Page 8 of Debtor’s Daughter

“The earl?” she asked, astonishment in her voice.

Larkin nodded. “He has agreed to allow me to bring you to meet his mother, Lady Montagu, to see if she likes Miss Caroline and would consider sponsoring her or at least give her some helpful introductions.”

“Oh! Oh, good heavens.” Mrs Finchley put a hand to her heart, bosom heaving dramatically. To Larkin’s dismay, her eyes glittered with tears. “I-I beg your pardon,” she said, fishing about in her reticule for a handkerchief.

Larkin hurriedly provided his own, and she took it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes and sniffing. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice choked. “I’m not usually one to lose my wits. Only it’s been such a worry.”

“There is a catch,” Larkin said gently, not wishing her to get ahead of herself.

He waited for the lady to compose herself, watching as her candid blue-green gaze settled upon him.

“She wishes to know if we are respectable,” she guessed.

Larkin nodded.

“Quite understandable,” she said with a crooked smile. “And we are, I promise you that, only… only the situation is rather a delicate one. Oh, dear. I shall have to explain, I suppose.”

Worry creased her brow, and Larkin hated the need to ask such indelicate questions, but there was no help for it.

“I’m afraid you must,” Larkin said apologetically. “Montagu would have me hung, drawn and quartered if I introduced scandal into his household.”

“As to that,” Mrs Finchley swallowed hard, the colour leaving her face. An altogether different expression settled over her fine features, the sparkle of hope he’d seen just moments ago dying a swift death. “Perhaps we should not proceed any further. I should hate to be the cause of any… any— Forgive me,” she said, and picked up her pace, striding away from him.

Nonplussed by this sudden volte-face, Larkin frowned and hurried after her.

“Mrs Finchley?”

She shook her head. “It was foolish of me to believe anyone else could help. You are so very kind, Mr Weston, and I cannot in all conscience involve you in our troubles. I have always considered our family above reproach, but… but my father…” Her voice trembled and she shook her head.

Sensing this was a delicate topic, Larkin hesitated. “Mrs Finchley. Whilst Lord Montagu protects his family at all costs, he is not an unfeeling man. If you are deserving of help, I am certain he would bestir himself to do so, Lady Montagu certainly would. Do you think you might put your trust in me, and tell me the whole? At least that way, I might judge for myself what the best thing to do is. I promise, I shall help if I can. Even if you are correct, and Montagu is out of reach.”

She stopped suddenly, staring up at him. “Do you mean that?”

There was something close to desperation behind the words and Larkin heard a little voice in his head, sounding remarkably like the Earl of Ashburton, reminding him what had happened the last time he’d helped a damsel in distress. Both he and the damsel had got burned, and he had sworn off such entanglements, preferring to concentrate on his art. This time, however, he told himself he was in no danger. Mrs Finchley was a charming woman. Attractive, too. Very attractive, actually, but he had no desire to be papa to little Gideon, perish the thought. And whilst Miss Caroline Merrivale was quite the most exquisite female he’d ever seen, she was only a girl and did not appeal to him in the least.

“I do,” he said firmly, praying he would not come to regret his words.

“And I could confide in you and—”

“No matter what you say, I will take it to my grave,” he promised her. “You have my word as a gentleman.”

She stared at him for a long moment and his gaze, always alert to the beauty around him, to the fine blend of colour and light, was transfixed momentarily by the changeable nuances of her eyes. They were a pale melange of lightest green and the most heavenly sky blue, with little threads of gold flickering amid the delicate turquoise. Depending on the light, her eyes seemed sometimes bluer or greener. Her regard was unwavering, and he felt her judging what she saw, as if she could reach into his mind and discover his secrets, discover if he was worthy of her trust. He stared back, refusing to hide, though the urge to look away was nigh on irresistible. It was as if his soul were being stripped bare… not a comfortable experience. He appreciated in that moment that Mrs Finchley was perhaps more perspicacious than first impressions might have led him to believe upon meeting her and her unconventional family.

“Very well,” she said, putting up her chin. “I shall put my trust in you, Mr Weston, for Caro’s sake. For the truth is, since we came to town, I have realised how foolish I have been. I thought to give my sister a season, to give her the chance she deserves to shine as she ought. But I never had a season myself and we ran away in such a rush that I never stopped to consider, to realise that… that we are nobodies if there is no one of rank to sponsor us. I have been a fool, in short, and I am terrified of what will become of Caro if I fail her.”

“Fail her?” Larkin said in confusion. “But what of you, Mrs Finchley? Surely Miss Caroline has parents, or guardians?”

Mrs Finchley put a hand to her head, a pained expression flickering in her eyes.

“I beg your pardon. I am a wretched fellow for interrogating you so.”

“You are a deal too kind,” she said, glancing up at him, something close to disbelief in her eyes. “I cannot think why you should trouble yourself.”

“Call it a character flaw,” he said ruefully. “I find myself compelled to help damsels in distress.”

She laughed at that. “How very uncomfortable for you.”

“You have no idea,” Larkin murmured under his breath.

“Very well, Mr Weston. Might I prevail upon you to take tea with us tomorrow afternoon, and I shall tell you the whole story? It—It isn’t a pretty story,” she added, an apologetic note to her words. “But Caro, myself, and my aunt are innocent of any wrongdoing. That much I can promise you.”

“I believe you,” he said gently, noting the gratitude and relief that flared in her eyes.

The poor woman must be at her wits' end to trust in him so readily. For, whilst he was entirely sincere in his wish to help them, she could not know that he wasn’t a trickster or some wicked blackguard intent on causing mischief for his own ends. Thank the lord she had fallen in with him and not with any of the other scoundrels who abounded in the city. The idea made a sensation like iced water slide down his spine. He shook it off. It was not for him to feel protective of women he barely knew but, as a gentleman, if he could do them a good turn, he certainly ought. Once he had them safely under the wing of Lady Montagu, or some woman of sense, at least, he might leave them to their own devices with a clear conscience.

With that thought at the forefront of his mind, he escorted Mrs Finchley the rest of the way home and bade her a good day.