help me find him?”
Huntley’s voice growled low. “A name would be a start.”
Eulogy’s head spun, Huntley was regarding her in the most peculiar manner.
“The letter of introduction was stolen….”
Huntley’s eyes bored into her.
“But his name is Mr. Tristan Farrell.”
Huntley froze and was overtaken by a coughing fit. When the coughs subsided to splutters, the glance he exchanged with their hostess was not lost on Eulogy.
“Is something amiss?”
Huntley avoided the question. “Is there absolutely no one else?”
Eulogy shook her head. “No.”
“Then you will stay here with Mrs. Parker.”
Eulogy bridled. “Mr. Huntley, whilst I am grateful for your assistance, it is not for you to dictate my actions.”
“I think only of your wellbeing. Might I ask who Farrell is to you?”
How to answer when evidently she knew less about Farrell, than Mr. Huntley did? “My late mother trusted him.”
Huntley crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling. Something in his disapproval irked her.
“Mr. Huntley, what is wrong?”
“I assume your mother knew him some years ago?”
“What makes you say that? You know Farrell? Is he dead?”
“Yes, he’s alive. And oh yes, I have the misfortune to know him.”
She brightened. “Then you can take me to him?”
“Farrell is a shadow of the man he once was.”
“Then tell me what you know.” Really Huntley was being just too infuriating for words.
“If you insist, but it’s a sad story of a life gone to seed.”
“I promise not to swoon.”
Huntley glanced at her dubiously.
“Tell her, Jack,” Mrs. Parker interjected softly, “she ought to be told.”
“Very well, for your own good, I’ll tell you.” Huntley took a deep breath. “Years ago Farrell was a great artist, bordering on genius. It was he who created works such as The Fall of Troy. You recall the piece?”
“No, I’m afraid not. There are no galleries in Easterhope.”
“Ah, well, suffice to say they were inspirational, quite outstanding and then, something happened, no one knows what and overnight his talent dried up.”
“Oh?”
“Couldn’t paint a stroke. Word has it he searched for his lost muse at the bottom of a bottle. Now he’s a recluse, a pathetic soak who scrapes a living tinting prints for Gilray, and that’s only because Gilray feels sorry for him.”
Eulogy considered the news. What to do? Impose on Mrs. Parker and be beholden to Huntley, or, seek out the drunk who her mother once trusted?
“You know where he lives?”
“I do,” Jack said grudgingly.
“Then once I have changed, I would be obliged if you would direct me there.”
Huntley grew rigid with disapproval. “Very well, but if you insist on this foolhardy course of action, this time I insist on accompanying you.”
Eulogy was at loss as to decide which was more irritating, Huntley treating her like a child, or the way her heart jumped when in his company.
“Directions will suffice.”
“Listen to Mr. Huntley, dear. It is right that he escort you. After all, you don’t want a repeat of two nights ago.”
Eulogy quivered at the memory. “Very well.”
“Good.” Huntley rubbed his hands together. “But it is too late to visit today. I suggest we call on Mr. Farrell in the morning, when he is more likely to be sober.”
His dark eyes locked with hers, challenging her to disagree. With dignity, Eulogy nodded.
“Tomorrow it is.”
Chapter 6
Even with the benefit of a night’s reflection, Huntley’s low opinion of Farrell remained unchanged. The weather was kind for the time of year, a blank canvas devoid of cloud or sun, as Huntley handed Eulogy up into his carriage.
“Typical,” he muttered. “Devlin…and Farrell!”
“I beg your pardon?”
Under the scrutiny of Miss Foster’s liquid brown eyes, his mind went blank. “Nothing, just talking to myself.”
With a shrug, he took the seat opposite his erstwhile ward and folded his arms.
Huntley’s voice growled low. “A name would be a start.”
Eulogy’s head spun, Huntley was regarding her in the most peculiar manner.
“The letter of introduction was stolen….”
Huntley’s eyes bored into her.
“But his name is Mr. Tristan Farrell.”
Huntley froze and was overtaken by a coughing fit. When the coughs subsided to splutters, the glance he exchanged with their hostess was not lost on Eulogy.
“Is something amiss?”
Huntley avoided the question. “Is there absolutely no one else?”
Eulogy shook her head. “No.”
“Then you will stay here with Mrs. Parker.”
Eulogy bridled. “Mr. Huntley, whilst I am grateful for your assistance, it is not for you to dictate my actions.”
“I think only of your wellbeing. Might I ask who Farrell is to you?”
How to answer when evidently she knew less about Farrell, than Mr. Huntley did? “My late mother trusted him.”
Huntley crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling. Something in his disapproval irked her.
“Mr. Huntley, what is wrong?”
“I assume your mother knew him some years ago?”
“What makes you say that? You know Farrell? Is he dead?”
“Yes, he’s alive. And oh yes, I have the misfortune to know him.”
She brightened. “Then you can take me to him?”
“Farrell is a shadow of the man he once was.”
“Then tell me what you know.” Really Huntley was being just too infuriating for words.
“If you insist, but it’s a sad story of a life gone to seed.”
“I promise not to swoon.”
Huntley glanced at her dubiously.
“Tell her, Jack,” Mrs. Parker interjected softly, “she ought to be told.”
“Very well, for your own good, I’ll tell you.” Huntley took a deep breath. “Years ago Farrell was a great artist, bordering on genius. It was he who created works such as The Fall of Troy. You recall the piece?”
“No, I’m afraid not. There are no galleries in Easterhope.”
“Ah, well, suffice to say they were inspirational, quite outstanding and then, something happened, no one knows what and overnight his talent dried up.”
“Oh?”
“Couldn’t paint a stroke. Word has it he searched for his lost muse at the bottom of a bottle. Now he’s a recluse, a pathetic soak who scrapes a living tinting prints for Gilray, and that’s only because Gilray feels sorry for him.”
Eulogy considered the news. What to do? Impose on Mrs. Parker and be beholden to Huntley, or, seek out the drunk who her mother once trusted?
“You know where he lives?”
“I do,” Jack said grudgingly.
“Then once I have changed, I would be obliged if you would direct me there.”
Huntley grew rigid with disapproval. “Very well, but if you insist on this foolhardy course of action, this time I insist on accompanying you.”
Eulogy was at loss as to decide which was more irritating, Huntley treating her like a child, or the way her heart jumped when in his company.
“Directions will suffice.”
“Listen to Mr. Huntley, dear. It is right that he escort you. After all, you don’t want a repeat of two nights ago.”
Eulogy quivered at the memory. “Very well.”
“Good.” Huntley rubbed his hands together. “But it is too late to visit today. I suggest we call on Mr. Farrell in the morning, when he is more likely to be sober.”
His dark eyes locked with hers, challenging her to disagree. With dignity, Eulogy nodded.
“Tomorrow it is.”
Chapter 6
Even with the benefit of a night’s reflection, Huntley’s low opinion of Farrell remained unchanged. The weather was kind for the time of year, a blank canvas devoid of cloud or sun, as Huntley handed Eulogy up into his carriage.
“Typical,” he muttered. “Devlin…and Farrell!”
“I beg your pardon?”
Under the scrutiny of Miss Foster’s liquid brown eyes, his mind went blank. “Nothing, just talking to myself.”
With a shrug, he took the seat opposite his erstwhile ward and folded his arms.
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