Page 24 of Debtor’s Daughter

“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.