Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy) by Grace Elliot Page A

What ailed him? The thought of Miss Foster alone in the city made him feel physically ill, tossing and turning all night. He’d even had second thoughts about putting her on the stage…all those other men watching and wanting her. His hands balled into fists.
    “Mr. Huntley, are you in discomfort? You are grunting.”
    “Me? No, of course not.” Huntley grimaced at her concern, to hide that his icy heart was slowly thawing. With brutal determination he forced himself to recall that this same chit had asked Devlin for help.
    His blood seethed at the memory. Women were inconsistent, devious creatures and only a fool would believe Miss Foster to be different. To twist the knife he summoned the specter of Caroline Bloxham, tricked by her pretty face only to have his beating heart ripped out. No, that would not happen again, and especially with a woman below his social standing and linked to Lucien Devlin. He scoffed. Did Devlin seek to wound him a second time?
    His gaze strayed to Miss Foster. Such natural beauty. He wasn’t a man who gave his time freely, and yet here he was acting nursemaid to a country chit.
    With a ‘humph’ he pulled out his watch. Take her to Farrell, let her see what a soak Farrell was, and then she’d beg to return to Mrs. Parker’s clean, cozy home. Then he’d find someone to prepare the girl for the stage, sit back and reap the profits. Business as usual. Huntley forced the tension from his shoulders.
    They made rapid progress, the streets nigh on empty with the ton still abed at this unfashionably early hour. Clearing Mayfair, driving east towards Holborn, the carriage turned sharply into Red Lion Square and slowed. A sorry, stone obelisk—the monument of a grieving widow—cast a somber shadow in the weak sun. Unprepossessing terraces flanked a dismal garden.
    Eulogy grasped the sill and leant forward. “Is this it?”
    Gruffly, Jack slid down the window as they stopped beside a peeling door. “This is it all right.”
    After handing Miss Foster down, she grew pale and Huntley ignored the protective thunder of his heart. He set his jaw at its most arrogant angle and offered his elbow. His senses jolted at her touch and when her hand trembled, he gave a reassuring squeeze. Embarrassment soaked his bones as he scanned the street, hoping no one had witnessed his moment of weakness.
    “Ready, Miss Foster?”
    “Indeed.”
    With distaste Huntley lifted the knocker and rapped. Hollow echoes died deep inside the house.
    No one answered.
    Huntley knocked again.
    Nothing.
    “Once more, then we go.”
    On the final attempt, the door cracked ajar. An elderly woman in a widow’s cap peered out. Her crepe-like neck extending cautiously around the jam, putting Jack in mind of the tortoise he had once seen at a fair.
    “Good day, Madam. Miss Foster and I have come to pay a call on Mr. Farrell. Is he at home?”
    “Why of course,” the woman smiled benignly. “Where else did thee suppose he’d be?”
    A sound rumbled deep in Jack’s throat. Eulogy glanced at him in appeal.
    “Then might we come in?”
    “Oh yes, silly me. Do follow.”
    The interior exceeded the exterior’s lack of promise. Bare floorboards and plaster walls, Spartan and bleak. With no rugs to muffle their tread their footsteps echoed intrusively as they followed the housekeeper. A scrawny ginger cat shot past their ankles, his claws scratching the wooden floor as he fled.
    “That’s just Gilbert, don’t mind him. He’s not used to visitors.”
    Huntley’s nose wrinkled at the musty odor of mouse droppings, apparently the cat didn’t earn his keep.
    “Mr. Farrell’s in the kitchen. Tis warmer than the parlor. Here we are, sir. I’m afraid Mr. Farrell hasn’t long been up.”
    “It’s nigh on midday,” Jack said, “I didn’t have him down for society habits.”
    He inserted himself in front of Eulogy. determined to greet Farrell with minimal courtesy and then remove Miss Foster with all possible haste.
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