Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy) (5 page)

In the face of such determination Eulogy gave in and allowed Mrs. Parker to steer her to the dressing table.

Sometime later, Eulogy barely recognized herself. Her hair in soft ringlets, bobbing around her chin and a dainty bonnet perched on the crown of her head. There was no denying Mrs. Parker’s judgment in matters of style.

Mrs. Parker surveyed her handiwork. “Much better, but be warned. Yours are the looks to turn a man’s head. Be on your guard, there are those who would take advantage of a country lass such as yourself.”

Eulogy’s heart skipped a beat. “Surely you don’t mean Mr. Huntley?”

“I wasn’t referring to him,” Mrs. Parker placed a hand softly on her shoulder, “but it wouldn’t do to go getting ideas. Let’s just say Mr. Huntley likes to keep his associations with women on a purely business footing.”

“Nothing was further from my mind.” Her cheeks flamed. Mr. Huntley take an interest in her? How utterly ridiculous! And yet in the pit of her stomach sat an emotion much akin to disappointment.

-oO0Oo-

At precisely one minute to three o’clock, Mr. Huntley’s carriage rattled into Farm Street. As he greeted Eulogy, it was difficult to say who was the most discomforted. Under the fierce weight of his scrutiny, Eulogy’s heart skipped erratically and her hand shot to her hair.

“I wasn’t sure about the ringlets. Are they too much?”

Mr. Huntley stood dumbstruck.

“Mrs. Parker assures me they are just the thing.”

Mr. Huntley paled. Silently Eulogy chastised herself. Obviously it wasn’t the done thing to consult a gentleman on matters of coiffure. He seemed deeply offended, but after a painful silence, much to her relief, his face cleared.

“Mrs. Parker is the epitome of good taste. You look delightful.” His voice was a rumbling growl that did little for Eulogy’s composure. “My carriage awaits.”

Her every nerve conscious of the brooding male presence by her side, Eulogy stepped into the street. This time it was her turn to be speechless. Her gaze travelled upward to the elegant landau filling the lane. Pulled by finely paired bays, a liveried footman at their head, she took in the glossy paintwork and crest adorning the door. That Mr. Huntley was a gentleman, she had not doubted, but that he was titled was quite another thing. Before she could object, he’d assisted her up into the leather lined interior. The springs dipped as Huntley jumped in beside her.

Anger bubbled through her fractured pride. “Am I your good cause for the day? I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“Excuse me?” At least he had the good grace to look affronted.

“Had I known you were titled I would not have accepted your help.” Eulogy prickled indignantly.

“Why ever not?” Mr. Huntley’s eyes changed from moss green to black.

“Because I expect you’ll boast to your friends of how you stooped to help a stray.”

“I assure you, nothing is further from the truth. Besides, if you are quite finished, I am not titled, my elder brother is.”

“Oh?”

“My carriage damaged a wheel and so Charles’ kindly lent me his. I am the youngest son and must earn a living, not at all the idle rich as you assume.”

“Humph!” Eulogy crossed her arms firmly over her chest. “You could have warned me. I don’t like being taken for a fool.”

“That was never my intention.”

Her heart thumped loudly in her ears. But why hadn’t Mrs. Parker warned her? Slowly it dawned on her that Mrs. Parker had known full well and dressed her accordingly.

“If I acted thoughtlessly, then please accept my unreserved apology.” His dark eyes unreadable, but he seemed in earnest and it was difficult to stay angry whilst feeling so breathless.

“Very well, apology accepted. Perhaps I was a little hasty.”

The landau negotiated the sharp turn at the end of the land and, threading through a maze of narrow streets, emerged onto a wide thoroughfare lined by towering limestone buildings. Beneath a crisp blue sky, they hadn’t gone far when they ground to a halt, caught up in an endless stream of carriages, carts and hackney cabs. Jack settled back against the leather upholstery.

“Always busy at this time of day, I’m afraid. It’s not far but it will take a while.” The corners of his intriguing mouth lifted in the semblance of a smile.

“Oh.” Eulogy’s chest constricted and her toes curled in her slippers. “So how do you earn a living?”

“You are curious?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t see me as a clergyman then?”

“Hardly.” The image of smitten female parishioners swooning in the aisles made her grin.

“I deal in art. Spot early promise in an artist and use my connections to get commissions. I own The Gallery in Bond Street.”

“Is that how you know Mrs. Parker? She is a client? Those were beautiful watercolors in the parlor.” Eulogy was becoming accustomed to erratic tripping of her heart.

Mr. Huntley toyed with the silver handle of his cane. “In a manner of speaking, you see, in her day Mrs. Parker was quite a beauty and made her name as an artist’s model.”

Eulogy gasped. Perhaps it was the jolting stop start of the carriage, but suddenly she felt sick. “Sir, you took me to the home of a woman whose morals are little better than…than…a woman of the street.”

Mr. Huntley regarded her archly.

“Now Miss Foster, your attitude disappoints me. Just because Mrs. Parker posed for artists, doesn’t make her any less respectable than you or I.”

“But,” she stuttered. “Modeling is not a fitting occupation for gentlewomen. The impropriety of it!”

Mr. Huntley’s lips set in a taut line, accentuating the latent power of his presence. “What then of the Queen, of the princesses and ladies that have sat for portraits? Does that make their morals questionable?”

Eulogy’s cheeks grew pink. “Of course not. The artist is commissioned to paint them. They are chaperoned and money passes in the opposite direction. It is quite different.” Gripping the carriage handle, she wished for all the world she had never encountered Jack Huntley. He confused her and his suffocating presence was becoming intolerable.

“Indeed? So if a woman of impeccable character finds herself fallen on hard times? What if she is kept off the streets because she inspires great works of art and in so doing keeps her virtue intact? By your standards instead she should starve…or worse…because of ill-conceived prejudice.”

Eulogy let his words sank in. Mrs. Parker had been very kind, not at all how she imagined a lady of ill repute. Slowly, her indignation cooled.

“Besides, Mrs. Parker has inspired the likes of Romney. Without her some of the towering works of this age would not have been created. Would you deprive mankind of art that makes the soul soar?”

Eulogy swallowed her pride.

“I’m afraid my experience of the world is limited. Until two days ago I lived exclusively in the country. I did not mean to slur Mrs. Parker’s reputation.”

“Bravely said, Miss Foster. It takes courage to admit when one is wrong.” His half smile made Eulogy’s chest constrict. His voice grew quiet. “And it would be my pleasure to show you London, if you would allow it.”

Had she heard correctly? For a fleeting moment she glimpsed softness behind the frosty façade. She blinked, struck by the sudden impression that Jack Huntley was not as hard and unfeeling as he would have her think. She chewed her lip. The idea of being escorted by the handsome Mr. Huntley held appeal. But what would he expect in return? A man of his position didn’t escort country girls for no reason. Lunacy to imagine his intentions were honorable as she recalled Mrs. Parker’s words, “His associations with women are purely business,” and shuddered.

“I think not.”

She sensed his anger, but he nodded all the same. “Very well.”

The traffic eased and their pace picked up. The low spring sun cast long shadows as they turned a corner that Miss Foster recognized as leading into Grosvenor Square. In daylight the gardens seemed almost friendly, and yet fingers of dread played down her spine as the carriage drew up beside the familiar steps.

“As requested,” Huntley said tersely. “Would you allow me to present my card?”

Eulogy waivered. Huntley’s card would undoubtedly open Devlin’s door, and yet her business was too sensitive. When she revealed her news she did not want an audience, especially one as distracting as Mr. Huntley.

“No, thank you.”

With studied indifference Huntley handed her down.

“Goodbye, Mr. Huntley. You have been kindness itself.”

He raised her gloved hand to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on her palm. At the warmth of his breath, heat sparked flamed over the tender skin. Their eyes met. There it was again. That unguarded moment, softness behind the stone.

“The carriage will return in one hour to await your instruction,” Huntley said gruffly.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Nevertheless, it will be here.”

Neither moved.

“Well then…your call?”

“Oh yes.” Eulogy stared up at the imposing polished door flanked by coach lamps. Slowly, she disengaged her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Huntley, and if we never meet again, thank you.”

Chapter 4

The lacquered door swung open and an imperious footman peered out. Eulogy recognized him in an instant.

“Good afternoon, Miss.”

“I wish to see Lord Devlin.”

The footman glanced over her shoulder to Mr. Huntley’s carriage.

“Who shall I say is calling?” he asked, wearing an oily smile.

“Miss Foster. I called recently, but you turned me away.”

The footman paled. “Would you care to wait inside, Miss?”

Eulogy stepped past into a grand hallway, an opulent confection of statuettes and Chinese vases.

“Take a seat, Miss Foster.” With a low bow, he exited up the stairs.

Eulogy sat and with shaking hands, arranged her skirts. Time slowed to a crawl. Lead weight compressed her chest and she found it hard to breathe. Since Mary Foster revealed the truth, Eulogy had thought of little except this meeting and now she was here,  paralyzed with fear.

After an eternity, the footman returned.

“Miss Foster, his Lordship is on his way out and can see you for just five minutes.”

“I am grateful.”

On trembling legs, she climbed the sweeping staircase. Double doors opened off a wide landing and Eulogy was ushered into a masculine room with red walls hung with dark portraits of august ancestors.

By the hearth, his Lordship adjusted his neck cloth, angling his head to admire his reflection in the mirror. Eulogy waited, her heart filling her chest. From what she could see her brother was a handsome man, with regular features and a quirky mouth, and the same dark hair and brown eyes as her own. Devlin exuded a roguish charm, as he turned to greet her, he seemed not at all the ogre Huntley had implied. Letting the tension fall from her shoulders, she accepted the proffered hand with a nod.

 “Ah, the persistent Miss Foster.”

“Lord Devlin.” She wanted to cry and fling her arms about her brother, but restrained herself.

“This is good timing. I need a female opinion. What say you? The green or scarlet waistcoat?”

“Oh! You are not dressed.”

“I was on my way out, but your call sounded urgent.” His turned his mischievous eyes on her. “Your opinion?”

“I…err…well the latter is most fetching.”

Lord Devlin dipped his head. “Most indebted, ma’am. Scarlet it is.”

Eulogy averted her gaze again as he shrugged on the waistcoat.

“I’m not usually this indecisive, you understand, but my valet made a pig’s ear of dressing me this morning and I had to start again. Won’t do. Simply won’t do.”

A cloud travelled across his brow. But as quickly his expression darkened, it cleared again.

“Now Miss Foster, I am busy and can spare you five minutes, no more.”

Eulogy floundered. Her news couldn’t be hurried, it needed preparation and tact.

“Lordship, this is a matter of great sensitivity.”

“…and I haven’t all day.”

“Then perhaps, might I return, when you have more time?”

Lord Devlin frowned. “I have been uncommonly generous letting a complete stranger have an audience at all.”

Eulogy was torn. She needed to gain his trust, but the delay was aggravating her estranged brother.

“Well?” Lord Devlin cut an elegant silhouette as his hand rested on the bell pull. “If it was nothing after all, I’ll bid you good day.”

She trembled. He would not admit her again. He had to know the truth… now.

“Lord Devlin, this will come as a shock…”

“What will?”