from the land too, their lives might be entirely different. Though he had been determined before, Larkin was now entirely resolved to ensure they got their home back.

“Look!” Gideon held up the drawing.

The pony had a very large head and a very small body and legs like a daddy longlegs. The mane was certainly exuberant, as was the tail, and Larkin thought it entirely charming.

“He’s a very handsome pony,” he said, smiling at Gideon. “Does he have a name?”

“Bertie,” Gideon replied promptly. “He will live in the garden, and I’ll feed him apples and carrots.”

“Oh, bless the poor child,” Mrs Moody said with an emotional sniff, dabbing at her eyes with her apron.

Larkin frowned, not finding this entirely helpful when he was already all at sea. He wanted to go out that second and buy a pony and a puppy and anything else the dratted boy wanted and why should he feel so blasted responsible? Mrs Finchley and her son were not his concern, he reminded himself. Yet he’d made them his concern and, more to the point, no matter how much he fought the idea, he wanted them to be.