Page 7 of Debtor’s Daughter

Larkin snorted. “You know damned well it matters.”

Pip accepted this with no argument and returned his attention to the portrait. “You’ve captured something, not just her likeness, but the essence of Cara. I feel like she’s about to leap out of the chair and go off and do something more interesting.”

“She often did,” Larkin said with a laugh. “I had the devil of a time getting her to keep still.”

“Good practise,” Pip said, smirking. “I can’t wait to see how you fare with Tilly.”

“Tilly and I understand one another,” Larkin said loftily. “We’ll be fine.”

“On your head be it,” Pip remarked. “When do you want to start?”

“Well, to begin, I might just come around and do some sketches. I could come tomorrow if that suits?”

Pip nodded, and the conversation halted as Barnes appeared with the coffee.

“In here, sir?” he asked, clearly disapproving of Larkin receiving such elevated guests in the chaos of his studio.

“Yes, thank you, Barnes. That will be all,” he said, ignoring his valet’s critical expression and reaching for the coffeepot. He poured a cup for Pip before helping himself. “There is one thing,” he said, taking a tentative sip of the steaming liquid. “The reason I was coming to visit you. Is your mother in town?”

“No, but she returns tomorrow, thank the lord. My father is impossible when she’s not here and he’s driving me distracted. Why?”

“I’ve new neighbours,” Larkin said. “A Mrs Finchley and her aunt and sister, and Pip, my lord, the sister. You’ve never seen such a beautiful girl in all your life, I swear. She’s coming out this season, but they don’t know anyone. Mrs Finchley is a widow, her husband was killed in the Punjab.”

“Poor devil,” Pip said, his expression darkening.

Larkin nodded. “She’s got a four-year-old son, but I think their circumstances are perhaps a little straightened. I should like to help them. I believe Miss Caroline is their hope for the future and, dowry or no, she’ll take, I’ll swear it. With looks like that, she could catch herself a duke, I’d say. Especially when I present society with the portrait I intend to make of her.”

Pip frowned, giving Larkin the benefit of one of his most penetrating stares. “Rescuing damsels in distress again, Lars? Are you quite sure that’s a good idea?”

Larkin bristled. “Stow it. This is entirely different.”

Pip shrugged. “Well, you’re a big boy and it’s your own affair, but what has my mother to do with it?”

Larkin hesitated, knowing it was a lot to ask, and that Pip might not like it. “I thought she might sponsor the girl or at least make a few introductions. I have the feeling Mrs Finchley is out of her depth and I should hate to see them flounder. You know what the ton is like for smelling uncertainty or the slightest sense of not belonging.”

“But do they belong?” Pip asked coolly.

“Pip!” Larkin exclaimed, dismayed despite knowing he was putting his friend in a difficult position.

The earl waved away his shocked retort. “Oh, don’t look so horrified. I must ask. You cannot seriously expect me to present these women to my mother, knowing nothing about them. Would you? With my father?”

Larkin sighed. “No. No, I accept that, but I’d swear they’re respectable.”

“You make sure of that first, but if they are, you may bring them. Mama always has her at home on a Friday when she’s in town so that’s the time to come. But if you foist some dreadful girl upon her, I’ll murder you, Lars, and don’t think I won’t.”

23rd September 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

It was several days before Larkin could speak to Mrs Finchley again. He was making his way home from Massoul & Co, his favourite artist’s supplies shop on New Bond Street, when he came upon the lady and her maid walking home along Great Marlborough Street.

Crossing the road, he smiled when she waited for him and raised his hat. Larkin gave her a polite bow. “Good morning, Mrs Finchley. How do you do?”

“Quite well, Mr Weston, I thank you, and yourself?”

“In fine fettle,” he replied, admiring her well-tailored walking dress. The fit was glorious, highlighting an exceptional figure, and the rich black fabric was obviously expensive. This was the kind of garment made for a woman of means. He had noted the family all wore mourning, not just Mrs Finchley, and wondered at the extent of the tragedy that afflicted them, for Mrs Finchley no longer needed to wear mourning dress for her husband after so many years. Barnes thought it might be on account of their father, but said they were all quite tight lipped about it. “Actually, I am glad to have this opportunity to speak privately with you.”

Mrs Finchley glanced up at him, her eyes alert, and he held up his hands in an expression of innocence. “My intentions are honourable, I promise, Mrs Finchley, but the truth is, the situation is a little delicate and I’m anxious I may put my foot in it. I must beg you to be lenient with me, for I have no wish to cause offence.”

This, naturally, only made her look increasingly ill at ease, but there was no going back now. Larkin glanced over his shoulder at her maid, who had dropped back to a discreet distance, and lowered his voice. “The thing is, Mrs Finchley, I spoke to my friend Ashburton about Miss Caroline.”