Page 15 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Larkin,

Jenkins played his first game last night and won with no intervention necessary. He’s a decent player and I would swear on this occasion, he did not use any underhanded methods. Still, the competition was not of the highest standard so we will see how he performs in the next round.

I will say he’s an uncouth devil and I would not trust him as far as I could throw him. We need to proceed carefully, for I think he’s sharper than he appears, and we would be foolish to underestimate him.

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

3 rd November 1850, Hyde Park, London.

Larkin watched with amusement as Lord Harry and Mr Abner vied for Miss Caroline’s attention as they walked beside the Serpentine. Bathed in sunshine and set against the sparkling water, the three made an exceptionally lovely picture.

“They look like they’ve stepped out of a fashion plate,” Larkin observed with a smile.

“I should catch them up,” Mrs Finchley fretted, noticing that the three young people had got some distance ahead of them.

“I’ll go, dear,” her aunt said at once. “You’re looking peaky this morning and ought not exert yourself. Perhaps Mr Weston would be so good as to lend you his arm,” she suggested, giving Larkin a fiercely direct look that surprised him.

She stopped short of waggling her eyebrows, but only just. Amused, Larkin realised he was being given the perfect opportunity to speak to the lady alone, whilst being warned not to waste his opportunity. Or else, he suspected.

Before her niece could utter a word of protest, Miss Merrivale hurried off, her cloak and skirts billowing as she went.

Mrs Finchley glanced up at him, colour in her cheeks he thought was not entirely due to the crisp winter air, and certainly not to the sunshine which was welcome but held little warmth.

“I’m afraid she’s never been terribly subtle,” Mrs Finchley lamented, confirming his suspicions, her mortification plain. “Please do not feel obliged to remain beside me. I cannot think what she meant, but I am quite well and need no support.”

“On the contrary, you need a good deal of support and have not had enough for some time,” Larkin replied firmly, taking her hand and placing it on his sleeve.

“Really, Mr Weston,” she said impatiently. “Why do you insist on dallying here? I know a man of your age and experience does not consider those young puppies any competition, but Caro is an innocent with so little experience of the world. She might conceive a foolish tendre for one of them and that will make your suit much harder, I assure you.”

Larkin stared at her in consternation. “My dear Mrs Finchley,” he said, hardly able to believe his ears. “Forgive me for my impertinence, but what the devil are you talking about?”

She stopped, glaring up at him with such impatience flashing in her eyes, he wondered if she would stamp her foot. “As you seem determined to pretend ignorance, then I shall be blunt,” she said curtly. “If you wish to court my sister, you’d do well to go right this minute and stop her forming some childish infatuation for one of those young dandies.”

Larkin gaped at her, too astonished to speak. Finally, he laughed and shook his head, gazing at her in wonder. “Is that what you think? That I’ve been dangling after Miss Caroline?”

“I would not say dangling,” she retorted in confusion, her brows knitting. “For you have hardly been assiduous in your attentions, which, for a man of your stamp, seems very remiss, but I’ve seen the way you look at her, and I am not a fool.”

“No, that you are not,” Larkin replied, torn between laughter and real annoyance. “But if you have laboured for a moment under the impression I wish to court your sister you are a very long way from the truth.”

Her mouth opened and closed and opened again and she seemed on the verge of giving him a blistering set down. Curiosity won out. “But I have watched you, seen how deeply you admire her,” she said again, as if by repeating the statement she might make it true.

Larkin considered this and had to admit he might have given her cause to believe he was interested in Miss Caroline. “She is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life,” he admitted, knowing he had been captured by the girl from the start, but not for the reasons she assumed. “I’m an artist, Mrs Finchley, and I cannot wait to try my hand at capturing such perfection of face and form, but Miss Caroline is a child, and I am a man of four and thirty. Whilst I am certain she is an amiable girl, I have not the slightest interest in making her my wife.”

“Y-You don’t?” she stammered, clearly finding this hard to believe.

“I don’t,” he agreed, his tone firm. “If you want my opinion, your sister is a very long way from being ready to be any man’s wife, and eligible he may be, but Lord Harry will certainly not be allowed to wed until he reaches his majority. I do not know Mr Abner’s parents, but they’d be damned fools not to do likewise, and before you eat me, it has nothing to do with Miss Caroline and everything to do with the fact they are all barely out of the schoolroom.”

Mrs Finchley let out a breath that did not seem entirely steady. “I know,” she said, her expression bleak. “And I wonder if I have made a dreadful mistake in bringing us all here. The expense has already been far more than I anticipated, and to what end? It will be her one and only season and may raise hopes in her breast that I cannot then make good on. She will not return next season like all the other girls, with a little more polish and experience, for our finances will not stand it. I had thought that if a kind man like yourself, who would be patient with her, was to marry her, then perhaps it would not be so bad, but I see now that I have been a fool, just as you so correctly observed,” she added bitterly.

“Now, none of that,” Larkin said, making her look up with his sharp tone. “You are no fool and we both know it, so I shall hear none of this self-deprecation.”

“Oh, but I am, and you certainly do know it,” she returned, blushing hotly this time. She tugged her arm from his sleeve, but Larkin grasped her hand, making her gasp in shock.

“Let go before someone sees,” she said in a fierce undertone, glancing around to see if they were observed but there were few people walking in the cold today, despite the sunshine.

“Please wait,” he said, praying she would not leave before he’d explained himself. “Just give me a few minutes, then, if you wish to cut me dead ever after, you may do so with my blessing.”

She stiffened, her expression furious, but did not fight him, taking his arm again, albeit reluctantly, and they carried on walking. The others were far ahead of them now and there was no chance of anyone saving her from his determination to speak.

Suddenly anxious, Larkin wondered if he was doing the right thing or simply exposing himself to more heartache. The thought was terrifying, yet he was not a coward, and he would not let a chance for happiness slip through his fingers, only to regret it later.

“I suspect it is no secret, but the reason I behaved so badly in my recent past was because I had my heart broken.” Larkin waited for the moment when he regretted the words and felt mortification for having admitted it to her, but as he looked down and saw nothing but empathy in her eyes, he knew he was not mistaken. “It was entirely my fault,” he added with a smile. “I realise now I have a fatal flaw, the desire to be heroic in some small way. I own a property with my friends, named Gillmont. It is a home for women who have been ill-treated by men, by life, and gives them shelter. I have personal reasons for being aware of the plight of such women –not as a result of my own behaviour,” he added hurriedly.

“I never thought that,” she said, her voice unexpectedly warm. Her approval eased his nerves, and he carried on.

“Elmira was one of those women and, like with Miss Caroline, to begin with I was captured by her beauty, by the combination of strength and fragility. She became my muse, my heroine, and I put her on a pedestal. A place, I might add, that she had no desire to be,” he said ruefully. “We became close, and I believed I knew her, but I saw only the surface, what I wished to see and believe, and she allowed it. When I discovered she had not been entirely honest with me, I was devastated. But I realise now that I had been rudely awoken from a dream of my own making and, if I had been paying attention, I would have realised I was being a fool.”

She was silent for a long moment, and he walked beside her, fretting he had been too frank, and she thought less of him for confessing his idiocy.

“I believe we have a good deal in common,” she replied finally, and looked up at him, pain in her eyes. “I believe I fell in love with the idea of my husband, and not the man himself. He was so very handsome, and sweet and kind, and I was young and foolish and swept away by the romance of it, falling in love with his splendid uniform and his bravery at going away and fighting a war in a foreign land. The two weeks we had together were idyllic, and I want to believe that we would have grown together, and come to love each other deeply in time, but I cannot help but worry that if he had returned, I would have been a terrible wife to him. I fear sometimes that we were so ill matched I would have made him wretched. That truth plagues me, for sometimes it makes me feel I had a lucky escape, that I am relieved he is dead, and that is a terrible thing to live with.”

Larkin heard the pain in her voice and wished he could take it away but did not know if could find the words. “If he had lived, you would have been glad, and you would have done all in your power to make him happy, no matter how ill-matched you were,” he said carefully, wondering if he was making things worse. “It is not your fault that fate intervened, it is simply the outcome with which you must live. I can understand your guilt, but I think you are too hard on yourself and ought to allow yourself the chance to be happy again, no matter what the truth of your feelings might have been if the outcome had been different.”

She let out a soft sound and covered her mouth with her hand. To his horror, he realised she was weeping.

“Forgive me. I’m a damned clumsy oaf and I keep saying the wrong thing,” he said desperately.

“No.” She shook her head, gathering herself and taking a deep breath. “No. You are kind, as you always are. Thank you.”

Larkin nodded but knew there was still much to say. “That’s why I didn’t kiss you.”

Her breath caught and she stared up at him, tears still glittering in her lovely eyes, shocked that he’d spoken of that desperately awkward scene and not continued to pretend it had never happened.

“Not because I didn’t want to,” he ploughed on, determined that this time she did not misunderstand him. “But because I did not want to make another stupid mistake and ruin a friendship I valued very highly. I was afraid my feelings were not to be trusted, and the truth is, I still don’t know exactly what it is I feel, or want, but I need you to know that I hold you in the very highest esteem and I would not trifle with you. I know what it is to have your hopes raised and then dashed, and that is why I pulled back, despite already having done a good deal to encourage you to believe I had feelings for you. I was a clumsy fool, and I have regretted it for every second since that moment. Can you forgive me?”

She gaped at him, looking so utterly bewildered by his words that he had to smile.

“Is it so very shocking?” he asked her softly.

“Yes,” she managed and gave a startled little laugh. “I thought I had misunderstood, read too much into your words, but—but I had not ?” She continued to stare at him, searching his face for confirmation.

Larkin covered the hand that was now clutching at his sleeve and smiled. “You had not.”

She blushed and looked away and then glanced at him again but could not hold his gaze.

Larkin waited, hoping she would say something, but he seemed to have stunned her into silence.

“I do forgive you,” she said, after an interminable wait that made him wonder if he’d said the wrong thing again. “But I must also beg that you forgive me. I have been very rude to you and that was dreadful of me in the light of all the very great kindnesses you have done for my family.”

“Your contempt was very well deserved. I promise you I never reproached you for it. But the question is, Mrs Finchley, what now? Will you continue to be my friend? Do you trust me enough to consider the possibility we might be more than that in time?”

“I do,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation and then smiled, as it was his turn to look startled. “I do,” she said again, staring at him this time. “And I want you to know I have told you the entire truth about myself. I’m not hiding any secrets that you will uncover later or pretending to be something I am not. I wouldn’t know how. I’m afraid I’m simply not that interesting,” she added with a laugh.

Larkin let out a breath, feeling strangely liberated, the weight of guilt and regret that had burdened him falling away. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he replied warmly.

They continued walking in companionable silence, occasionally exchanging glances that seemed to contain a good deal more communication that either of them was ready to express in words just yet.

3 rd November 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Maggie walked home with her hand upon Larkin’s arm, feeling as though she were floating on a cloud. The sunshine had fled, but to her the world around them seemed sunny and bright and full of promise. She kept stealing glances at the man beside her, hardly daring to believe she had not dreamed the entire thing. A shaft of terror pierced her heart as she wondered if she was actually at home in bed and this just the working of her desperate imagination. But no, his arm was solid beneath hers, the chilly wind stung her cheeks and tugged at her bonnet, and Caro and Connie’s lively chatter continued nonstop behind them until they arrived at their front door.

“Thank you so much, Mr Weston. We had a delightful walk,” Maggie said, feeling suddenly shy as his eyes met hers.

“We must do it again,” he suggested.

“Oh, yes, Maggie! Do say we can,” Caro broke in before she could answer. “On Wednesday?”

“Certainly. Wednesday is perfect,” Mr Weston agreed, giving Caro a conspiratorial smile. “I shall see you then.”

“Providing it doesn’t rain,” Maggie pointed out, some cautious part of her determined to keep hold of her good sense and not be utterly foolish.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Finchley, ladies,” he said, raising his hat to them before carrying on next door.

Hurrying into the warmth of their own house, they cast off cloaks, gloves, and bonnets and hurried to congregate by the fire to wait for the tea Wallace promised to bring them.

“Thank you, Maggie,” Caro said, moving to hug her sister. “I had such a lovely time. Lord Harry and Mr Abner are very kind gentlemen and such fun. I am so glad to have met them.”

Maggie kissed her sister’s cheek. “You’re welcome, dear,” she said, wondering if she ought to give Caro a hint about not getting her hopes up and looking too high, but it seemed cruel to spoil her cheerful mood and so Maggie held her tongue.

“You’re looking much more the thing,” Aunt Connie observed with a sly smile. “I knew a walk and taking Mr Weston’s arm would put the colour back into your cheeks.”

“It’s simply the fresh air,” Maggie said, not yet ready to confide in her family about her conversation with Mr Weston. She wanted to sit quietly with the words and recall every one, holding them close to her heart and examining each of them until she was entirely certain she had not made the entire thing up, for it seemed too fantastically wonderful to be true.

Mr Weston, handsome and wealthy, fashionable and eminently eligible, held her in the very highest esteem. He had wanted to kiss her! That knowledge made her cheeks burn with the anticipation that he might actually do so if she gave him the chance. Her heart did the oddest little dance in her chest. Maggie busied herself with the tea tray that Wallace set on the table and kept her head down so no one would notice how flustered she was.

Wallace cleared his throat, though, and she was forced to look up.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs Maggie, but I read something in the newspaper today that gave me pause. I thought you ought to see it.”

Frowning, Maggie reached for the clipping, which he handed to her, and she read the words with growing disquiet.

Ten Pounds Reward Offered,

For information concerning the whereabouts of Miss Connie Merrivale. Information to be addressed care of Mr P Chambers. Ridgeley House, Belgravia, London.

“Whatever does it mean?” Maggie asked, before handing the correspondence to her aunt.

“At first I thought it was that devil, Jenkins, trying to track you down, for I saw another notice asking for information a month back,” Wallace said, his expression grave.

“Good heavens!” Maggie exclaimed.

Caro gasped and came to sit beside her, clutching her hand. “Maggie?” she said fearfully.

“Don’t you worry, Miss Caroline,” Wallace said staunchly. “That wicked fellow won’t be troubling you ladies, not while there’s breath in my body.”

“Thank you, dear Wallace,” Maggie said warmly, touched by his sincerity. “We know we may always depend upon you.”

Wallace’s gaunt face turned slightly pink, but he squared his shoulders, pleased with this confidence in him.

“What did that notice say?” she asked, troubled by the idea the horrid man had not yet given up his notion of marrying Caro.

“That he was your distraught uncle, or some such nonsense. Well, we all know that’s a fat lie, for your only uncle didn’t care a fig,” Wallace said crossly. “But this one is different. That’s a fine address and a well above that crook Jenkins’ touch, I assure you, and then there’s the reward, which that devil could never pay and would never offer, he’s that mean.”

Maggie considered Wallace. He was entirely sincere in his devotion to their family, for ten pounds was an unheard of fortune and he could easily have taken advantage of the offer. She promised herself there and then, if ever she could do so, she would ensure that Wallace was rewarded for his loyalty.

Maggie looked at her aunt, who was studying the notice with consternation.

“But why me? I don’t know a soul in London any longer, I’ve certainly no recollection of a Mr Chambers,” she added thoughtfully, and then brightened. “Perhaps it’s an old friend seeking me out. Ten pounds seems an extraordinary amount, though, even for me! Why go to so much trouble now? If they wanted to see me so much, why have they left it so long? Better late than never, I suppose,” she said with a frown.

“Should we reply, then?” Maggie asked, with a tremor of unease.

“No. No, I think we should call at the address. If someone wishes to see me, then I would like to know why,” Connie said firmly.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!

“Oh, Cecil, do be quiet. I’m sure it’s nothing to fret about, my dear. Don’t get yourself all agitated,” Connie told the clock with a sigh. “He does worry for me,” she added in an undertone to Maggie.

“Well, I’m not at all sure he doesn’t have a point,” Maggie replied, wondering at her own sanity for agreeing with the sentiments of a cuckoo clock.

“Well, I’m sure if we asked him, Mr Weston would accompany us to ensure we are not being tricked or taken advantage of,” Connie said, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she looked at Maggie.

Maggie stared back, wondering just what it was her aunt knew. Still, having such a good excuse—a good reason to see Mr Weston again did not seem a terrible trial.

“I suppose he might,” Maggie allowed, and avoided her aunt’s gaze as she handed her a cup of tea. “I shall ask him when we go for our walk on Wednesday.”

“Oh, Maggie, could you not ask today or tomorrow?” Connie said crossly.

But Maggie shook her head. She thought Mr Weston needed a day to consider everything he’d revealed and to ensure he did not wish to take any of it back. For her part, she wanted nothing more than to run around to the back door of his house, pound upon it and demand he kiss her at once. Which also seemed an excellent reason for keeping away for a little while, in case she did something entirely inappropriate again and gave him a disgust of her.

“Wednesday,” she said firmly.

Any further argument was cut short as Gideon burst into the room. “Mama!” he said. “Look, look at my pictures.”

Maggie took the crumpled sheets from him and her heart swelled as she saw the drawings he had coloured in, drawings that only Mr Weston could have done for him. She smiled as she looked upon the fox wearing a hat, and a boy that looked very much like Gideon riding a fat pony.

“They’re wonderful, darling. How clever you are.”

“I’m an artist,” he said proudly. “Westie said so.”

Maggie hugged her son to her and kissed his tumbled blond curls.

“You are quite wonderful,” she told him, silently adding that Mr Weston was quite wonderful too.