Page 3 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)
Dear diary,
Mr Weston is quite the kindest man I have ever encountered. Whilst I am not so foolish as to believe there is no smoke without fire, surely his reputation for hard drinking and wickedness must be fabricated? His desire to help us must be genuine, for what fool would suggest involving Lady Montagu in a scheme to help if it were not entirely respectable and had the best of intentions? Of course, his desire for Caro motivates him, I do not doubt. What man would not be smitten when faced with such exquisite beauty? Yet I worry she is rather too young for him. His involvement in a gambling club is also not what I would choose, yet the house always wins, I believe, so perhaps this proves he does not have the reckless streak poor Papa possessed. How I wish Caro did not have to marry with such urgency, for I do not believe she is entirely ready for such a step, but I must see her safe. Marriage to a man who will be kind to her and treat her with gentleness and respect is a far better fate than that which she might have faced had we not run away.
Perhaps I have not been such a fool after all. Only time will tell.
――Excerpt of an entry from Mrs Magdelina Finchley to her diary.
24 th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.
“Do you understand, Caro?” Maggie asked, looking over her sister’s head to her reflection in the dressing-table mirror as she made an adjustment to her shining black curls.
“Yes, Maggie, but really, I do not see how I am to stop Auntie from saying something to Mr Weston that will put us both to the blush. You know what she is, and besides, I cannot help but agree that there is something very odd about that cuckoo clock. I believe it is actually possessed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maggie said impatiently. “You know Papa never believed there ever even was a beau, let alone that he died or that Grandpapa sent him away. And even if there was such a man, which I am not saying there couldn’t be, for Papa could not know everything his sister got up to, but why should she think him dead? Let alone haunting the clock he supposedly gave her. And Papa always insisted the clock was a present from his great aunt Rebecca when she travelled through Switzerland. But that’s by the by. Whoever the man was, perhaps he was sent away, or ran away, but it is easier for her to believe he died and that is why he never returned to her.”
Caro sighed. “I know. Whatever the truth, it’s terribly sad. Auntie ought to have married and had a family of her own.”
“Yes, she ought, and so must you, my girl, which is why we must put our trust in Mr Weston and tell him the whole. I think it is our only option. It was very bad of me to bring us all to town with no clear plan of how to go on, but we have been thrown a lifeline, and I intend to make the most of it.”
“Oh, Maggie, do stop taking everything on yourself.” Caro turned on the stool, looking up at her sister and taking her hands. “We all agreed to come, and what other choice was there? Our home was not our own and we would have been out on the street in any case. At least here we have a chance.”
Touched by this show of solidarity, Maggie bent and kissed Caro’s cheek. “Thank you, dearest. What do you think of Mr Weston, by the way?” she asked, striving for nonchalance as Caro considered the question.
“Well, he seems very kind, to trouble himself with our affairs, though I expect he hopes we will move and take Giddy with us if I find a suitable husband,” she added with a laugh.
Maggie smiled ruefully. “There is perhaps some truth in that, but do you not think him very handsome?”
“Handsome?” Caro, who was choosing a pair of earbobs from her jewellery box, looked up in surprise, as though the question had not occurred to her. “Oh. Well, yes, he is very handsome, I suppose.”
“And his manners are exactly as they ought to be,” Maggie added encouragingly.
“Hmmm? Do you think the pearls are best?”
“Yes, perfect,” Maggie said, a little exasperated. “I think he was rather taken with you, Caro.”
“Who was?”
“Mr Weston,” Maggie replied, holding onto her patience. “He was taken. With you.”
“Mr Weston?” Caro repeated, frowning. “Isn’t he rather old?”
“Indeed, he is not. He can only be in his early thirties. In his prime, one would say.”
Caro looked doubtful. “He seems rather old to me.”
Maggie sighed. “Yes, I suppose he must, dear. Oh, lawks. That’s the door. He’s here. Hurry, Caro, we cannot leave him alone with Auntie. Now, do remember, try to help me keep her from scaring him off.”
“I’ll try,” Caro said doubtfully. “But I make no promises.”
24 th September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.
A neat maid in a pristine white apron showed Larkin into the parlour where Miss Constance Merrivale, the ladies’ aunt, was already ensconced. She glanced up from the book in her hand, a dreamy look in her eyes which faded gradually as she focused upon him.
“Mr Weston,” she said, extending a hand to him with all the grandeur of an empress. She had the look of such an impressive creature, dressed as she was in a voluminous gown of plum satin so dark it was almost black and that seemed to explode out of the chair she sat in on all sides. “How good of you to call upon us again. My niece tells me how terribly kind you have been. It’s a rare thing, in these troubled times, to find such kindness. Especially in the city. Such a heartless, brutal place it is, when you have no friends or companions to comfort one. I miss the countryside,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Do you like the countryside, Mr Weston?”
“I do, very much,” Larkin said, a little uncomfortable to still be standing and staring down at her, but as the lady had not yet deigned to invite him to sit, he had little option but to remain on his feet.
“Then why are you still here?” she asked. “If, like me, you feel the countryside in your soul, the rivers that flow like your own life’s blood, why do you remain in the turmoil and hurly-burly of this vast, brutal landscape?”
Larkin blinked, a little taken aback. “Er… my work,” he said cautiously. “I am an artist, Miss Merrivale, but to further my career, it is better for me to spend time in town. At least for the moment. I hope once my reputation is fully established, I might return to the countryside, especially in the summer months, for London is a trial to the senses in hot weather.”
“And to the soul, Mr Weston,” the lady exclaimed, putting a hand upon her expansive bosom. “And to the soul.”
The door opened and Larkin admitted himself relieved to see Mrs Finchley and Miss Caroline Merrivale enter the room. Once again, his gaze travelled to Miss Caroline automatically, still finding it hard to believe such a beautiful creature was really flesh and blood. The only woman he had ever seen to rival her was Lady Kilbane. Cat was generally acknowledged to be the most beautiful woman in the country, but she was a stunning ice blonde. Miss Caroline, with her raven hair and green eyes, was quite a different prospect.
“Mr Weston. Thank you for coming. I am afraid we are trespassing upon your time quite shamelessly,” Mrs Finchley said with a smile. “And please, do take a seat,” she added, shooting a disbelieving look at her aunt, who seemed oblivious to her error.
“Not at all, and I beg you will remember my promise and not feel in the least uncomfortable. I will help you as best I can. You have my word.”
Once everyone settled, all eyes turned to Mrs Finchley and in that moment, Larkin realised what a burden rested upon her shoulders. For all she was a widow, she looked to be no more than two and twenty. Yet she was mother to a small boy, and responsible for her unmarried sister, and a maiden aunt who was certainly a little eccentric. His heart went out to her, and he understood why she had become tearful upon hearing his offer of help. Looking closer at her now, he saw the shadows under her lovely eyes, the signs of strain upon a face made for smiling. The poor girl was exhausted with worry.
“Well, there is no easy way of saying it, so I shall be frank, Mr Weston. Our father was a wonderful man, kind and generous to a fault, but he had a fatal flaw. Gambling, in short. When he remarried two years ago, the marriage… was not a success.” She spoke carefully, but with a candid air that he appreciated. It was clear she was mortified, her cheeks blazing with colour, but she held his gaze, her chin up. “In his unhappiness, my father lost large sums of money, but it only seemed to spur him on to greater recklessness. One night this summer, he gambled and lost our family estate in Norfolk, and everything we possessed, to a man—I will not say gentleman—who now seems to believe we, too, are his property.”
Larkin stared at her, appalled and sensing there was worse to come. She had said their father was —past tense. “I am so sorry.”
Mrs Finchley inclined her head a little but seemed determined to get the worst over with. “Our father is dead, Mr Weston.” The words hung in the air, the shock of what followed bringing an oppressive silence in its wake. “He could not live with the shame of what he’d done and took his own life.”
Larkin’s breath caught. Hell. Bloody, bloody hell.
“I see,” he said, once he could bring himself to respond.
“We will understand if you feel unable to help us any further,” Mrs Finchley said, her hands clenching and unclenching nervously in the skirts of her dress.
Larkin looked at her, at the dignity of her bearing, at a woman who would do whatever it took to keep her family safe, no matter the cost to herself, he suspected.
“Of course I shall help you,” he said quietly, a dart of pain piercing his heart at the relief that shone in Mrs Finchley’s eyes. “But I must ask you some personal questions, if you can bear it?”
Mrs Finchley nodded, and Miss Caroline, who had been sitting beside her on the sofa, reached over and took her hand.
“Your father’s name?”
“He was John Merrivale, youngest son of Viscount Fothersham.”
“The viscount?” Larkin suggested, only to be met with a fierce shake of her head. “My father fell out with the family many years ago. Our stepmother has already approached the new viscount, my father’s brother, though I warned her it was a mistake. I am afraid they made it very clear they wanted no part of such a scandal. In short, they have disowned us.”
Larkin started at that. Though he knew I happened often enough, he could not help but wonder at the callousness of a family that could wash its hands of the downfall of their own flesh and blood. Larkin remembered hearing of the scandal at the time. Mr Merrivale, or ‘Merry Merrivale’ as he was known, had been a respected fellow and well liked, though he did not move among the higher circles of the ton.
“You are still in mourning,” he observed. “When did your father die?” For it would not be possible for Miss Caroline to make her come out before a year was passed.
“In May. Mr Jenkins appeared three weeks later, and he gave us a month to make up our minds. We ran away in June but were forced to stay in temporary lodgings for a time before we found this house to let. And yes, I know if Caro comes out in February we will only have mourned for ten months, but our father has destroyed our lives by his actions. I will not allow him to ruin my sister’s chance for happiness by missing a season, for our finances are not such that we can afford a second. My husband left me a small sum that would do well enough if it were just myself and Gideon, and Aunt Constance has helped as much as she can, but none of us are independently wealthy, and I have Gideon’s future to think of too. Have I shocked you?” she asked, looking anxious and somewhat defensive.
“I think you have managed a dreadful situation as well as you possibly could, and I agree it would be pointless to keep such a lovely girl hidden away for another year.” He smiled at Miss Caroline, who blushed and looked away. “And what of the man your father lost to?”
“A Mr Jenkins,” she said, the distaste she felt for the man writ large on her face. “In his desperation, it appears my father resorted to the less refined gambling establishments, as his own club would no longer extend him credit.”
Larkin nodded. It was an all too familiar story. He wondered if the lady knew of his involvement in the Sons of Hades, and if she did not, if she would think ill of him.
“Mr Jenkins is not the kind of man a lady would wish to depend upon, Mr Weston,” Mrs Finchley said, and Larkin sensed her growing agitation. “He—He turned up at our house and… and had the temerity to imply that Caro—that she belonged to him, that he had won her, along with the house, and if we did not wish to be thrown into the street, we would do well to agree to her marrying him.”
Larkin swallowed a litany of bad language that would likely have had Miss Caroline and Miss Merrivale swooning, though he suspected Mrs Finchley was made of sterner stuff. As it was, he shot to his feet, raking a hand through his hair in his agitation. He took a moment to calm himself before sitting once more.
“I cannot tell you how very sorry I am that you were forced to endure such… such vile behaviour,” he said, finding it hard to keep a lid on his temper. He reminded himself that these women were strangers to him, not his kin, not his problem, and yet he knew he would do all in his power to see them safe. If he ever came across Mr Jenkins, he’d have a few things to say to him, too, preferably with his hands wrapped about the bastard’s throat.
“Thank you, Mr Weston. I am afraid, however, that our stepmother was of the opinion that Caro ought to sacrifice herself. She is not a kind woman, and I am ashamed to say we have been at odds since the moment Papa brought her home as his wife. I am willing to admit this may have been my fault in part, for I have been mistress of our family estate since Caro’s mama died.”
“Oh, no,” Miss Caroline said fiercely. “That is quite untrue. Maggie did everything she could to make the horrid creature welcome, but nothing pleased her. She’s intolerable, and it’s her fault Papa is d-dead. If not for her, he would not have stayed away so long and got himself into such trouble. He was always a little reckless, but never—never—”
With a sob, Miss Caroline got to her feet and ran from the room.
“Oh dear,” Mrs Finchley said, but before she could follow her sister, their aunt had risen and moved to the door.
“I’ll go, Maggie dear. I know how best to soothe her when she’s like this.”
Miss Merrivale went out of the room in pursuit of their niece, closing the door behind her. Larkin glanced at it, about to get to his feet and object but then he noticed the misery on Mrs Finchley’s face. The poor young woman. To have lost her husband and then her father and her home in such a short period, and to have her son, her sister, and her aunt relying upon her to put it right… it must be a heavy burden to bear.
“I did say it was not a pretty story,” she said with a wan smile. “I imagine you rue the day we moved in next door to you, what with Giddy destroying your peace and now—”
“Not at all,” Larkin said, though she was not entirely wrong. Still, if he could get her under the protective wing of Lady Montagu, all would be well. It might also be an idea to discover more about this bastard Jenkins. Perhaps there was more practical help he could offer them. “I believe, from what you’ve told me, that Lady Montagu would be pleased to help you, but I cannot answer for her. If you are willing, I will escort you to Montagu House to pay her a call on Friday. I will arrange for us to go rather earlier than is usually acceptable, and then we may be private with the lady for a while before the world and his wife descends upon her.”
“You are very good, Mr Weston,” she said, gazing at him in wonder. “Like a benevolent angel, come to our rescue.”
He laughed at that, quite unable to do otherwise. “You don’t read the scandal sheets, do you, Mrs Finchley?”
“Actually, I do, or at least, I have in the past,” she admitted, a tinge of colour cresting her cheeks.
“Then I wonder you can say such things with a straight face,” he remarked, trying to cheer her spirits a little.
To his relief, she rallied, a mischievous light dancing in her eyes.
“I confess, when you introduced yourself, I was torn between chagrin and delight. I feared loud parties and many dreadful goings on would entertain us at all hours of the day and night, but I have concluded the scandal sheets got it all wrong. You are a paragon, Mr Weston. It’s very bad of you to pretend such wickedness to impressionable females and not to live up to it.”
He grinned, rather delighted that she dared speak to him so. “Forgive me for disappointing you, Mrs Finchley. The truth is that I have turned over a new leaf and put such… wickedness behind me.”
“Ah, well, a country mouse like myself ought to be content to see this great city at all. I never thought I would, so I must console myself with that.”
“Did you never have a season?” Larkin asked, too curious not to delve a little.
“No. When Caro’s mama died, Papa and the household went to pieces. She was such a dear creature, and so very lovely, and poor Caro was only four. I was eleven, though, and rather precocious, and so I took over the running of the house as best I could and continued to do so thereafter. Poor Papa was an absolute dear, but rather a henwit. Everyone called him Merry Merrivale, and it suited him wonderfully. The sun always shone when Papa was home, but it never even occurred to me that I would come out and Papa never suggested it. By then our finances were feast or famine, depending on his success, and I was used to our way of life.”
“And then you met your husband?”
A wistful smile touched her lips, and she nodded. “I met him at a local assembly. William swept me off my feet, for he was so very handsome in his regimentals. Papa liked him too, and so when he asked me to marry him, I said yes. We’d only known each other two months, and we were married for two weeks before he had to return to India. And that was the extent of my married life.”
Larkin stared at her, aghast. “That’s— My word, Mrs Finchley. I am so very sorry.”
“So am I,” she said softly. “And for a while, I believed my life was over, but then I discovered I had been blessed with a child and everything changed. In truth, after my mourning period was done, I found I was content enough at home with Giddy and Auntie and Caro. Until Papa married again. He needed an heir, he said, before it was too late, but how that dreadful woman got her claws into him—” She coloured, pressing her fingers to her lips, her expression one of shock. “I beg your pardon, Mr Weston. I forgot myself, only it is so nice to speak to someone and—and you are such an excellent listener, I’m afraid you tempt me into speaking a deal too frankly.”
He laughed at that, shaking his head. “Please, Mrs Finchley, I pray you will count me as a friend and speak without reservation. I much prefer to hear the unvarnished truth. Indeed, the truth has become something I prize rather highly.”
She gave him a piercing look and Larkin realised he had spoken rather too forcefully. He cleared his throat. Mrs Finchley was also far too easy to talk to, and he was in danger of letting his guard down.
“Well, I had better be going. I ought not to have remained once your aunt had left you without a chaperone.”
She laughed at that, looking genuinely amused. “Good heavens do not concern yourself with such trifles. I am a mature lady, a widow, no less, and a mama. I think such days are long behind me.”
Larkin gave her an amused glance, wondering if she had any idea how lovely she was. Besides her stunning sister, she might fade into the background, but she was a beauty in her own right, and she looked to be not very much older than the lovely Miss Caroline. “You speak as if you are in your dotage,” he teased.
“Well, perhaps not that, but past the age of worrying about my reputation,” she told him, smiling as she got to her feet and escorted him to the door.
“You don’t wish to remarry?” he asked, shocked to think this lovely creature would never consider finding love again.
“Oh, no. That’s all done. I have my darling Gideon, and so long as I can see Caro happy, that is enough. Auntie and I shall rub along together quite well, I promise you.”
Larkin thought this most unlikely, having met the aunt, but forbore to say so.
“Well, I shall call for you on Friday and escort you to Montagu House, but do not hesitate to contact me if there is anything you need,” Larkin said, accepting his hat and gloves as she handed them back to him.
“I pray we do nothing to make you regret your kindness to us,” she said, the anxious pucker of frown lines pulling her fine eyebrows closer together.
“I am certain you will not,” Larkin said, and bade her a good day.