by Grace Elliot
“What are you saying?”
Reluctantly, Farrell met her gaze and Eulogy gasped at the pain she saw.
“You’ve met Lucien Devlin, well there’s a saying. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Farrell shuddered. “In some ways, I can’t blame Lucien for how he turned out, look at the example he had. Hayden Devlin, your father, was a cold, cruel man, a selfish bully who thought only of advancement and status. He made Gabriella’s life a misery and tormented her as only a bully can. The one bright spot in her life darkness was her children. Especially the younger son.”
“I don’t understand. Do you mean Lucien?”
“No, there was another boy, Frederick, born between Lucien and you. He was like you, rather than his elder brother. Sensitive, adored by his mother but he was frail and suffered with poor health.”
“He died?”
Farrell looked grim. “Worse, and I’m only telling yer so yer understand and stay away. Haydon Devlin as good as killed his son.”
“Go on.” Eulogy felt revulsion, and yet had to know more.
“It irked Haydon that Gabriella loved Freddie so much. To him the boy was a weakling, cosseted by his mother and frightened of his own shadow. Which he was, but only because of his father’s fearful temper and the beatings. The boy was wary of horses and that more than anything, made Haydon angry. So one day Haydon forced Freddie onto a hunter ‘to make a man of him.’ Sets the poor lad at a fence far too big, he falls, and broke his neck.”
“But that’s dreadful.”
“And by all accounts Devlin boasted he was well rid of the runt that he had plenty more spawn in his loins for better lads than he.”
Bile rose in Eulogy’s throat.
“I blame myself for what happened next. I should have made Gabriella come away with me to safety.” Farrell wrung his hands. “But it would have ruined Gabriella and ended my career. So I did nothing. Told myself it was the noble thing to preserve her reputation.”
“What happened?”
Farrell closed his eyes and shuddered. “I was working in London, when Ella’s letter came. She was fearful for the babe she was now carrying. Devlin had done something to awful to confide in a letter and she was terrified lest she carried a girl.
“What you have to understand was that back then, at that time I was the toast of the ton, working all day, parties all night. I thought Ella exaggerated, emotions brought on by the pregnancy and replied, reassuring her that Devlin would come to love the child be it boy or girl. Her last letter said that she relied on me as her one true friend, and if ever her child needed help she would send her to me.”
Eulogy’s mind refused to work. “The baby she was carrying, that child, was me?”
Farrell nodded “Lord Devlin was abroad when Gabriella was brought early to child bed. Later I learnt the babe hadn’t survived, and I believed that to be the truth until you arrived on my doorstep.”
Cogs slowly clicked into place.
“Doctor Foster attended Gabriella’s confinement and many years later, when Mary fell gravely ill, she told me father loved my mother too much to bear the sight of me so he gave me away.”
“Your mother loved you enough to give you away, rather than suffer at your father’s hand.”
“But she died giving birth to me?”
“No, Mauvoreen. Happen Mary Foster wanted to soften the pain, but Gabriella went on to bear another babe, it was two years later giving birth to that child, a boy that she died.”
The room swam as things began to make sense. “So what Devlin said was right. No wonder he thinks me an imposter.”
“But remember, Mauvoreen, Lucien Devlin is as wily as he father. I imagine he knows the truth all right, but it suites him to deny it.”
“But why?”
“My guess is that Lucien Devlin is on his uppers. Word is he’s courting an heiress, and I imagine her ardor would swiftly cool if she knew how the Devlin men treat their wives.”
Eulogy clenched her skirt in her fists. “It was a shock, me turning up like that. And my only proof was a ring, which could have been stolen and then I get the facts wrong.”
“Mauvoreen, you forget your face. A person only has to compare Ella’s portraits to you. He knows the truth all right.”
“It was the shock. Lucien needed time to get used to the idea.”
Eulogy closed her eyes, hugging her knees. Despite the sadness of Farrell’s tale, an ember caught in her heart. Her mother loved her. She was the daughter of a noble woman who had done a brave thing to keep her child safe. And her brother? No matter what Farrell said, Lucien deserved a chance.
“Thank you.” She smiled at Farrell. “You are the first person to tell me the truth and I thank you.”
“Mauvoreen.” His face creased. “Take my advice. Don’t deny your feelings for Huntley, like I did for Ella. Tell him everything before it’s too late. He wants to protect you, only he daren’t let himself care.”
But Eulogy’s mind was made up. “If he can’t love me as plain Doctor Foster’s daughter, then I won’t use my bloodline to change his mind.”
“Then promise to let him be your friend, for my sake.”
She nodded slowly. “Friends with Huntley it is.” She flushed, even saying his name made her hollow inside, it would be hard to guard against such love. After taking a deep breath, she straightened her crushed skirts.
“Shall we continue?”
With a grunt Farrell reached for his palette.
“You know the pose, Mauvoreen.”
Resuming her seat, taking comfort from the familiar, she let Farrell angle her chin toward the light.
Chapter 11
There’d been no rain for weeks. At low water the stench rising off the Thames was enough to choke a man. The streets reeked of manure and rotten vegetables and the gardens become brittle in the relentless summer sun. In Grosvenor Square, with the window closed against the smell, Lord Devlin stared out whilst nursing a tumbler of whisky. In one gulp he downed the contents.
“The saintly Miss Washington!” He muttered. “How can she still not have decided? Needing more time, indeed! Pah! What’s wrong with the girl?”
His finances were in a disastrous state, it was with difficulty he had succeeded in pacifying them thus far. How much longer that would continue, only the devil knew. Anticipating the soothing gurgle of whisky against cut glass, he reached again for the decanter.
The footman cleared his throat.
“A Miss Foster to see you, Lordship. Are you at home?”
Lucien Devlin turned on him. “Damn and blast! Is there no peace? Very well then. Show her up.”
“As you wish, Lordship.”
In the few minutes it took to escort her upstairs, Lucien repaired his appearance. Hastily setting aside the glass, he smoothed he dark hair, and adopted an expression of benign concern. Satisfied by what he saw in the mirror, he sat at the desk and artfully picked up a quill.
Footsteps drew closer.
“Miss Foster, Your Lordship.”
Devlin rose to greet her and with his most charming smile.
“Ah, Miss Foster. I heard you were still in London.”
She regarded him steadily. “And why would I not be?”
“No reason, no reason at all, other than with no ties to keep you here.”
“You are mistaken, Lord Devlin. I have friends in London and am quite settled.”
Devlin guarded his temper.
“I’m pleased for you.” He sat, letting Miss Foster to feel disadvantaged before offering her a chair. “Sit.”
“Thank you, Lord Devlin.”
His mind seethed. Why couldn’t she just leave peacefully for the country? Damn it, even her calmness was irritating. He smiled benignly, surreptitiously, watching. Gone was the desperation of her previous visit, replaced by an aura of quiet determination—a striking woman and no mistake. No wonder that artist fellow, Farrell was it, had taken an interest in her. Pah! Posing, an artist’s model! Hell would freeze before h
e’d acknowledge her as his sister. No, best to get rid of her, permanently if need be.
Adopting the air of a busy man, he shuffled documents. Miss Foster met his gaze.
“Lord Devlin, I will get straight to the point.”
“I would be grateful.”
“Lord Devlin, have you thought further about my being your sister?”
Devlin stroked the quill against his chin. “My dear Miss Foster, I have dwelt at some length on the matter and my conclusion remains the same.”
“Which is?”
Devlin shook his head regretfully. “One, your facts are muddled and incorrect. Two, you have no proof. Three, I would know if I had a sister. Miss Foster, I believe you are sincere but misguided. I have no sister.”
Miss Foster’s eyes glittered. “Lordship, what if there was a way to prove the truth? What then?”
A pulse ticked in his ear, what game was she playing? Best hear her out. “Go on.”
“I’ve been thinking and there were legal documents drawn up by a lawyer, employed secretly by Lady Devlin. If we could trace that lawyer, he should have copies and may even remember the unusual circumstances.”
She leaned forward, studying him intently. Devlin’s head throbbed, damn it, she could have something there. For a long while he sat in silence.
“Very well. If I see written proof from a reputable source, then I will take your claim seriously.”
It almost seemed a shame, he reflected to lie to such a celestial creature, as her face lit up.
“Thank you, Lord Devlin.”
“I will make inquiries and try to find which lawyer mother used.”
Hope filled her eyes, Devlin had never despised anyone as much as Miss Foster. Naivety and trust were not features of a true Devlin, happen she took after their mother and she’d learn the hard way just like Gabriella Devlin.
Of course he’d search out the lawyer, he should have thought of it earlier, all those dry, dusty parchments and papers, such a fire risk.
Devlin smiled benignly. “And in return, might I ask a favor?”
“Yes, of course.” Her eagerness to please was truly pathetic.
“Might I ask who you have told about your claim?”
“In truth, no one. Well Mr. Farrell guessed but no one else. I thought it best that you were happy with the situation, before it became public knowledge.”
“Then Miss Foster, as a personal favor, please keep it that way for now.”
Miss Foster eyed him suspiciously. “On my honor I am no gossip.”
The golden rule of lying, Devlin reminded himself, was to stay as close to the truth as possible. “You mistake my meaning. It’s only that I hope shortly to propose to a lady on whom I have set my heart, but her father does not approve. Should there be a breath of scandal, I fear he would put an end to the match and my life would be over.” He touched his hand to his heart.
Miss Foster let out a sigh of relief. “I promise, I will tell no one.”
“As you say, let us first establish the facts.”
“I owe it to you as my brother.”
Devlin wanted to laugh aloud; it was too easy to manipulate Miss Foster, no sport at all.
“You have my gratitude, thank you.” Solemnly, he inclined his head.
But to his surprise Miss Foster hesitated.
“One last thing, Lord Devlin, and then I will take my leave.”
“By all means, speak.”
She bit her lip and for the first time seemed uneasy. “I have had letters. Letters of an unpleasant nature. Veiled threats even, suggesting I leave London.” With unexpected boldness she met his gaze. “What do you know of them?”
Devlin growled. “Miss Foster, I hope you are not suggesting.”
She looked startled. “No…no…Please forget I said anything.”
With feigned indignation, he started pacing.
“Madam, I have received you twice and listened with patience even though your suggestion is absurd. Have I not allowed you to talk of my dear, departed mother to raise memories both painful and private? What cause have I given you to give voice to such vile slander?”
Miss Foster also rose to her feet, her hands grasping at the empty air.
“Lord Devlin, I am so sorry. I meant no offence…I was mistaken. Please forgive me.”
“I think it best that you go now. Please tell Matley where I can contact you.”
With a whimper, Miss Foster picked up her skirts and left.
Devlin went to the window and watched from behind the curtain. As she hurried down the steps and across the square, only then did he allow himself the ghost of a smile. Women, he thought, are such pathetic, predictable creatures. Well, he’d just have to make sure that this one didn’t bother him for much longer.
After crossing the street, Eulogy made for the shade of the plane trees. The few people who braved the outdoors, moved slowly, their faces red in the heat. Her head began to pound. She had meant to reassure Devlin, not antagonize him. It had been a mistake mentioning the letters. Perhaps she should go back and apologize. Deep in thought whilst debating what to do, Eulogy thudded against a wide unyielding chest. Strong hands reached out, gripping her arms to steady her.
A familiar, deep voice sent heat washing over her skin.
“Why Miss Foster, is there a problem?”
Eulogy stared up into Jack Huntley’s hypnotic dark mossy eyes.
“I…I…was miles away.”
“That much is evident.”
For a long moment they stared at each other. The heat from his hands burnt against her skin and she glanced down. Reluctantly, he released his grip.
“What is the matter?” Huntley asked quietly.
Eulogy stared back. There were threads of gold in his dark eyes, which, at that moment, were regarding her with puzzlement. Her heart jumped alarmingly. Would it be so bad to under Jack’s protection? Shaken, she stepped away. Where Jack Huntley was concerned she could no longer trusted herself.
“Good day, Mr. Huntley,” she said curtly, half expecting him to follow, but instead he regarded her with a quizzical look.
“Good day, Miss Foster.” He bowed.
She tilted her chin in the air and departed, conscious of Jack’s stare buried between her shoulder blades. It was only when safely round the corner that Eulogy allowed her shoulders to slump, and longing gave way to the deep, inconsolable desolation of loneliness.
Chapter 12
A heat malaise hung over the sweltering city. Earlier that afternoon, at the same time Miss Foster visited Devlin, to spare the horses, Huntley elected to walk to The Gallery. His route led through Grosvenor Square, the grass dry as hessian matting. As he crossed the gardens a young woman, head down, hurried along and instantly his heart jumped in recognition. That chestnut hair, conker-bright, escaping a straw bonnet—he’d know it anywhere. Impulsively, he raised his hand and waved.
“Miss Foster!”
Distracted, her attention had remained rooted to the ground. The distance closed between them, and, exasperated, Huntley stood in her path. But rather than stop, she cannoned straight into his chest and rebounded with a cry. To stop her falling, he grasped her shoulders, but she struggled like a trapped animal.
“Miss Foster, it’s me, Huntley.”
Confused, as if seeing a stranger, she pushed his hands away.
“Miss Foster, is something the matter?”
“Let me be!”
With exaggerated slowness, as if to calm a cornered beast, Huntley stepped away.
“You seem distressed,” His voice quieted, “Miss Foster. May I be of assistance?”
Her eyes glistened overly bright.
“No, Mr. Huntley, you may not. Good day.” With a flourish of skirts, she flounced away.
Greatly unsettled, Huntley watched her go. A cold sweat prickled his back. Something was wrong, very wrong. Glancing around it occurred to him to wonder from where she had come. Inexorably his attention travelled to Devlin’s residence. As if
in answer to his unspoken question, a curtain twitched on the piano nobile.
“Devlin!”
Despite the heat, a chill settled on his bones. He ran a finger round the edge of his neck-cloth. Had Devlin not had revenge enough already, all those years ago? He felt physically sick.
He sought the shade of a tree and leaned against the trunk, his head spinning. What drew Miss Foster to Devlin? Then a new and altogether more unsettling question presented itself. Why did it feel as if his heart had been ripped out? He groaned aloud. She haunted his thoughts, he couldn’t sleep for want of her and yet when they met he was tongued-tied. In short, he had fallen in love.
Jack wormed his fingernails into the bark. What was to be done? A woman with no pedigree, if he proposed it would be the Caroline debacle all over again. His stomach cramped at the thought of the humiliation, he couldn’t face that again.
Sucking in a long breath of fetid air, Huntley pushed himself upright. Mechanically setting one foot in front of the other, he sought a remedy for the affliction that ailed him. Sufficient now that he had a diagnosis for his malady. For the time being strong wine seemed as good a medicine as any and so he made for the nearest tavern.
Five days later, the mid-morning light cut like shards of shattering glass through Huntley’s head. He groaned, and shielded his eyes, lamenting yet another night of alcoholic excess. His bedchamber spun in an alarming manner and the floor fell away as he staggered to his dressing room. Leaning heavily on the wash stand, head pounding, mouth dry, Huntley waited for the nausea to pass.
Rubbing his eyes and with a considerable effort, Huntley lifted his gaze to the oval washstand mirror and stared back at the stranger in the glass. It wasn’t so much that his features had changed, but the expression he wore. The penetrating mossy eyes that stared back had lost their self-assurance, in truth, he looked more like a lost boy than a man of business.
Experimentally, Huntley raised one black brow, then the other. Challenging the pathetic creature who stared back but despite the pounding in his temples, it was clear that the man in the mirror had lost his way. No longer arrogant and driven but melancholy, needy and sad. It hurt to look at himself and not just because of the hangover. He closed his eyes—and there she was, imprinted on his eyelids with her soft ripeness. Even the thought of Eulogy Foster was enough to unravel his composure and filled him with the strangest emotions. Only she had the power to render him speechless and shake his ridicule of love. One look from her, even to catch her scent on the breeze or hear her name, and he quivered with longing. He was no longer his own man, but merely existed from moment to moment in the hope of seeing her again.
