Page 42 of Debtor’s Daughter

Larkin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was how it would be from now on, he knew, with Mrs Finchley being scrupulously polite and observing all the proprieties and him forced to go along with it. Only days ago, she had burst into the kitchen, blushing and turned her back when she’d discovered him in only his dressing gown. The memory made him smile but was horribly melancholy too. He’d done this, just as he’d ruined things with Elmira. Perhaps if he’d not flirted and encouraged her to think of him as some heroic lover, Elmira might have been his friend and trusted him with the truth. Perhaps they would be friends still. Instead, he had messed up another friendship by not knowing what it was he wanted from it.

“Bloody idiot,” he muttered, causing Barnes to look up from the drawer where Larkin’s clean shirts were kept.

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nothing,” Larkin said gruffly. “Mrs Finchley paid for the gardener.”

“Ah. I wondered if that was it,” Barnes said with a frown.

“And so now, instead of doing her a kindness, I’ve forced her to pay for something she cannot afford.”

Barnes nodded, looking chagrined. “A difficult one, if the lady insists upon paying. Perhaps there is some other small way we can make up for the cost?”

“Like what?” Larkin asked morosely.

“Gammon.”

Larkin stared at his valet, wondering if he was being insulted.

“Gammon, sir,” Barnes clarified. “You won that lovely big piece of gammon once, at cards, don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yes. I gave it to my mother. That was ages ago,” he protested, wondering where Barnes was going with this.

“Yes, sir,” Barnes said with exaggerated patience. “But if you was to say you won a piece of gammon or a joint of beef, then they couldn’t pay you for it, ’cause you hadn’t paid for it either.”

Larkin considered this. “That’s not a bad idea, Barnes. Well done. I’m going to the club on Saturday next. You get something in ready and you can give it to them on Sunday morning. If you give it to Mrs Moody, she’ll cook it for their lunch while they’re at church, before they know anything about it, and then it will be too late.”

“Very good, sir. I just noticed the ladies all going off to church a few minutes ago, actually. Will you be joining them?” Barnes asked with studied nonchalance.

“No,” Larkin replied tersely. “I’ve work to do.”

Barnes pulled a face. “Mrs Goodall won’t like it, working on a Sunday, sir.”

“Then Mrs Goodall can take the day off,” Larkin retorted. “If it’s good enough for her, I don’t see the good lord can object to me putting some paint on canvas.”

“Right you are, sir,” Barnes replied and, correctly interpreting his master’s mood, made himself scarce.

12th October 1850, The Sons of Hades, Portman Square, London.

Larkin made his way through the luxurious rooms of the club he owned with his friends, the scent of leather, polish, cognac and cigar smoke lingering in the air. It was early evening and there were few punters about, though he noticed one of the rooms they rented for private games was taken. At one time, he’d practically lived here, with only Leo spending more time among the comfortingly familiar rooms than he did. What had begun as a lark for them all, a place for them to escape their fathers’ eagle eyes and behave badly, had become a successful enterprise, a joint venture where only men they deemed worthy could come and drink or gamble, do business, or simply put their feet up and escape whatever trials they wished to avoid.

Making his way up the stairs to the rooms put aside for the owners, Larkin’s spirits lifted a little upon opening the door to the main office and seeing Leo at the desk.

“Lars! It’s been an age,” Leo said, setting aside the ledger he’d been perusing and getting up to greet him.

“Well, whose fault is that?” Larkin said, embracing Leo warmly. “You’re getting fat, old man. Married life agrees with you,” he teased, patting Leo’s stomach.

“Get away with you,” Leo said, laughing. “I’m as fit as a flea, and married life does agree with me. When are you going to set aside your bachelor ways and join us, eh?”

“Yes, come in, Lars, the water’s fine,” drawled a deep voice and Larkin turned in surprise to discover Jules sprawled in an armchair.

“Jules! You here too?” Larkin grinned as Jules stood and held out a hand.

“Well, Leo here said there was a game afoot. A dragon that needs slaying, or some such drivel.”

“Well, he’s right,” Larkin admitted. “And I’d be glad of your advice. Your help too, if you’re up for it.”

“Let’s have a drink,” Leo suggested, lifting the cognac decanter that habitually sat on the desk and setting out three glasses.