Page 16 of Debtor’s Daughter

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.”