Page 2 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Dear diary,

I believe we are safe for now, but I wake most nights with bad dreams, terrified I will hear a fist hammering on the door and that horrid man demanding I honour my father’s debt.

How can it be honourable for him to ask me to sacrifice myself and dishonourable for me to deny him? Oh, Papa, why did you do this to us? We were so happy before, why did you spoil everything?

――Excerpt of an entry from Caroline ‘Caro’ Merrivale to her diary.

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

“Barnes!” Larkin called as he strode back into the house, setting down his hat and gloves.

“Sir?”

Barnes appeared in the hallway, immaculate as always.

“Which of my mother’s cronies is in town at present?”

Barnes considered this. Larkin had long ago given up figuring out how Barnes came by his information, but the fellow seemed to be the fount of all knowledge which was a useful talent in a valet, though Barnes did far more than valet, acting as butler, secretary, and often cook too.

“I believe the Montagus have been in town this summer, which is unusual, but seeing as Dern is so close, they can come and go for a few weeks here and there. I heard tell the marquess had been working with Mr Knight on some project that required their attention. He don’t go nowhere without Lady Montagu, so I reckon she’s here if his lordship is.”

Larkin nodded. “Send a note to Pip, tell him I’ll be calling on him in the morning. Now, I’ve given the angelic antichrist his ball, there’s half a chance I might have a few hours' peace. I am not to be disturbed, Barnes, is that clear?”

“Quite clear, sir,” Barnes agreed, and then his eyebrows rose in enquiry as the door knocker sounded.

“I’ll get it,” Larkin said with a sigh.

Quite prepared to tell whoever it was get lost, he snatched the door open and then laughed as he saw who was standing there.

“Speak of the devil,” he said, grinning at the Earl of Ashburton, who looked his cool and precise best as usual.

“Taking my name in vain, Lars?” the earl drawled, one pale eyebrow rising in an expression so familiar from his formidable sire that Larkin was struck with the sudden urge to apologise for something. He didn’t know what, but Montagu had that effect on a fellow.

“I just told Barnes to write you a note, but you’ve saved me a journey. Come in.”

Larkin held the door open and asked Barnes to bring coffee.

“Well, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“I came to see what all the fuss is about, for I’m hearing from all sides that you’re the fellow to watch so I thought I’d see for myself. I’ve been wanting to get a portrait done of Tilly, now there’s half a chance she’ll sit still for more than a minute at a time. Figured I had best get in before the rest of the world did.”

“Oh,” Larkin said, pleased. “Well, I’d be happy to, but you’d best come through to the studio if you want to see the latest work. For heaven’s sake, don’t touch anything,” he added, eyeing Pip’s exquisite tailoring with alarm. “I don’t want a bill for getting paint off your sleeve.”

“I think I can manage, Mama,” Pip replied dryly, gesturing for Larkin to lead on.

Feeling suddenly a little anxious, Larkin went to his studio, and the newly finished portrait of Lady Cara Latimer. He turned it for Pip to look over and then stood back beside his friend. It was a stunning portrait, if he did say so himself, but then the subject matter had been exceptional too. Lady Cara’s fiery red hair and lively blue eyes made her an easily recognisable figure among the ton . Beautiful and rather outspoken, the portrait captured her energy, a naughty sense of mischief, and her innate kindness.

Larkin glanced at Pip nervously. Ashburton was known for his exquisite taste, for being a man who accepted nothing less than perfection. Like his sire, his reputation was one of a cold, haughty man who did not suffer fools. Larkin knew much of this was simply the aura he wrapped himself in, a way of keeping the rest of the world at arm’s length, but all the same….

“It’s exceptional.”

Larkin let out a breath and Pip turned his cool gaze towards him, his pale eyes amused. “Did you think I couldn’t see it?”

“One never knows,” Larkin said with a laugh. “The eye of the beholder and all that.”

“I’m flattered to think my opinion matters to you,” Pip said with a smile.

Larkin snorted. “You know damned well it matters.”

Pip accepted this with no argument and returned his attention to the portrait. “You’ve captured something, not just her likeness, but the essence of Cara. I feel like she’s about to leap out of the chair and go off and do something more interesting.”

“She often did,” Larkin said with a laugh. “I had the devil of a time getting her to keep still.”

“Good practise,” Pip said, smirking. “I can’t wait to see how you fare with Tilly.”

“Tilly and I understand one another,” Larkin said loftily. “We’ll be fine.”

“On your head be it,” Pip remarked. “When do you want to start?”

“Well, to begin, I might just come around and do some sketches. I could come tomorrow if that suits?”

Pip nodded, and the conversation halted as Barnes appeared with the coffee.

“In here, sir?” he asked, clearly disapproving of Larkin receiving such elevated guests in the chaos of his studio.

“Yes, thank you, Barnes. That will be all,” he said, ignoring his valet’s critical expression and reaching for the coffeepot. He poured a cup for Pip before helping himself. “There is one thing,” he said, taking a tentative sip of the steaming liquid. “The reason I was coming to visit you. Is your mother in town?”

“No, but she returns tomorrow, thank the lord. My father is impossible when she’s not here and he’s driving me distracted. Why?”

“I’ve new neighbours,” Larkin said. “A Mrs Finchley and her aunt and sister, and Pip, my lord, the sister . You’ve never seen such a beautiful girl in all your life, I swear. She’s coming out this season, but they don’t know anyone. Mrs Finchley is a widow, her husband was killed in the Punjab.”

“Poor devil,” Pip said, his expression darkening.

Larkin nodded. “She’s got a four-year-old son, but I think their circumstances are perhaps a little straightened. I should like to help them. I believe Miss Caroline is their hope for the future and, dowry or no, she’ll take, I’ll swear it. With looks like that, she could catch herself a duke, I’d say. Especially when I present society with the portrait I intend to make of her.”

Pip frowned, giving Larkin the benefit of one of his most penetrating stares. “Rescuing damsels in distress again, Lars? Are you quite sure that’s a good idea?”

Larkin bristled. “Stow it. This is entirely different.”

Pip shrugged. “Well, you’re a big boy and it’s your own affair, but what has my mother to do with it?”

Larkin hesitated, knowing it was a lot to ask, and that Pip might not like it. “I thought she might sponsor the girl or at least make a few introductions. I have the feeling Mrs Finchley is out of her depth and I should hate to see them flounder. You know what the ton is like for smelling uncertainty or the slightest sense of not belonging.”

“But do they belong?” Pip asked coolly.

“Pip!” Larkin exclaimed, dismayed despite knowing he was putting his friend in a difficult position.

The earl waved away his shocked retort. “Oh, don’t look so horrified. I must ask. You cannot seriously expect me to present these women to my mother, knowing nothing about them. Would you? With my father?”

Larkin sighed. “No. No, I accept that, but I’d swear they’re respectable.”

“You make sure of that first, but if they are, you may bring them. Mama always has her at home on a Friday when she’s in town so that’s the time to come. But if you foist some dreadful girl upon her, I’ll murder you, Lars, and don’t think I won’t.”

23 rd September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

It was several days before Larkin could speak to Mrs Finchley again. He was making his way home from Massoul & Co, his favourite artist’s supplies shop on New Bond Street, when he came upon the lady and her maid walking home along Great Marlborough Street.

Crossing the road, he smiled when she waited for him and raised his hat. Larkin gave her a polite bow. “Good morning, Mrs Finchley. How do you do?”

“Quite well, Mr Weston, I thank you, and yourself?”

“In fine fettle,” he replied, admiring her well-tailored walking dress. The fit was glorious, highlighting an exceptional figure, and the rich black fabric was obviously expensive. This was the kind of garment made for a woman of means. He had noted the family all wore mourning, not just Mrs Finchley, and wondered at the extent of the tragedy that afflicted them, for Mrs Finchley no longer needed to wear mourning dress for her husband after so many years. Barnes thought it might be on account of their father, but said they were all quite tight lipped about it. “Actually, I am glad to have this opportunity to speak privately with you.”

Mrs Finchley glanced up at him, her eyes alert, and he held up his hands in an expression of innocence. “My intentions are honourable, I promise, Mrs Finchley, but the truth is, the situation is a little delicate and I’m anxious I may put my foot in it. I must beg you to be lenient with me, for I have no wish to cause offence.”

This, naturally, only made her look increasingly ill at ease, but there was no going back now. Larkin glanced over his shoulder at her maid, who had dropped back to a discreet distance, and lowered his voice. “The thing is, Mrs Finchley, I spoke to my friend Ashburton about Miss Caroline.”

“The earl?” she asked, astonishment in her voice.

Larkin nodded. “He has agreed to allow me to bring you to meet his mother, Lady Montagu, to see if she likes Miss Caroline and would consider sponsoring her or at least give her some helpful introductions.”

“Oh! Oh, good heavens.” Mrs Finchley put a hand to her heart, bosom heaving dramatically. To Larkin’s dismay, her eyes glittered with tears. “I-I beg your pardon,” she said, fishing about in her reticule for a handkerchief.

Larkin hurriedly provided his own, and she took it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes and sniffing. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice choked. “I’m not usually one to lose my wits. Only it’s been such a worry.”

“There is a catch,” Larkin said gently, not wishing her to get ahead of herself.

He waited for the lady to compose herself, watching as her candid blue-green gaze settled upon him.

“She wishes to know if we are respectable,” she guessed.

Larkin nodded.

“Quite understandable,” she said with a crooked smile. “And we are, I promise you that, only… only the situation is rather a delicate one. Oh, dear. I shall have to explain, I suppose.”

Worry creased her brow, and Larkin hated the need to ask such indelicate questions, but there was no help for it.

“I’m afraid you must,” Larkin said apologetically. “Montagu would have me hung, drawn and quartered if I introduced scandal into his household.”

“As to that,” Mrs Finchley swallowed hard, the colour leaving her face. An altogether different expression settled over her fine features, the sparkle of hope he’d seen just moments ago dying a swift death. “Perhaps we should not proceed any further. I should hate to be the cause of any… any— Forgive me,” she said, and picked up her pace, striding away from him.

Nonplussed by this sudden volte-face , Larkin frowned and hurried after her.

“Mrs Finchley?”

She shook her head. “It was foolish of me to believe anyone else could help. You are so very kind, Mr Weston, and I cannot in all conscience involve you in our troubles. I have always considered our family above reproach, but… but my father…” Her voice trembled and she shook her head.

Sensing this was a delicate topic, Larkin hesitated. “Mrs Finchley. Whilst Lord Montagu protects his family at all costs, he is not an unfeeling man. If you are deserving of help, I am certain he would bestir himself to do so, Lady Montagu certainly would. Do you think you might put your trust in me, and tell me the whole? At least that way, I might judge for myself what the best thing to do is. I promise, I shall help if I can. Even if you are correct, and Montagu is out of reach.”

She stopped suddenly, staring up at him. “Do you mean that?”

There was something close to desperation behind the words and Larkin heard a little voice in his head, sounding remarkably like the Earl of Ashburton, reminding him what had happened the last time he’d helped a damsel in distress. Both he and the damsel had got burned, and he had sworn off such entanglements, preferring to concentrate on his art. This time, however, he told himself he was in no danger. Mrs Finchley was a charming woman. Attractive, too. Very attractive, actually, but he had no desire to be papa to little Gideon, perish the thought. And whilst Miss Caroline Merrivale was quite the most exquisite female he’d ever seen, she was only a girl and did not appeal to him in the least.

“I do,” he said firmly, praying he would not come to regret his words.

“And I could confide in you and—”

“No matter what you say, I will take it to my grave,” he promised her. “You have my word as a gentleman.”

She stared at him for a long moment and his gaze, always alert to the beauty around him, to the fine blend of colour and light, was transfixed momentarily by the changeable nuances of her eyes. They were a pale melange of lightest green and the most heavenly sky blue, with little threads of gold flickering amid the delicate turquoise. Depending on the light, her eyes seemed sometimes bluer or greener. Her regard was unwavering, and he felt her judging what she saw, as if she could reach into his mind and discover his secrets, discover if he was worthy of her trust. He stared back, refusing to hide, though the urge to look away was nigh on irresistible. It was as if his soul were being stripped bare… not a comfortable experience. He appreciated in that moment that Mrs Finchley was perhaps more perspicacious than first impressions might have led him to believe upon meeting her and her unconventional family.

“Very well,” she said, putting up her chin. “I shall put my trust in you, Mr Weston, for Caro’s sake. For the truth is, since we came to town, I have realised how foolish I have been. I thought to give my sister a season, to give her the chance she deserves to shine as she ought. But I never had a season myself and we ran away in such a rush that I never stopped to consider, to realise that… that we are nobodies if there is no one of rank to sponsor us. I have been a fool, in short, and I am terrified of what will become of Caro if I fail her.”

“Fail her?” Larkin said in confusion. “But what of you, Mrs Finchley? Surely Miss Caroline has parents, or guardians?”

Mrs Finchley put a hand to her head, a pained expression flickering in her eyes.

“I beg your pardon. I am a wretched fellow for interrogating you so.”

“You are a deal too kind,” she said, glancing up at him, something close to disbelief in her eyes. “I cannot think why you should trouble yourself.”

“Call it a character flaw,” he said ruefully. “I find myself compelled to help damsels in distress.”

She laughed at that. “How very uncomfortable for you.”

“You have no idea,” Larkin murmured under his breath.

“Very well, Mr Weston. Might I prevail upon you to take tea with us tomorrow afternoon, and I shall tell you the whole story? It—It isn’t a pretty story,” she added, an apologetic note to her words. “But Caro, myself, and my aunt are innocent of any wrongdoing. That much I can promise you.”

“I believe you,” he said gently, noting the gratitude and relief that flared in her eyes.

The poor woman must be at her wits' end to trust in him so readily. For, whilst he was entirely sincere in his wish to help them, she could not know that he wasn’t a trickster or some wicked blackguard intent on causing mischief for his own ends. Thank the lord she had fallen in with him and not with any of the other scoundrels who abounded in the city. The idea made a sensation like iced water slide down his spine. He shook it off. It was not for him to feel protective of women he barely knew but, as a gentleman, if he could do them a good turn, he certainly ought. Once he had them safely under the wing of Lady Montagu, or some woman of sense, at least, he might leave them to their own devices with a clear conscience.

With that thought at the forefront of his mind, he escorted Mrs Finchley the rest of the way home and bade her a good day.