Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy)

EULOGY’S SECRET

Book 1 in the Huntley Trilogy

By Grace Elliot

Copyright 2011 Grace Elliot

All rights reserved.

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Chapter One

As night fell, the rain stopped. A hackney cab sluiced through the deserted streets, slithering to a halt outside an imposing stone terrace.

“Here we are, Miss. Grosvenor Square, like you said.”

Eulogy tightened the grip on her valise and peered into the night. Yellow lamplight spilt through the curtains of the grand buildings, hinting at comfort and warmth within, mocking the inhospitable, rain-washed streets.

“Well, Miss. I ain’t got all night, you getting out or what?”

Eulogy hesitated. Alone in London, she was vulnerable, and yet she had no choice. She squared her shoulders, stepped down and counted the fare into the driver’s greasy hand. Without warning he whipped up his nag, causing Eulogy to jump aside to avoid slurry thrown up by the wheels. As she watched him go, without even this gruff company, she felt crushingly alone in a strange city without friend or companion. The recklessness of her errand struck home. Yet she gathered her courage, remembering her journey’s end was so close, just up some steps and behind a glossy door framed by lamps.

She gazed upward, craning her neck as the stucco walls and floor after floor of tall windows stretched heavenwards to block out the stars. She had never seen buildings of such grandeur, and they made her feel so small and insignificant. What sort of man lives in such a place? The excitement that had sustained her on the journey from Easterhope gave way to hunger and fatigue. To calm her nerves, she took a deep breath, but unlike country air, the city reeked of manure, soot and rotten vegetables that made her cough. Then, in the inky shadows, a sly movement caught her eye. The dark street appeared deserted, yet her skin was alive to the sensation of being watched. With a shudder of raw fear she picked up her skirts and ran up the steps to rap urgently on the door with the large brass knocker.

A surly footman opened the door and squinted into the gloom, music and raucous laughter spilt over his shoulder.

“Yes, Miss?”

“My apologies for the late hour, but I must see Lord Devlin.” Eulogy pushed back the hood of her travelling cloak and smiled.

The footman raised a haughty brow.

“His Lordship is not at home.”

“But Lord Devlin would wish to see me. I’ve traveled a long way.”

Her head buzzed with frustration that this man stood between her and safety as his gaze wandered disapprovingly over her stained skirts, wool cloak and battered valise.

“Your card, Miss?”

Her heart sank. “I don’t have one, but I’m a close, very close, family friend.” On reflection, she thought it best not to mention that she had yet to be introduced to his Lordship.

“No card? Then what name do I give?”

“Miss Eulogy Foster. Be sure and tell his Lordship that his late mother, Lady Devlin, knew me well.”

“Wait there, Miss Foster.” Exuding disapproval, he withdrew.

Pulling her cloak more tightly about her shoulders, Eulogy shivered on the doorstep. At the center of Grosvenor Square lay an extensive garden, but in the dark the bushes and shrubs formed lumps of shadows like a crowd of hunched men, and Eulogy’s heart hammered as she shrank back against the door.

After what felt like eternity, the door re-opened and in full expectation of admittance, Eulogy let out her breath and stepped forward. The footman, however, sneered back.

“As I said, His Lordship is not at home.”

The echo of the slamming door died in her ears as she stood, perplexed by this turn of events. What was she to do now? The question vexed her greatly for her future depended on Lord Devlin.

Her first instinct was to knock again, but she swiftly rejected the idea. It wouldn’t do for her brother’s first impression of the sister he didn’t know existed to be that of a hoodlum.

Eulogy sighed. Clearly, it had been a mistake to arrive straight off the coach, travel-stained and weary, for it seemed people in London were less welcoming than country folk. Slowly, her familiar practicality reasserted itself as she decided on seeking suitable lodgings for that night. Once rested and bathed, she would call again at a more conventional hour and would be sure to be admitted.

Despite feeling braver, the next problem presented itself. Where to find inexpensive but respectable rooms? She chewed her lip. A couple of streets back she’d recalled the cab passing a pie-shop. Her empty stomach churned. She would retrace the route, buy supper and inquire about a hotel.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Eulogy picked up her valise, left the safety of the porch and descended to street level. She had not gone three paces when a stone skittered out of the darkness and landed at her feet. Scuttling footsteps sounded in the shadows.

 Fear slammed against her ribs.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Warily, she backed towards the steps but found the way blocked, by a man reeking of stale sweat.

“Please, sir, let me pass.” Her heart squeezed and she felt weak with fright.

No answer, except for wheezy breathing.

“I have a knife.” With a barely perceptible movement, Eulogy lifted her skirts in order to run, but luck was not on her side as a second man solidified out of the darkness.

“And who hav’ we here then?” Another, toothless man grinned, his face a disembodied moon in the darkness.

 “A tasty morsel and no mistake.”

A hand that tasted of coal dust clamped over her mouth and instinctively, she bit down as hard as a terrier.

“Bitch!”

A fist flew towards her. It was too late when she saw it and ducked. Pain slammed through her skull, and as she reeled, the second man grabbed her by the waist, lifting her bodily and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of coal. Panic fuelled her rage as she kicked and clawed with all her strength, knowing that her life depended on not leaving the square.

“Help!”

“Shut it, bitch.”

Another cuffing blow and a high pitched whine filled her ears. Eulogy’s last thought as dizzy darkness consumed her was regret that she’d come all this way and still had not met her brother.

-oO0Oo-

Jack Huntley was late and therefore in a foul mood. In his view good time-keeping was the measure of a man and to be tardy an unpardonable offence. So as he turned the corner into Grosvenor Square and a woman’s scream rent the air, he felt unreasonably annoyed. For a moment he even considered hurrying on to his appointment, but then his conscience forbade such neglect and he stopped to listen. The commotion seemed to be coming from outside Lord Devlin’s residence. With a sigh, he crept closer and glimpsed two ruffians making off with a woman.

“Stop!” Jack bellowed. “Unhand her this instant!”

His request met with foul curses.

“Stop, I say! Put her down.”

“Oh yeah? And what if I don’t want to?”

This wasn’t part of Jack’s plan for the evening and he now felt very irritated indeed.

“Then I shall make you.” Huntley sighed and stepped closer. Taller than average, broad and muscular,  his intimidating presence was diminished only by being outnumbered.

 “Yeah? What with? The sharp side of your tongue?”

Huntley reached for his sword stick. Cold steel hissed through the air.

“I’m late and I dislike being late. Now, if you’d kindly put her down we can both be about our business, no harm done and I won’t take this any further.”

With a hollow laugh, the felon carrying the woman threw her to the ground. She lay deathly still. Silently the villains split apart, circling like wolves, one on either side of Huntley to cut off his escape.

 “Two ag’in one.” A broad bladed hunting knife glinted in the lamplight. “Now why don’t yer be sensible and keep on walkin’?”

Huntley couldn’t say which irked him more, being delayed or threatened, but one thing was certain, these dogs weren’t going to get the upper hand, not if he had anything to do with it. With a sigh, he prepared to teach the ruffians a lesson.

In a deadly dance, the three men circled, sizing each other up. A crude blade whistled past Huntley’s ear. He ducked, spun, and with a vicious sweep of his sword sent the felon sprawling backward. Huntley might have been outnumbered, but with athletic grace he parried and thrust, moving with lightning speed to rebuff attacks from both sides. As his attackers grew bolder, working as a team, he found himself pressed, retreating against the basement railings of Lord Devlin’s house to protect his back.

Huntley had little choice but to hold his ground. To attack one felon left him open to the other, and after several minutes of stalemate Huntley began to question the wisdom of interring. Typical! If he’d been on time, he wouldn’t have had to get involved. Pah! That’s what happened with poor time-keeping. Momentarily distracted, the knife whistled dangerously close to his neck. Discomforted, Huntley glanced around. He thought of calling for help, but there was no one around. On this moonless, wet night everyone was safe indoors. With an ill-humored swipe, he parried the slashing knife with a sword thrust. Metal clanged on metal, the vibrations jarring his wrist.

“Be on your way,” Huntley added, “and I’ll take this no further.”

“Nuffin’ I dislikes more than an arrogant toff.”

Huntley dodged, the blade so close he felt its coldness on his skin.