Page 7 of Debtor’s Daughter (Wicked Sons #11)

Dear Mrs Finchley,

I write this in haste, hoping it will arrive before your visitors. Your step-mama left two days ago, gone to live with her sister and her family in Bath, by all accounts. She barred the door to Mr Jenkins for several weeks, but he forced his way in. Still, she refused to leave, making things as difficult for the fellow as she could. It has been a wretched place since you ladies left and no mistake. The thing is, Wallace and Mrs Goodall stuck it out as long as they could, hoping you’d be back. With the ways things were, I’m afraid I let slip that you were settled and not likely to return. Well, then they badgered and badgered me, and I’m afraid I gave them your address. They left this morning, determined to work for you or no one. I hope you can forgive me, but they were in such a pother, I didn’t know what to do for the best.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Jack Woolgar to

Mrs Magdelina Finchley.

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

Larkin sat before the window in his studio. He’d been up early for once and had spent the morning mixing paints and readying his supplies before his return to Montagu House that afternoon. He had decided it would be best for Tilly to paint her in familiar surroundings, where she would feel more at home. Also, if she got too bored, she could go off and play for a bit and come back again. It would be their first sitting today, and he wanted to be certain he’d remembered everything he would need. He stared down at the list he’d prepared earlier in the week, and ticked off the last item, racking his brain for anything he’d forgotten. Suddenly, a prickling sensation travelled down the back of his neck, and he had the strangest feeling he was being watched. Looking up, he discovered he was correct.

“Argh!” Larkin jumped back in shock, a hand pressed to his heart. On the other side of the window he’d been sitting in front of, Gideon, whose face had been mashed against the glass, dissolved into laughter. Larkin let out an unsteady breath as his heart returned to normal. “Little devil,” he muttered, though he could not help but snort with amusement as Gideon was practically doubled up in hysterics at Larkin’s reaction.

Undoing the catch, Larkin pushed the sash open. “Funny,” he deadpanned, shaking his head. “Most amusing.”

“I m-made you j-jump!” the boy chortled, holding his stomach. “You jumped good!”

“Yes, you did, you dreadful boy. What are you even doing here? Does your mama know you’re here?”

“No,” Gideon said, wiping his eyes and then his nose on his sleeve. “She got a sore head. Moody knows, though.”

“Hmmm,” Larkin said, sighing inwardly. He hoped the cook would not treat him as an unofficial babysitter when she’d had enough of the boy. “Well, you’d best come in, I suppose. Have you had breakfast?”

“Er,” Gideon said, clearly torn between the truth and the prospect of more cake. “Yes, but I’m still hungry.”

“You astonish me,” Larkin replied, shaking his head. “Go to the door and I’ll let you in.”

A few minutes later, Larkin escorted Gideon into the kitchen where the enticing scent of frying bacon made him realise he’d not yet eaten, even if Gideon had.

“We’ve got a visitor,” Larkin said, guiding the boy to a chair at the table and sitting him on it.

“You don’t say,” Barnes said, his expression amused as he regarded their uninvited guest. “How do, Master Gideon. Hungry, are you?”

“Yes. Is there cake?” he asked hopefully.

“No cake,” Barnes replied, his voice firm. “You can have bacon and eggs, though.”

“I like cake.”

“I know you do, but there’s bacon and egg. Take it or leave it.”

Gideon considered this for a moment. “Bacon and egg, please.”

“A sound decision,” Barnes replied with a nod.

With the deftness of many years’ practise, Barnes filled a plate with two fried eggs, some fried mushrooms, and some crispy fried bacon. He set it in front of Gideon before addressing Larkin.

“Sorry, sir. I’ll cook some more.”

Larkin’s stomach growled, but he could hardly snatch his breakfast back.

“Need help with that?” he asked Gideon, who nodded.

“Well, this is a turnup, not only are you eating my breakfast, but I must help you do it,” Larkin said ruefully, leaning over to cut the bacon up for the boy before handing him the fork. “Do your worst, brat.”

Gideon grinned at him, stabbed a piece of bacon with his fork, and stuffed it in his mouth. “S’good,” he said, chewing happily.

Larkin sighed.

2 nd October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

On returning the boy to his mother, Mrs Finchley had been mortified that Gideon had once again invited himself around, but Larkin assured her it was no trouble. Still, the little rascal must have had a telling off, for the next few days were quiet and Larkin got a deal of work done, including two good sittings with Tilly, and finishing a commission he’d begun some months earlier. He’d worked late the previous night, into the early hours of the morning, in fact, eager to clear his commitments so he could concentrate on Tilly and then Miss Caroline’s portraits and he’d no intention of getting up before Barnes had brought him up his breakfast. He’d left a note asking Barnes to wake him at eleven and no earlier.

Now, he drowsed in bed, uncertain what the time was and not caring. A sliver of sunlight shafting through a gap in the curtains had woken him, but he couldn’t be bothered to get up and close them properly. Instead, he turned his head, determined to go back to sleep again.

He drifted, pleasantly sleepy, as he slipped into a dream. It was an odd sort of dream, not like his usual. A tropical jungle surrounded him, great towering trees and exotic shrubs on all sides, vines with wicked thorns reached out, snatching at his clothes, tearing them until he cast aside his ruined coat and waistcoat. Soon his shirt was tattered too, and he cast that down as well, pushing on through the increasingly difficult terrain. A voice reached him though, and he realised he was searching for someone. She was lost, somewhere in this vast jungle. How ever would he find her? Yet suddenly, in the way of dreams, she was right before him.

Mrs Finchley—for it was she—had got herself caught up in the same vines that had slashed his clothes. They wrapped about her wrists and slender waist, holding her off the ground. Her long golden hair hung free, cascading like a silken curtain down her back and over her shoulders. At once he was put in mind of Andromeda, chained to the rocks, waiting for a sea monster to come and devour her. There did not appear to be anything monstrous in this jungle save for the vines, but a fellow could hope. As he drew nearer, he saw she wore only a thin chemise and the bright sunlight beat down upon her, turning it all but transparent. A splendid landscape of lush curves revealed itself to his hungry gaze, and as she turned to him, her sea blue, sea-green eyes beckoned him on.

Well, now, this was getting interesting.

He fought harder, trying to get to her but the thorns kept growing faster and faster and—

“Mornin’, Westie!”

Larkin cracked one eye open and—there was a face, inches from his own.

“Argh!” He scrambled up in the bed, suddenly wide awake. Blinking in disbelief, he regarded the smiling angelic countenance of Gideon, golden curls tumbling about his face.

“You a slug-a-bed,” the boy said, snorting with amusement.

“Barnes!” Larkin shouted, feeling quite unequal to dealing with Gideon, especially when he wasn’t wearing anything under the covers, and he’d been having the most astonishing erotic dream about the boy’s mother.

“Sir?”

Barnes hurried in and stopped in his tracks as he regarded Gideon.

“Well, I’m blowed. How the devil—”

“Precisely what I should like to know, Barnes,” Larkin said, a little tersely. He felt guilty and bothered and quite out of sorts. What the devil had that dream been about? Mrs Finchley, of all people! A respectable widow. Good God. What was wrong with him? “Do we not have a functioning lock on the back door any longer?” he demanded.

“Why, yes, sir, but I stepped out into the garden for a breath of fresh air, lovely morning it is, too, but the little rascal must have slipped past me.”

Larkin groaned, rubbing his face with his hand. “What time is it?”

“Half past seven, sir.”

“In the morning?” Larkin protested. “Dam— drat the little fellow,” he said, struggling to modify his language.

“Get up, Westie. Time for breakfast,” Gideon piped up, his cheerful tone far too shrill and merry for Larkin’s tattered nerves to endure at such an ungodly hour.

“Barnes,” Larkin pleaded.

“S’all right, sir. I’ll deal with it. Come along, Master Gideon, you little tyke, you’d best come with me.”

“For breakfast?”

“I suppose so, but this is the last time,” Barnes warned him sternly.

Undeterred, Gideon smiled in anticipation. “Got cake, Barnsy?” he enquired sweetly.

Larkin listened to the two as they went out into the hallway and down the stairs.

“No cake. Eggs.”

“But I like cake.”

“I know it. But we got eggs.”

“Got no cake?”

“Not for breakfast.”

“But I like cake.”

“Not for breakfast.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Why?”

“Cause I said so.”

“Why?”

“Because we got eggs, no cake!” exclaimed an increasingly agitated Barnes as their voices faded and the sound of the kitchen door left Larkin in merciful peace.

“Heaven preserve me from diabolical infants,” he muttered, settling himself back against the pillows. But his bed, which had been so wonderfully cosy and comfortable just moments earlier, was now all wrong. He pounded the pillows into submission, rearranged the covers, and tried again to go back to sleep. It was no good. Besides, if he went back to sleep, he might have another peculiar dream about his neighbour. Whilst that was oddly tempting, it was a bad, bad idea. Very bad. Anyway, he was bloody well awake now, so he might as well get up.

Muttering all the while about other people’s children, he got up, slung on his dressing gown, shoved his feet into a pair of leather slippers, and headed downstairs.

He pushed the kitchen door open, unsurprised to find Gideon at the table, tucking into a fried egg sandwich. Larkin sent his valet a baleful glare.

“Coffee,” he said, or possibly grunted. He really wasn’t at his best.

The dream bothered him still, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. It felt like he’d done something wrong, like spying on her in the bath. Of course, it wasn’t the least bit like that, and he didn’t feel he could be held to account for what his troublemaking brain got up to when he wasn’t looking. Still, the uneasy sense of guilt lingered, and he didn’t like it.

Barnes set a cup of coffee in front of him and Larkin took it gratefully, adding several lumps of sugar before taking a sip. He watched Gideon, smacking his lips with pleasure as golden yolk oozed out from between two thick slices of bread. Larkin’s stomach growled.

“Barnes.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ll have the same as Master Gideon,” he said, gesturing to the messy sandwich. Gideon had dripped it down his shirt, despite the tea towel Barnes had tied about his middle but looked to be enjoying himself.

“Is it good?” Larkin asked, amused despite his rude awakening.

“Mmm. Good,” Gideon mumbled, pausing to lick his fingers.

“As good as cake?” Larkin asked innocently.

“Oh, sir!” Barnes protested, giving him a reproachful glare.

Larkin snorted as Gideon set down the remains of the mangled sandwich.

“Not as good as cake, but good,” he said gravely. “Any cake, Barnsy?”

“No!” Barnes said and stalked out of the kitchen, muttering.

“No cake,” Gideon said, holding his hands up in a ‘what can you do’ expression that made Larkin snort with laughter.

“No. No cake, you wicked child. I tell you now, if Barnes quits on me, I shall know who to blame.”

“Me?” he asked, looking pleased with himself.

“Yes, you. Now eat that up, brat.”

“Yes, Westie,” Gideon said obligingly, and picked up the remains of his sandwich and tucked in once more.

Larkin sighed and had just taken a sip of his coffee when there was a sharp knock at the back door. It flew open, and Mrs Finchley hurried inside.

“Gideon!” she exclaimed, clearly torn between shock and relief.

Larkin stood, as one must when a lady entered, but felt entirely unprepared for the encounter. His sinful dream about the lady was far from forgotten, and… and he was in his dressing gown and nothing else, drat the woman! It wasn’t a modest article by any stretch of the imagination. Being an artist, he took a good deal of pleasure in colour and in rich fabrics, and he’d had the dressing gown specially made. It was a bright orange in a heavy silken fabric and ornately embroidered with a chinoiserie design in yellow and green. His friend Ash had coveted it so badly, he’d had one similar made for himself, also in orange, but with black embroidery. However, Larkin was quite unprepared to face Mrs Finchley while wearing it, especially as it was all he was wearing.

It seemed she was also unprepared, as she froze upon seeing him, her mouth falling open, and a hectic flush of colour rising up her throat to blaze at her cheeks.

“Oh, good heavens!” she exclaimed, and promptly turned her back. “I am so— so very sorry, Mr Weston. I—I was so anxious about Gideon I did not stop to think and… and… oh, how you must regret us moving in next door when you never get a moment’s peace!”

Despite everything, Larkin was not beyond seeing the funny side of the situation.

“Mrs Finchley, please do not upset yourself. I’ll admit, I had something of a rude awakening this morning, but there is no harm done. I am not in the least upset.” Not about anything Gideon had done anyway, he amended silently.

“Oh, Lord. Don’t tell me he woke you up?” Mrs Finchley said, sounding so utterly mortified, Larkin felt wretched on her behalf.

“It’s just as well, for I have a deal to do today,” he replied amiably. Now the coffee was kicking in, he felt a little less like eating small children for breakfast and could even look at the little devil with something approaching fondness. “I’m afraid he’s made rather a mess of his shirt, however.”

“That is hardly news,” she said with a sigh. “He cannot stay clean for above five minutes. I swear he could be sitting still, looking at picture books and when I turn back, something is torn or dirty or hanging off.”

“You sound like my mother,” Larkin said ruefully as his gaze roamed over the back view of Mrs Finchley. She really did have a splendid figure. Such a neat little waist, and whilst one could only imagine what lay beneath all those layers of petticoats and yards and yards of fabric, he could certainly envisage— no! No, he could not imagine or envisage. He must not.

Suddenly feeling rather out of sorts again, the impropriety of the situation struck him with some force. Here he was, barely dressed, and there she was, alone with him, with only her small son as chaperone.

“Gideon, have you finished your sandwich?” Larkin asked the lad.

“Nah,” he said, the word muffled, spoken as it was with a mouthful of eggy bread.

“Gideon, please hurry,” Mrs Finchley said, sounding exasperated now. “We cannot impose upon Mr Weston any longer. It is very bad of you. I’m afraid I shall have to keep you confined to the house if you cannot be trusted not to come next door. I will get the fence mended at once, Mr Weston, so you need not fear any further interruptions.”

It was difficult to carry out a conversation with the back of her head, but Larkin did his best. “Actually, Mrs Finchley, that fence is mine and my responsibility. So all the while it is down, you are not in the least at fault.”

“Oh,” she said, and he heard the relief if her voice. He knew their finances were somewhat stretched and the extra expense would not be welcomed. “Oh, well, all the same. I ought to be able to keep one small boy in check.”

“From what I’ve seen of Master Gideon so far, I think it would take an armed guard to keep him in one place for any length of time. Still, he’s a nice lad, even if he does eat like a starving horse.”

He watched some of the tension drain from her as her shoulders sagged a little with relief. “I feel I am always apologising to you, Mr Weston,” she said with a sigh.

Larkin remembered the dream and had the wildest urge to apologise for that, which he knew was ridiculous, but his gaze kept returning to the neat coil of plaited hair at her nape and remembering how it had cascaded over her barely covered body. His heart gave a disconcerting thud, and he held his tongue before he could do or say anything stupid.

“Finished!” Gideon said, wiping his hands on the tea towel. “Want to play ball, Westie?”

There was an indignant gasp from Mrs Finchley. “Indeed, Mr Weston does not wish to play ball, you naughty boy. Now, apologise for waking him up so rudely.”

Gideon’s bottom lip protruded, and he folded his arms. Larkin caught his mutinous gaze and lifted an eyebrow at the lad. Gideon sighed and capitulated. “Sorry, Mr Westie. Sorry I waked you up.”

“That’s all right, Gideon. I don’t mind you coming for a visit now and then, but perhaps next time, wait for an invitation.”

“You invite me?” he said at once, which Larkin ought to have expected.

“Giddy! You are the outside of enough.”

Apparently having reached the end of her tether, Mrs Finchley turned and grasped her son’s hand, studiously avoiding looking at Larkin. She towed him towards the door. “Thank you for your patience, Mr Weston. If I could suggest you get the fence fixed with all haste, it might be best for all concerned.”

With that, she left, the kitchen door banging shut behind her.