by Grace Elliot
The Irishman shook his head.
“Later. Leave that. You must come with me.” Farrell’s blue eyes sparkled, like a child’s at Christmas.
“Why? What’s happened?” She placed the duster over the mahogany banister. “Is something amiss?”
To her surprise Farrell chuckled. “Oh no…but I need your opinion.”
“Very well. Let me just tidy these things away.”
“Oh no,” Farrell all but hopped impatiently from one foot to another, “no time. Come! Now!”
Puzzled, Eulogy put down her duster and followed him up the staircase, wondering at the cause of Farrell’s eccentricity. He took the stairs two at a time, forcing Eulogy to hurry until she found herself higher in the house than she’d been before, on a cramped landing with no window. Ahead of her in the gloom, Farrell turned a key and a door creaked open. Biblical shafts of light threw him briefly into silhouette as he vanished inside the attic room.
Bemused, Eulogy entered to find herself in a large, open space beneath the roof, cluttered with what appeared to be random clutter and old furniture. She blinked and as her eyes became accustomed to the brightness, she made out empty picture frames, canvasses, and a chaos of brushes, paints and pots, uniformly grey beneath a blanket of dust.
“What is this place?” Despite the disorder, the attic held promise as a bright, airy place. The sun shone bravely through a glass roof, albeit encrusted with decades of grime.
“My studio.”
With a burst of energy, Farrell swept a pile of books from a wooden chair.
“Over here, Mauvoreen. Sit!”
Too bemused to argue, Eulogy stepped over discarded jars and stacks of newspaper, her skirts raising a cloud of dust and she sneezed.
“Now, where did I put it?” Farrell grabbed at a sheath of papers, only to discard them like confetti. “I had it here a moment ago.” With a flourish he brandished a page in the air. “I have it!” But then his manner changed. The exuberance vanished, replaced by shyness. Quietly, he placed the paper in her hands.
“Well? What do you think?”
Eulogy followed his gaze to the page now resting in her lap. Her eyes dilated.
“Why, this is me!” She studied a charcoal sketch of a beautiful young woman. She recognized her own features from the mirror, and yet this rendition was lovelier, breathtaking in fact. But the picture went beyond a neat rendition of her snub nose and plump lips…a deeper, intangible quality about the drawing…something about the open, curiosity burning in her eyes.
“Well?” Farrell pulled at his graying hair. “Do you like it?”
Eulogy had no need to spare his feelings. “This is amazing. I’m…speechless…”
“Speechless in a good way?”
“Oh, yes, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. This picture is so alive. And yet, I look so lost.”
In a flurry of activity Farrell skipped around the studio, causing Eulogy to cough as he pulled drawers open and snatched at brushes.
“I knew you’d see it! The scales have fallen from my eyes. The barren years wiped away and I can draw again.”
“Oh.”
“You have freed me. With you as my model, I can paint again.”
Her excitement cooled and died. “I cannot be your model.”
Farrell’s hand paused in midair. “Why on earth not?”
“Because,” she took a deep breath, “because it isn’t decent.”
Farrell’s face brightened. “Is that all? Piffle, this is high art. Not some penny peep show.”
Eulogy bristled. “My good reputation is all I have.”
“Don’t worry on that account. Mrs. Featherstone shall be your chaperone… she’ll be glad of the sit down.”
“But I must find a job.”
“Nothing could be simpler. I shall pay you. My paintings were once well regarded and will be again.”
“I’m really not sure.”
“Why your friend Mr. Huntley will surely be interested and that’s just the start. Sit for me for one week and if you still feel the same you can look for other work.”
Eulogy weighed the options. She remembered Huntley’s words that Mrs. Parker was a decent woman making a respectable living. Her stomach felt unexpectedly hollow as she recalled that afternoon in the carriage and of her condemnation of Mrs. Parker, a woman earning an honest living.
“Miss Foster, what say you?”
“Very well, but on the condition I keep my clothes on.”
“Oh that will never do.”
Eulogy gasped.
“That dress is hideous. Change it you must.”
Eulogy regarded her brown dress despondently. No wonder Devlin had not believed her, a country mouse in a coal sack.
“But I have nothing else.”
“Then Mrs. Featherstone shall make something, but that can be sorted later. Now, I will draw you in profile. Sit by the window, so the light catches your hair just so.”
In a daze, Eulogy did as she was bid. Her thoughts drifted as Farrell fussed about, angling her chin this way and that, and then stepping back and clicking his tongue.
“Mauvoreen, my work will create a sensation. You will be the toast of town.”
“I don’t want that.” Uneasy at the thought of London laughing at her, only her regard for Farrell stopped her getting up. “This isn’t for me. I had thought of earning a more conventional living as a nurse or companion.”
“That would be a waste. On my life you have come here for a reason. When I’m finished, Devlin will beg to be acknowledged as you brother. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Eulogy swallowed hard. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes, Mauvoreen, I do.”
Slowly, Eulogy relaxed. If nothing else, sitting for Farrell meant hours in his company and plenty of time to talk of Lady Devlin. Another thought sauntered through her mind. If what Farrell said was true, then Huntley might call and that alone was appealing.
Seated at the kitchen table, Eulogy frowned in concentration, following the tricky bodice seam. It had been Mrs. Featherstone’s idea to convert a tablecloth into a costume to wear whilst posing for Farrell. With more determination than inspiration, Eulogy worked a row neat of even stitches along the white linen.
“Gilbert, get down!”
A scrawny ginger Tom cat, with cheeks the size of apples, clambered up onto Mrs. Featherstone’s discarded sewing.
“Doesn’t matter if you’re her pride and joy, she won’t appreciate sooty paw prints.”
The cat rumbled a deep throaty purr as Eulogy scooped him up and deposited him on the floor.
“There, go catch a mouse.”
With a disgruntled flick of the tail the cat wove around the table legs and wandered off.
Eulogy resumed her sewing. The rhythm of the needle was soothing, and quickly she lost herself in the task until voices approaching down the hall, broke across her concentration.
“Ouch!” She pricked her finger. Her composure ruffled, every nerve alert to the muffled voice nearing the kitchen door.
Mrs. Featherstone entered, and then, there he was, silhouetted against the doorway, Jack Huntley.
“Miss Foster.” His voice was steady, offhand even, and Eulogy felt inexplicably disappointed.
“Mr. Huntley.” She searched for emotion behind the impassive mask. A devilish thought played across her mind, he hadn’t been able to keep away, an idea she quickly dismissed as ludicrous. Exuding an air of confident arrogance, he waited. Her mouth unexpectedly dry, Eulogy blurted out, “What are you doing here?”
Huntley arched a brow. “I had ten minutes to spare and thought to see how you fared.”
Eulogy couldn’t help but sweep her gaze from his shiny top boots, over long powerful thighs, lean hips and up across his a broad chest, to his face. Unperturbed, his eyes fixed on her and she felt vulnerable, as if he could read her innermost thoughts. After forcing out the breath that had been building in her chest, Eulogy managed a sm
ile.
“My apologies, Mr. Huntley. That was unspeakably rude. What I meant to say is that it is a surprise to see you.”
“I was solicitous for your welfare. Mrs. Parker was anxious to know how you are.”
Eulogy stared at him accusingly as she filled in the blanks from Mr. Huntley’s speech. His nonchalant tone hadn’t fooled her. What he meant to say was had she’d crumbled and wanted to return to Mrs. Parker’s. The assumption that she would fail without him was unexpectedly irritating.
“Please thank Mrs. Parker for her concern, but as you can see, I am well settled, thank you.”
“Mr. Huntley, dear, do take a seat.”
He nodded to the housekeeper and with easy confidence, arranged his long limbs on a kitchen chair. One dark brow rose slowly. His piercing eyes never leaving her face. “Perhaps it was a mistake to call…”
Eulogy forced herself to be civil, after all Mr. Huntley had done nothing but express concern, even if she detected derision. Mr. Huntley was abrupt, dismissive and impertinent, she ought to dislike him but couldn’t.
“Yet again I must apologize. It seems we got off on the wrong foot, forgive me.”
“Apology accepted.” Huntley nodded to the fabric. “What are you making?”
“A costume. Mr. Farrell is going to sketch me.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Huntley almost guffawed.
Eulogy bristled. “No, it’s true. He’s started drawing again.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.” Mrs. Featherstone interceded, “You’ll stop for a nice cup of tea, wont yer Mr. Huntley?”
Bright, moss-green eyes blinked back at her, as Eulogy realized he was waiting for her permission to stay. Her heart skipped and wondering if she’d misjudged him, cautiously, she nodded.
As the housekeeper fussed with the fire, Eulogy fought the discomfort Huntley stirred in her. His voice resonated deep in her body, and when he smiled she wanted to stare, to drink in that strong face, so masculine with its angles and planes, and yet somehow vulnerable. His presence filled her with unnamable sensations as she fixed her gaze firmly on the teapot.
They made an awkward party with Huntley gruff as a bear and Eulogy skittish as a colt. It didn’t help that she couldn’t make up her mind what to think. One moment he seemed high handed and arrogant, and the next a kind word to Mrs. Featherstone and her heart melted. Then there was the way his large hand folded round the teacup, that something so big could be so gentle did strange things to her insides.
Gilbert jumped onto his lap.
“No, Gibbe, get down this instant.” Eulogy leapt to her feet, trying to shoo the cat from a comfortable perch on Huntley’s long thighs and his immaculate buckskin breeches. But Huntley just smiled, ignoring the cat’s sooty feet, and started stroking the stripy ginger coat causing Gilbert to erupt into purrs.
“He really should get down. He’ll ruin your breeches.”
“It’s quite all right. Really.”
As if to emphasize the point, Gilbert bunted against Huntley’s hand as he found the sweet spot below the tom-cat’s ear.
“Oh. He obviously likes you.”
Eulogy sank back, nonplussed by this man who was overbearing, arrogant, domineering and yet strikingly handsome and utterly charming when he wished. That Huntley tolerated the old tom cat was unmistakably attractive and set Eulogy wondering if his bluster was just that…an act. His hooded eyes lifted to meet her gaze, and a moment of understanding passed between them that shook Eulogy to the core.
Chapter 8
From his well-appointed chambers in Bedford Square, Jack Huntley gazed over gardens gay with crocuses, daffodils and tulips. Velvet air, scented with hyacinths, drifted in through the open window, whilst on the window ledge, the courting pigeons raised an unholy billing-and-cooing. But Huntley’s thoughts were already focused on the day’s business as, solemn faced, he made for his dressing room.
He cast aside the silk dressing gown, pulled the crisp, linen shirt over his head, donned a silk waistcoat and arranged the folds of his neck cloth in the mirror. Huntley grunted. The effect was pleasing. A formidable, square-jawed gentleman and a man of business not to be trifled with.
But before he left, there was one last thing he must do and the ache in his chest intensified. After taking a deep breath Huntley turned to face the portrait, leaning against the tallboy. Even though he had prepared himself, it still robbed him of breath, his dark eyes grew darker and a small vein pulsed at his temple. He could stare at the painting for hours, trying to armor his emotions, but each time it was the same eyes that pierced his soul, and with no more weapon than a stare, made him her prisoner.
He, or rather Chaucer, had come across the picture by chance. A few weeks earlier, to his amazement, rumors circulated in artistic circles that Tristan Farrell was painting again. Out of idle curiosity Huntley had dispatched his man to Red Lyon Square to investigate, only to have Chaucer return bright eyed and burbling on about a stunning portrait of a brown-eyed woman. It amused Huntley to instruct Chaucer to buy the painting, for an anonymous client of course, as an investment in the resurgence of a once great talent. But the moment Huntley saw the piece he knew he could not bear to part with it.
So here he stood, like a priest before an altar. Goosebumps raised on his arms as he gazed at the pale-skinned beauty with softly parted lips and enormous brown eyes, warm and alluring, staring out of the canvas as if taken by surprise. The swirling background of chocolate browns served to heighten the woman’s natural beauty. The piece was unfinished and yet utter perfection. Only an artist of great foresight would stop when he had, capturing the moment when a great artist discovers his muse. Huntley’s instincts had been correct. The model was Eulogy Foster, and the painting as divine as the woman it depicted.
Of course Chaucer was right; it made sound business sense to sign Farrell up to The Gallery before news of his work reached the ton. If the gallery manager was perplexed by the owner’s sudden indecision, he knew better than to mention it. As if it was fate intervening, there soon appeared a hastily scribbled note from Farrell, offering The Gallery first refusal of his future work. Huntley laughed aloud as he read. Even when fighting infatuation, he wasn’t such a fool as to decline an opportunity to make money.
From the doorway, his valet politely cleared his throat.
“Sir, you carriage is ready.”
“I’ll be down in five minutes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Today was the day. Today was the day when he would discuss terms with Farrell. What if Miss Foster was there? His heart twisted. It had been three months since they parted in Farrell’s kitchen. Every day since, he reminded himself that she was Devlin’s leavings and likely large with his child. Huntley squared his impressive shoulders. So what? He was going there to arrange a contract and if he happened to meet the artist’s model then he would be polite and businesslike—safe in the knowledge that time had armored his heart against enchantment.
-oO0Oo-
Huntley knocked again. He waited, regarding the newly varnished door with a hostile glare. Doubtless it was, he reflected, financed by the ridiculous sum he’d paid for Miss Foster’s portrait. The last time he’d called had been a disaster. He behaved like an idiot, insulting Farrell and irritating Miss Foster and then there’d been that ridiculous episode with the cat. What had possessed him to nurse the tom cat and appear a total dolt he had no idea. Anyhow, it had clarified in his mind that Miss Foster did strange things to him and was therefore best avoided.
As he waited, behind him, Red Lyon Square buzzed with activity. Impatiently Huntley surveyed the bustle of hand carts and carriages, of flower sellers and milk maids, but in their midst a strange stillness caught his eye. A man leaning against the railings, his face obscured except for darting eyes, flitting hither and thither, despite his nonchalant pose. Something about the man struck Huntley as odd. Then it came to him. On such a mild day, why would a fellow wear a heavy overcoat, with a muffler pulled
up to his hat?
The man noticed him staring and glanced up and down the street, as if waiting for a friend. Huntley’s skin prickled. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the man was watching Farrell’s house.
Ridiculous! He snorted at the thought. What did Farrell have worth stealing? Then he remembered the shiny new front door and wondered just as Mrs. Featherstone opened the door to greet him with a beaming smile.
“Why, Mr. Huntley, sorry to take so long. My old legs you understand.”
“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Featherstone.”
The housekeeper seemed less careworn than on their previous meeting. Her curly grey hair carefully arranged beneath a new lace cap.
“Do come in, why don’t you.”
A sudden thought occurred to Huntley.
“Oh, see that man on the corner?” he pointed, but the man had vanished.
“The master said as he’s expecting you.”
Huntley cleared his throat. He’d half expected Farrell to be in his cups with their appointment forgotten. “Excellent. The kitchen is it? I can see myself through.”
“Oh no, sir! Oh no, Mr. Farrell is in his studio.”
Huntley’s insides turned hollow. “Mr. Farrell is working?”
“Oh yes, all the time now. Takes his meals in the studio, why he’d sleep up there if I hadn’t put me foot down.”
Huntley grunted. “And his…bad habits?”
“The strongest liquor to pass his lips is hot, sweet tea. Hasn’t touched a drop, not since Miss Foster’s arrival.”
Jack’s heart lurched.
“The girl is a marvel. Given Mr. Farrell a new lease of life, she has but I expect as yer’d like to see for yerself.”
With the heavy tread of a condemned man, Huntley followed the housekeeper on the long climb up to the attic.
The door to the studio opened on an atmosphere thick with turpentine and linseed oil. A large canvas on an easel, the beginnings of a picture sketched out in oil, took center stage in the light, bright space.
