Page 41 of Debtor’s Daughter

Chapter 12

Dearest Delia,

Thank you for your last letter. It was so good to hear all of Rex and Emmeline’s news, and yours too. How lucky you are to have found a man like Muir Anderson. Your life sounds truly idyllic, and I am so very happy for you.

I beg you will forgive me for refusing to tell you where I am living, and to use such subterfuge in the sending and receiving of correspondence but I fear it is for the best. It has kept me hidden this long and I do not intend to reveal myself until the duke is dead. Only then will I believe myself safe.

I know that I have been wicked indeed, and stupidly reckless in writing that dreadful story, but I never expected it to be such a success, I swear. It was revenge for everything I have lost that motivated me, a way of soothing my own impotent rage, but now I see just what a fool I have been, for I have jeopardised my sanctuary. If only it had sunk without trace, as I expected it to do. What an utter henwit I was to think no one would recognise my description of Sefton and revel in his humiliation. I have tried to withhold the final chapters from publication, but only succeeded in delaying them a little, which seems to have increased the demand tenfold! I made a legal agreement which is binding, however, and must now honour it, come what may. At least the exercise was financially rewarding, something I may have cause to be thankful for when I find myself cast out in the cold when the truth about me is discovered.

I am living on borrowed time, I fear, and if things go badly, I may return to you sooner than you expect, if only for a little while, before I disappear again.

Please send Aunt Lucy and dear Rex all my love and kiss all my new nieces and nephews. One day I shall do so myself, I promise.

I miss you all and love you so much.

Your own, Genevieve x

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lady Genevieve Hamilton to The Lady Cordelia Anderson.

4th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Larkin stood on the street for a moment after the door had closed and cursed himself again. Bloody, bloody, insensitive half-witted idiot! He had behaved appallingly, giving Mrs Finchley reason to believe he had feelings for her, that he desired her, and then he’d cut her dead when she’d been brave enough to show she reciprocated. What must it have cost her to allow him to see her desire to be kissed, only then to have her bravery thrown back in her face? He felt sick, sick at heart and sick to his stomach, and he did not know what to do for the best.

She had given him the cold shoulder ever since, and he could hardly blame her for that. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps if he gave her some space, they could go back to being friends, for they were friends, he realised, and he hated to think he might have spoiled something that was important to him—to them both—by acting so thoughtlessly.

With nothing else he could do, Larkin went home.

5th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

The next day Larkin rose late, in a wretched temper still, racked with guilt over what had happened the day before, a situation not helped in the least by the wickedly erotic dream that had woken him in the early hours, desperate with desire for the woman living just next door. In his dream, she had lifted her face to his, just as she had in the shop, but he had not denied her. Oh, no. He’d denied her nothing at all, exploring her lush curves intimately with his hands and mouth and awaking with his body shaking with lust and the certain knowledge such things were out of the question. He needed to get out more, he decided, and find himself a lady to spend some time with before he went mad. He’d taken lovers enough during the months when he’d taken to drinking and gambling wildly but had not had the heart to find himself a mistress. Now, that seemed an utterly foolish state of affairs and must be fixed as quickly as possible. For knowing Mrs Finchley might feel the same for him only made things ten times worse, and he found it impossible to go back to sleep, dozing fitfully until Barnes finally roused him with a tray sent up by Mrs Goodall.

“There’s this, too,” Barnes said, handing him a sealed note.

Larkin took it, noting how heavy it felt, and used the knife on his tray to break the seal. Out dropped some coins, and he frowned as he scanned the short missive.

Mr Weston,

Thank you kindly for the lovely outing yesterday. We all enjoyed it very much. Please find enclosed the money I owe you for Gideon’s train.

Mrs Finchley.

His jaw clenched, frustration gnawing at his guts. The train had been a present for Gideon, and he’d told her as much, but he understood he had hurt her pride, and this was her way of salvaging it. He could not blame her, did not blame her, only himself.

“Are you still going out, sir?” Barnes asked.

Larkin put the note aside with the coins and nodded. “I am.” He turned his attention to the breakfast Barnes had brought him and did not feel like eating it. Yet he would not compound his villainy by insulting Mrs Goodall, who was the most marvellous cook and who even Barnes seemed to have taken to with no fighting over what was whose territory.

Today he had a sitting with Tilly to continue his portrait. He would concentrate on that and not think about Mrs Finchley at all.

6th October 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Larkin woke on Sunday morning in much the same state as the day previous and his sense of déjà vu was only compounded by the arrival of yet another note, again heavy with coins.

Mr Weston,

Thank you kindly for arranging for your gardener to cut the grass and tidy our garden. I have enclosed the money I owe you for the work. I beg you will inform me if it is not enough.

Mrs Finchley.