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

feeble fire fluttered in the grate without touching the chill. Close by stood a scarred pine table and two rickety chairs, the soot-stained walls witness to decades of dirt. Then the smell of stale beer hit. And in the shadows, slumped over the far end of the table, the husk of a man in his shirt sleeves and stocking feet.
    Bracing his arm across the doorway, Huntley sought to shield Miss Foster from the sight.
    “Mr. Huntley.” With gentle pressure, she lowered his arm. “It is quite all right.”
    Humbled by her trusting eyes, powerless to resist, he stepped aside.
    “Mr. Farrell?” Her voice soft and honey sweet with a gentle country bur. “Mr. Farrell, I have come a long way to meet you.”
    Slowly, Farrell raised his head and stared around blankly. Huntley recoiled in disgust. The man’s nose was swollen and red, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, obviously struggling to focus he swayed and rubbed his face with a beer stained sleeve.
    “Once the toast of the ton.” Huntley scoffed. “Now a sad, pathetic, relic…”
    “Hush,” Eulogy said sharply. “He’ll hear you.”
    “That’s what I intended.”
    Eulogy approached the hunched figure. “Mr. Farrell, I hope you will pardon my calling, especially as we have not been introduced.”
    Farrell swayed slightly.
    “… A long time ago you knew my mother. It was she who suggested that I call on you…”
    “Your mother?” Farrell licked cracked lips. His speech slurred, exaggerated by a soft Irish drawl. “I didna ken your ma.”
    “Yes, you did, Mr. Farrell. It was twenty years ago.”
    Huntley shut his eyes on the charade. Miss Foster was sadly deluded if she thought he was going to let her remain here... but then…to his surprise Farrell stared at Eulogy, his eyes fixed on her unblinking. A miracle of sorts was being revealed before him as a slow lopsided smile spread over Farrell’s face and he exclaimed.
    “Well as I live and breathe! I’ll be damned!”
    “Language,” Jack snapped. “A lady is present.”
    “Aye, that there be.” Farrell’s eyes widened to a piercing shade of blue. “As I live and breathe, she’s the living image of Ella!”
    But if Farrell’s reaction came as a surprise, Eulogy’s alarmed Huntley even more as she grew pale and grasped at the chair back for support.
    “Miss Foster, do you feel faint?”
    “I’m fine thank you…just a little overwhelmed.”
    Then Huntley saw it, the scales peeled back from his eyes. Of course! Miss Foster said Farrell knew her mother twenty years ago. And how old was she? Not short of twenty herself!
    What sweet irony that this goddess was the offspring of Farrell’s loins. He almost laughed aloud: mistress of his arch enemy and illegitimate daughter of a drunk who he despised. It was beyond tolerance! He’d see Miss Foster settled then forget her and drop the plans to put her on the stage. The damage to his self-esteem simply wasn’t worth the price.
    “Mrs. Featherstone, did you ever?” Farrell turned to his housekeeper. “As I live and breathe I niver thought to see such a t’ing.”
    “I’ll put the kettle on.” Mrs. Featherstone hummed happily, as if such revelations were an everyday occurrence in the Farrell household. Chair legs scraped on slate as Farrell rose unsteadily. Leaning heavily on the table, shakily he extended a hand.
    “Forgive the state o’ me, Mauvoreen, but I wasna expecting visitors today, you understand.”
    Huntley sneered. “Today nor any other day by the looks of it.”
    Eulogy threw him a withering stare. “Mr. Huntley, I cannot thank you enough for all your help, but a busy gentleman such as yourself must have plenty to attend to. Don’t let me detain you a moment longer.”
    It took a second for her words to sink in. By Jove, I’m being dismissed, he thought. Huntley bristled, two can play that game. After giving Miss Foster the benefit of his most winning smile, he pulled up a chair.
    “It so happens I am free until the evening.” He lied,