Page 5 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Dear Jack,

I hope all is well with you. I have the most exciting news. Our neighbour, Mr Weston, has been an absolute godsend. Tomorrow, he is escorting us to meet Lady Montagu. He is close friends with her son, Lord Ashburton, and assures me she will know how best to assist me in launching Caro into society. To have such a respected woman, from the highest echelons of society, take an interest in our affairs is more than I could ever have dreamed of. I do not know how I shall ever repay him for his kindness, not only to myself and Caro and Auntie, but to Gideon, too. He played with darling Giddy yesterday and even had him stay to tea. Can you imagine? Giddy can speak of nothing else but when he can see his friend ‘Westie’ again.

Of course, I don't doubt he's trying to win Caro's affections, but it shows me what a good-hearted man he is. Caro would be safe if she were to marry such a kind and caring fellow, though his past and notoriety for gambling and drinking are a worry, I do not wish her to find herself with a man like Papa, but he says such days are behind him. If I remember correctly from the gossip around him, there was a woman involved, a broken heart, perhaps. If so, I must hope that he is mended now and the love of a beautiful girl like Caro is enough to make him forget all others. If only I can bring her to encourage his suite.

I hardly dare ask, but how are things at home? Has that dreadful man moved in yet, and how are poor Wallace and Mrs Goodall? Please give them all our fondest love and good wishes, for you may rely upon them not to give us away. Is our stepmother still in residence? Have they any idea of our whereabouts?

―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Magdelina Finchley to her friend and neighbour Mr Jack Woolgar.

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

“Perhaps I ought to have worn the green?” Maggie fretted as Sally put the final touches to her coiffure.

“Oh, Maggie, do stop worrying so. You look beautiful. The blue is stunning against your lovely eyes. Such an unusual colour they are,” Caro said, looking up from her position at the window, poised as lookout for Mr Weston.

Sadly, Maggie had assigned her the position as Caro still seemed oblivious to Mr Weston’s charms. A pity she had not been in the garden when he had brought Gideon home, for that had been a sight to stir any woman’s heart. It had certainly stirred Maggie’s.

Nonsense, she told herself briskly. She was a widowed lady with a son; such romantic nonsense was behind her. Yet the vision of Mr Weston’s powerful physique, clad in his shirt and waistcoat, and with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, holding Gideon’s small fingers gently in his far larger hand, was one she was having a good deal of trouble banishing.

She returned her attention to the looking glass, giving herself a critical once over. What would Lady Montagu see? Was the woman in the looking glass the picture of a respectable widow, the kind of lady who would do nothing to cause the woman any anxiety when deciding whether to take Caro under her wing? Did she look mature and decent? Mature? Really? Mature was old. Was she old now? Were those crow's feet about her eyes? Surely not. Maggie peered closer, squinting at the tiny little lines.

“Mrs?” Sally said, her frank gaze upon her mistress. “Is aught amiss?”

“Are those wrinkles?” Maggie said, her heart thudding. She told herself she was becoming hysterical, but that didn’t seem to help.

“Where, missus?” Sally asked, putting her face very close to Maggie’s. “I can’t see nowt.”

“There!” Maggie said, certain she was being ridiculous now.

What did it matter if she had the first signs of wrinkles? It didn’t matter if she was covered in them, head to toe. No one cared what she looked like, her time was done. She must stop forgetting that. Caro was all that mattered. Nothing else. She would go on very well with Auntie once Caro was married. They would have Giddy to dote upon and to fill their days. Well, until he was old enough to go to school, and… and then university, and then to marry and go away and have a life of his own.

Maggie swallowed, the coming years yawning before her like a great gaping maw, ready to swallow her up.

“Maggie!” Caro said, and Maggie jolted from her nightmarish thoughts at the unusual level of exasperation in her sister’s voice. “He’s here.”

“Oh!” Maggie leapt to her feet with such haste she knocked over a silver-backed hairbrush, a bottle of scent and a ceramic container of pearl powder. The expensive articles crashed to the floor but mercifully didn’t break.

“It’s all right, Mrs Finchley, I’ll deal with it. You run along now,” Sally said, shooing her mistress out of the door before she could wreak any further havoc in her anxiety.

“Come along, Maggie, dear,” Caro said, taking her arm and steering her towards the stairs. Maggie frowned at her little sister, unused to being the one needing guidance and careful handling.

“I’m quite all right,” she said with a touch of indignation as she made her way down the stairs.

To her relief, she discovered Priddy had greeted Mr Weston and shown him into the parlour, which was blessedly free of Aunt Connie, who’d not yet come down.

“Mama! Mama! Westie is here—” Gideon cried, barrelling past her as she reached the bottom of the stairs and darting out of her reach before she could grab him.

“Giddy, he’s not here to play with you,” she told him, hurrying in his wake as he burst into the parlour.

“Aha! Master Gideon, how do you do?” Mr Weston said, crouching down and holding out his hand.

This at least had the effect of halting Gideon in his tracks as he remembered grown-up people shook hands first. Maggie winced as her son wiped his nose on his sleeve before taking Mr Weston’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

“You come for tea?” Giddy asked. “To play ball?”

“Not today, my fine fellow, but I did bring you something.” Giddy watched as Mr Weston produced a small parcel wrapped in muslin. “I saved you some cake for your tea. It’s a good big slice, but you may only have it if you are a good boy whilst I take your mama and your aunties out for a little while.”

Gideon gazed at the cake, apparently mentally weighing the merit of a large slice of cake against several hours of good behaviour. Finally, the cake won out.

“I’ll be good,” he said solemnly.

Maggie gave Mr Weston a grateful smile, one of her anxieties somewhat relieved. Mrs Moody was a good sort, and she trusted her to keep an eye on Gideon up to a point, that point being where he used his cherubic smile and persuaded her he was allowed to do something that would be obviously diabolical in any other child. Unfortunately, her kindness constantly undermined Maggie’s efforts to keep her lively son in line.

“Caro, take Gideon back to Mrs Moody and give her the cake, which he is only to have if he is good,” she added sternly, before crouching down and giving him a hug. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, burying his nose in her hair.

“Smells good,” he said, nuzzling closer.

Maggie laughed. “As good as cake?”

“Nah!” Giddy said, pushing out of her arms and running back down the corridor.

“Dreadful boy,” she said fondly, getting to her feet and watching her son as he thundered across the parquet floor, giving the impression he weighed several stone more than he did. A small elephant would likely make less of a commotion. “Thank you for the cake. That was a marvellous idea, and very thoughtful of you.”

“I cannot take the credit,” Mr Weston replied, smiling at her, his brown eyes twinkling. “Barnes suggested it, but I thought it might be an excellent incentive not to get into mischief in your absence.”

“We can only hope,” Maggie replied, not entirely sanguine about leaving the house. She had given Mrs Moody strict instructions that Gideon was not to be allowed into the garden unless someone was with him, but the child was adept at slipping out when the grownups were busy with other things.

Caro returned, giving Mr Weston the benefit of one of her dazzling smiles. It was even more lovely for being entirely unselfconscious. Caro was simply a lovely girl with the kindest heart and that was plain to see.

Maggie glanced back at Mr Weston, unsurprised to see him looking somewhat dazed. It was not an unusual state for gentlemen when in Caro’s presence.

“Well, are we ready then, ladies?” Mr Weston enquired. “We ought to be going if we are to arrive ahead of everyone else.”

Maggie looked at Caro. “Have you seen Auntie? You did tell her what time we were leaving?”

“Of course I did, but when did that ever make a jot of difference?” Caro replied frankly. “I’ll go and chivvy her up,” she said with a sigh, making her way back up the stairs.

Maggie fidgeted, trying desperately to think of a topic of a conversation to entertain Mr Weston while they waited. The trouble was, whenever she looked at him, she remembered how he had looked in his shirt sleeves, remembered the powerful, muscled forearms and the dark gold hair that covered them from wrist to elbow. She wondered if that intriguing hair continued beneath the shirt and was so shocked by her own thoughts that she felt her cheeks burning. Hurriedly she turned away, moving down the hallway to the hat stand where she reached for her bonnet, standing before the mirror on the wall to tie the black ribbon under her chin.

“I’m afraid Auntie has only the vaguest notion of what time it is,” Maggie said, avoiding Mr Weston’s gaze as she fiddled with the bow under her chin for longer than was necessary.

At that moment, the wretched cuckoo clock decided to stick its oar in.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.

“I’m not surprised. It’s only one o’ clock,” he said, regarding his pocket watch.

“Ah, but if it chimed once, it would be five thirty,” came a dreamy voice from the stairs.

Maggie winced again. She had grown used to her aunt’s eccentricities over the years and it was only now, viewing her through the eyes of a stranger, that she realised how odd the dear creature really was. Still, if anyone were ever to remark upon it in her hearing, she’d have a few things to say. Auntie might be a little peculiar, but she was also the kindest creature in the world, and often strangely perceptive despite her sometimes inexplicable conversation. Still, Maggie wondered what on earth Mr Weston must think of them. She looked up to see Aunt Connie making her way down, resplendent in a deep navy-blue pelisse-robe with a matching pardessus. This last made her appear even grander than usual, adorned as it was with extravagant black zigzag trimmings and a faux hood trimmed with black silk tassels. Papa had been more than generous with their allowances before he’d died, bless his soul, even to his unmarried sister. Whilst Connie only had to wear mourning for six months for her brother, she always favoured deep, dark colours that highlighted her beautiful skin and luxuriant black hair.

“Are we all ready?” Auntie said, holding out a languid hand to Mr Weston. “How good of you to accompany us, Mr Weston, but we had best be going. We do not want to keep Lady Montagu waiting.”

With that, she swept down the hallway to the front door, blithely unaware that she was the one they’d been waiting for.

Maggie sent Mr Weston an apologetic glance and thought perhaps his lips twitched, but she could not be certain.

Larkin watched Mrs Finchley as the carriage Lady Montagu had been so good as to send took them the short distance to St James’s. The closer they got, the paler she became, her hands clasped tightly in her lap and knew how much she must be relying on this introduction to give them an entrée into society. If Lady Montagu took a shine to Miss Caroline, their acceptance would be guaranteed.

Her sister and aunt were looking out of the window, both exclaiming with interest over the shops and fashionably dressed people as they made slow progress down Regent Street.

“There is no need to be nervous, Mrs Finchley,” Larkin said, smiling at her as she looked up. “Whilst I cannot speak for Lady Montagu or to the extent, she might be willing to help you, she is a lovely woman, and not at all the kind to put one to the blush. Do not be thinking you are facing a tyrant and are about to be subjected to an interrogation, for I promise you it will be nothing of the sort.”

“But Lord Montagu has such an intimidating reputation,” she said in an undertone. “Will… Will he be there?”

Larkin shrugged. “He usually avoids morning callers. Montagu is not a terribly sociable fellow, but he’s not half so terrifying as you might think. Actually, no, that’s a lie,” he amended with a laugh. “He is terrifying, but actually he’s very kind at heart and not half so fierce as one might think.”

Mrs Finchley let out a shaky breath but looked a little less daunted.

“Just be honest with her,” Larkin suggested. “She’s very perceptive, in any case, and not the kind to be shocked easily, or to judge.”

“You are very patient, Mr Weston. I cannot think what possessed you to trouble yourself with us, but we are all indebted to you. We shall never be able to repay such kindness,” she said, her expression so grave and so earnestly sincere Larkin almost blushed.

Good lord, it had been a long time since anyone had provoked a reaction like that from him.

“Indeed, you are not,” he said, belatedly realising he’d spoken with too much force, for Mrs Finchley started, looking somewhat taken aback. Larkin cleared his throat, wishing he’d not snapped at her, but he did not wish them to feel beholden to him. “I am doing what anyone with a grain of decency would do, and that is all,” he said, careful to moderate his tone this time.

Mrs Finchley seemed a little uncertain but nodded and offered him a hesitant smile. Larkin looked up, relieved to discover they had arrived at St James’s.

“Here we are,” he said, as the carriage drew up outside Montagu House.

Larkin climbed out, waving away the footman that hurried down to greet them, and gave the ladies his hand to help them out.

“Heavens,” Miss Caroline said faintly, gazing up at the imposing edifice of Montagu House and suddenly looking as daunted as her sister had moments earlier. “Maggie, look. It’s so very grand.”

“A splendid house,” Miss Merrivale said, her green eyes sparkling with delight as she gazed up at the grand building. “And I am so looking forward to meeting Lord Montagu.”

If Mrs Finchley had been pale before, this pronouncement turned her the colour of alabaster.

“Oh, n-no, Auntie, we are not to see Lord Montagu. Only Lady Montagu, my dear, and we are to remember that if we make a good impression, she might help our darling Caro find her place in society. So we must all remember to mind our manners and not to talk too much,” she said with a touch of desperation.

Her aunt waved this away, the tassels on the magnificent pardessus she wore trembling and swaying with the movement. “I always make a good impression, Maggie. Do stop fretting needlessly. Come along then, my dears,” she added, sweeping up the steps beneath the elegant portico and toward the front door.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs Finchley said faintly. “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”

“Nonsense,” Larkin said, his tone brisk as he offered her his arm. “Everything will be fine,” he assured her, though even he quailed at the idea of a meeting between Montagu and Aunt Constance.

Still, there was no going back now, so he escorted the ladies inside.

Maggie’s heart was thundering as a very grand butler guided them through the house. Their father’s estate in Norfolk had been a modest one by these standards, but Maggie had loved it dearly. An ancient, rambling manor house, parts of it dated back to the sixteenth century. Age had softened all the sharp edges, and the mellow brickwork and neat weatherboarding combined with riotous climbing roses made it the most beautiful place in the world as far as Maggie was concerned. Melancholy pierced her heart as she realised she would never see her beloved home again. No doubt that horrid man was already there, making changes, destroying all that they had loved so dearly.

With an effort, Maggie shook the wretchedness away. This was Caro’s future at stake, and she would let nothing, and no one interfere with that.

Finally, the butler escorted them into a large, formal drawing room. Maggie heard Caro’s swift intake of breath and could not blame her for it. The space was bright, lit by five huge, full height windows. Tastefully decorated in soft shades of blue, every wall was a feast for the eyes, decorated with beautiful paintings, both portraits and landscapes. Their footsteps fell softly upon a complex Aubusson carpet, its warm tones giving the room a surprisingly cosy aspect despite its size. An imposing white marble fireplace dominated the lovely scene, a fire crackling in the hearth. The comfortable, elegantly fashionable furniture invited visitors to sit and relax in an atmosphere of graceful and effortless style.

Maggie felt certain that such exquisite taste was very far from effortless and someone with a fine eye for detail and colour had carefully chosen every stick of furniture and artwork. She did not need to look long for that person, for seated upon a gorgeous silk covered divan was Lady Montagu.

The lady looked up from the book she was reading as the butler announced them. “My Lady, Mr Larkin Weston, Mrs Finchley, and the Misses Merrivale.”

“Thank you, Carlton. We will take tea, if you please.”

The butler withdrew and, as he moved away, Maggie got her first proper glimpse of the noble lady. Her breath caught, for here was a woman of wealth, power, and great beauty, and to be in her presence truly was an honour. As they drew closer, Maggie was struck not only by her lovely face, still smooth and relatively unlined for a woman of her years, but by the kindness shining in her vivid blue eyes.

“Larkin, my dear, how lovely to see you,” Lady Montagu said as Mr Weston took her proffered hand, but leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Matilda, the pleasure is all mine, and how ravishing you look. Have you persuaded Lord Montagu to allow me to paint you again? I swear you look younger than the last time I made the attempt, but I believe my skills have improved. Perhaps this time I shall come somewhere close to doing you justice.”

She laughed, waving him away. “Dreadful boy. Don’t think pouring the butter boat over me will get you your own way. Besides, Lucian has already agreed, though I believe Tilly is your next commission?”

“Yes, but I also have ambitions to paint the most beautiful girl in London, which is why we are here. My Lady Montagu, may I make known to you, Mrs Magdelina Finchley, Miss Constance Merrivale, and Miss Caroline Merrivale?”

“Oh, my,” Lady Montagu said, her hand going to her heart as she looked upon Caro for the first time. “Goodness gracious, but you speak only the truth as ever, Larkin. What a gorgeous creature you are, but then three lovelier women are seldom seen all at once,” she added, looking between them with interest glittering in her eyes. “Please, be seated.”

Maggie sat down, finding herself poised on the very edge of the sofa opposite Lady Montagu, as if ready for flight. Caro sat close beside her, but Aunt Connie drifted over to a lavish gold framed chair upholstered in a pale yellow chinoiserie silk that Maggie ought to have realised would catch her aunt’s eye. Settling herself down with her usual grace, Aunt Constance spoke before anyone else could gather their wits.