by Grace Elliot
Huntley shot a glance at the ormolu clock and groaned. How had it come to this, that his time keeping had become so shoddy?
“Damnation, is he here already?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Chaucer has been entertaining the Duke these past ten minutes.”
“Blast! Give my apologies. Tell them I have been unavoidably detained and will attend shortly.”
“Very good, sir.” Williams bowed, relief written large on his face.
“Oh, and one last thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you a sweetheart?”
Williams couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d been shot.
“Well….yes, sir.”
Huntley gestured vaguely at the air. “And when you have a falling out, how do you make the peace?”
“Oh, that’s easy, sir.” William’s responded brightly.
“It is?” For the first time in days, Huntley felt a smile dawning.
“Oh, yes. Sweetmeats does it every time with my girl. Very sweet tooth she has, you see, sir.”
Huntley’s face fell. “Thank you, Williams. That will be all.”
Somehow, Huntley doubted candies were the answer to his troubles with Miss Foster.
When troubled, Huntley immersed himself in work, which was precisely what he did as Farrell’s exhibition drew close. Time flew and before he knew it the launch came and went. Miss Foster had agreed to attend and the grand opening went without a hitch. She had been like a shining light amongst the dull, dusty critics, as she charmed them with her natural grace.
That afternoon, as Huntley headed back to The Gallery, he felt irrationally excited at the prospect of seeing her once again. On the corner of Bond Street, the barouche rumbled to a halt. Huntley drummed his fingers and, after a short eternity, lowered the window to shout to the coachman.
“What’s the hold up?”
“A crowd in the road, sir. We ain’t going to get to the door, sir, least not until this lot clears.”
“Why the disturbance?” With sudden unease, Huntley shifted in his seat.
“From what I sees, there’s a right ol’ fuss outside The Gallery.”
Huntley became alert.
“Wait here.”
He reached for his cane and jumped down. Alarms sounded in his head, every instinct screaming that Miss Foster was in danger.
“Keep the carriage close.”
Huntley pushed his way through the crowd, past jewelers shops, snuff sellers, tea-dealers and engravers, intent only on getting to The Gallery. Sweat broke across his brow.
If anything happened, he’d never forgive himself. He had debated whether to tell Eulogy about the attempts of her life and decided against it. Now, he cursed himself, he should have warned Eulogy, told her that the phaeton accident was not an accident at all, set her on her guard.
He elbowed a man in a tail coat aside.
“I say!” The man blustered to Huntley’s back.
Noise pressed in from every side. Laughter, chatter and good natured banter. On tip-toe, straining to see above the top hats and bonnets, Huntley glimpsed a red-faced Chaucer. He seemed to be standing on something, waving his hands to get the crowd’s attention. A hush fell as Chaucer spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Patience, I beg you! The Gallery is currently full to capacity. It would not be safe to allow anyone else inside. But if you would be so good as to let people out.”
Huntley nearly swooned with relief. Nothing had happened other than Farrell’s exhibition was a wild success. Laughter rattled in his throat.
“Farrell and Foster. A sensation eh?”
He grew calmer, faces that moments earlier seemed sinister were now merry and bright. Huntley glanced around. Street vendors plied their trade amongst the well-to-do, selling posies and pies. Why even a boy with a performing monkey had arrived! Huntley threw back his head and laughed.
Mopping his brow, Jack edged forward.
“Excuse me, sir. Thank you, madam.”
Suddenly, a hush fell. Huntley looked up as The Gallery door opened. Then he to saw her and gasped
Serene in white silk trimmed with green braid, a cashmere shawl about her creamy shoulder, Miss Foster stepped forward and smiled. The crowd let out its breath. The murmur of admiration grew to a crescendo. With natural grace, Miss Foster raised a gloved hand and spoke.
“Please, good people, let me through.”
The enchanted throng let out a collective sigh and parted. A path appeared.
Graciously she inclined her head, acknowledging faces in the crowd as she left the gallery steps. Jack watched spellbound. Gentlemen murmured her name, ladies ogled her gown. Here was the woman: gentle, beautiful and kind and the ton loved her! His heart lifted.
“Excuse me.” Jack pushed forward. But as drew near, he saw an unsmiling man making his way to Eulogy’s side. Apprehension clouded his joy. Huntley stared at the man. Freshly shaved with brushed hair, he was no vagrant or thief, so why feel alarmed? Then it came to him. The man’s expression was detached, malice glinting in his eye, studying Miss Foster as if she were prey.
“Miss Foster!” Huntley roared. “Watch out!”
Still several feet away, his voice carried above the crowd. She glanced up and, recognizing Huntley, her face lit up.
“Not me! Watch out!”
Metal glinted in the autumn sun as the man raised his arm. The blade arced through the air.
“Behind you!” Jack bellowed.
Time moved in slow motion as Eulogy twisted and fell.
Chaos erupted.
The crowd panicked, scattering in all directions, blocking the way. Jack’s chest locked as he ran toward Eulogy. And yet there she was, struggling to her feet. Hat askew, as again the assailant raised the knife.
Charging like a lion, in one bound Jack cleared the final few feet. Surprised, the man hesitated, at which moment Jack’s fist made firm contact with his nose. Then Jack saw Eulogy, deathly pale and swaying, knowing if she fainted here she’d be trampled underfoot. Jack lunged forward and caught her limp form just as her knees buckled. Swinging her into the safety of his arms, Jack glanced around.
In the melee, the assailant had slipped away.
Back in the carriage, Huntley drew the blind and placed his cheek against her lips, feeling for the shallow tickle of her breath. There! Another jerky breath. His heart somersaulted with relief. She lay limp against his chest, he checked her clothing. He could see no blood; she seemed more shocked than wounded.
“Drive! Go now!”
“Yes, sir!” The coachman whipped up the horses.
Clutching Eulogy to his chest, Jack ached with protectiveness. With her face white as parchment and dark lashes against ashen cheeks, he raged inside. Beyond doubt, someone wished Miss Foster harm. He had no proof of whom, but a hired thug certainly suited Devlin’s cowardly style.
“Has he not destroyed me once over? Why hurt the woman I love?”
There! He had said it. Jack Huntley loved Eulogy Foster. For better or worse, the die was cast and he could not live without her.
Chapter 15
Eulogy had no idea how long she lay unconscious in Jack’s arms. With a contented sigh, she snuggled deeper into the masculine security, as someone stroked her hair. She wondered if she was dreaming, a delicious dream where she felt safe and wanted. No—a rum sort of dream, where wool scratched her cheek.
She forced her weighted eyelids open and blinked. She stirred, staring into dark hazel eyes filled with such tenderness that she felt faint all over again.
“Oh, it seems this is becoming a habit.” She tried to wriggle free, her limbs still sluggish and heavy. “Waking in your arms.”
“Miss Foster? Eulogy, can you hear me?”
“Jack.” In a dream-like trance she touched his face. His stubble bristled against her satin gloves. To be cherished thus, perhaps she was dead after all. She stopped wriggling and relaxed against the wide expanse of his chest.
“You’re safe
now.” His grip tightened.
“What happened?”
“A man attacked you.”
She whimpered.
“No one will hurt you now.” Jack fluttered kisses against her gloved palm. “From now onwards I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Perhaps it was the shock, but Eulogy insides became shivery and hot. She struggled to be sensible, to recall the reason for keeping Jack Huntley at arm’s length, but everything grew fuzzy as his lips caressed the tenderness of her wrist. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the delicious sensation. He leant over her, his breath warm on her cheek she tilted her softly parted mouth upwards. She sensed the distance close, and her lips ached with desire and then felt him draw away.
Her eyes flew open.
A tortured expression contorted his face. “Forgive me. Taking advantage like this it’s unpardonable.”
Eulogy swallowed hard. “There is nothing to forgive.”
He grunted. “The man who attacked you?”
“Who was he?”
“I was hoping you might tell me.”
Eulogy shuddered. “He was trying to kill me, wasn’t he? You saved my life, again.”
Jack tensed. “But this time it was no random attack.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am and Eulogy, I need you to be honest. Could this be Devlin’s doing?”
“No!” The idea seemed ridiculous, and yet…
Gently, he loosened his arms and lowered her from his lap.
“Miss Foster, may I ask an impertinent question?”
Jack’s sudden formality was not lost on Eulogy and it chilled her.“Ask away, but whether I answer is another matter.”
Anguish flashed across his face. “Are you, or have you ever been, in love with Lucien Devlin?”
“What!”
“Are you all right?”
“It’s just the idea is so preposterous.”
“It is?”
She blustered, searching for words the right words. “I have never had, nor ever will have, any romantic intentions toward Lucien Devlin. Nor he to me. Now, does that answer the question?”
“Thank you.” And yet he didn’t move.
“Was there something else?”
Jack’s fascinating lips moved closer.
“Miss Foster, I should very much like to kiss you.” His voice crackled.
In answer, desire washed over her.
“I’d like that.”
Gently he cradled her chin, possessiveness flowing through his fingertips. Eulogy shivered at his thinly disguised desire. Never had Eulogy felt so endangered, and yet so safe.
He leant in, brushing his lips to hers, every nerve bursting to life. She inhaled his masculine musk and cologne like a drug that fired her body. He hesitated, and so reaching up, she took his face in her hands to draw him close.
Untutored as she was, as his mouth claimed hers, she groaned. Her lips parted willingly, as his tongue slid into her mouth. Her senses took flight at the slow caress of his mouth—the unmistakable touch of love. His tongue probed deeper, licking heat shimmied through her body.
“Clearly, I am in still peril...” She gasped at the delicious danger of his closeness.
But now he held her, drawing away with a quiet smile.
“Miss Foster, for a long time now I have chastised myself for defaming your character as I once did. I was confused.”
“Confused?”
“Yes, you make me lose my reason. But now I can no longer deny what matters.”
“That is shock. It will pass.”
“No, it will not. Miss Foster it is my dearest wish to court you.”
Eulogy stiffened. “But what you said to Miss Cartwright, about my being a business asset?”
“You heard that?”
“Yes.”
“Then, I owe you another apology.”
“It occurs to me you are still confused.”
Jack groaned. “I cannot excuse my words but how I wish them unsaid. Now things begin to make sense.”
“Really?”
“Truly, but how to convince you?”
“Perhaps I will find the truth in your kiss?” The idea had appeal.
“In that case.”
He took her hand, pressing it against his chest. Even through his jacket she could feel his heart’s wild tattoo. Cradling her head, he tilted her chin upward and as she stretched upward, seeking his lips, the carriage juddered to a halt.
“What now?” Huntley peered around the blind.
“Ah, dear. It would appear I am home.” Eulogy smiled innocently. “You will come in for a cup of tea, won’t you? It’s the least I can do to thank you for saving my life…again.”
“Really?” Jack growled. “I can think of better ways than tea.” Reluctantly, he released her.
-oO0Oo-
A few days after the attack, a troubled-looking Eulogy opened the front door.
“Thank you for coming.” A sob caught in her throat. “I hoped you’d be able.”
Never before, not even on that first meeting in Grosvenor Square, had Eulogy been so glad of Mr. Huntley’s reassuring presence. Dressed for the opera, complete with cloak and top hat, he looked magnificent, if a little odd, with a large wooden box clasped under his harm.
“As soon as I got your note, I cancelled everything. It is not like her to be so out of sorts.” His face dark with concern, he followed Eulogy into the hall. “How is Mrs. Featherstone?”
“Not good. I just don’t understand. She was so fond of Gilbert, but he was a very elderly cat and his passing was to be expected, but she’s gone to pieces and just sits there sobbing.”
“Is she in the parlor?”
“No, the kitchen. She won’t leave his spot by the fire. It was all Mr. Farrell could do to remove the body, for burial. She won’t eat, or drink. We’re quite at our wits end. I didn’t know who else to call.”
The kitchen in Farrell’s house had lost its customary cheer. The elderly housekeeper sat hunched by a cold grate, clutching a hairy blanket to her chest as tears spilt unchecked down her wrinkled cheek. Eulogy and Huntley exchanged glances. He nodded reassuringly, placed the box on the table and removed his cloak.
Tenderly, Eulogy put her arm round the old woman’s bony shoulders.
“Mrs. Featherstone…there’s a visitor to see you.”
The housekeeper sniffed and started rocking, her eyes full of pain. Eulogy shook her head and stepped away. Huntley stepped nearer, and then, unexpectedly dropped to his knees.
“Mrs. Featherstone, Gilbert didn’t suffer. He slipped away in his sleep. Peaceful as you like.”
The housekeeper grew still. Encouraged, Huntley reached out and took both her hands in his, hands that seemed like fragile leaves in his great paws.
“Gilbert was your cat?”
Mrs. Featherstone glanced up, her rheumy eyes liquid with tears.
“Yes.”
“Did you have him from a kitten?”
Eulogy held her breath, expecting Mrs. Featherstone to start howling again. Really, what was Huntley doing? He was meant to be distracting her, not making things worse. Watching the housekeeper in pain was tearing Eulogy apart. Over recent months she come to regard her as a dear friend and she felt so helpless, seeing her in such a state and being unable to comfort her more than she could bear.
But then a miracle happened. Slowly, the housekeeper nodded. “Yes, it were me late husband, Mr. Featherstone…as gave me Gibbe.” Her grip on Huntley’s hand tightened. “Such a feisty kitten he were, all fluff an claws. Bit of a wild cat to start wi’. Albert caught some lads trying to drown ‘im, so it were no wonder he was a spitfire to start with. It were Albert who tamed him said as how we owed it to the little scrap to show people ain’t all bad. I miss him so much.”
“Gilbert?”
The housekeeper sniffed. “Mr. Featherstone.”
“And with Gilbert gone, it’s brought it all back?”
; She nodded. “It’s like I’ve lost the link to my dearest, Albert.” Another sob caught in her throat.
Quietly, without fuss, Huntley knelt up on his knees and held the grieving woman to him.
“There, there. Let it all out.”
Five minutes, and a very soggy handkerchief later, Huntley released her bony back and sat up. Mrs. Featherstone smiled weakly. “I’ve made a reet fool of meself, ain’t I, lad?”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Mekkin such a fuss over an ol’ cat.”
Eulogy’s heart swelled, as Jack gripped Prudence’s hand. “But he wasn’t just any cat, he was special.”
“Aye, he were that.”
“And you should be proud, because you looked after him he lived to a big age.”
“That he did, for sure.”
“Mr. Featherstone would be proud.”
“Aye, happen so.”
“And so, if only today, Chaucer found a kitten, snuggled up to his dead litter mates in the gutter. What would you have him do? Should he leave the kitten there?”
Prudence’s mouth worked up and down. “The poor mite. Well I hope as your man brought the kitten inside an’ gave him some milk.”
Huntley stood. “He did better than that since I know someone who will take best care of him, Chaucer gave him to me. What do you think?”
Understanding dawned on the old woman’s face. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, I could try and look after him but I’m so busy and bound to forget. The poor thing could go hungry.”
Eulogy stood speechless as Huntley placed the box on the floor and lifted the lid. At first, she thought the kitten had escaped. Then, with a tiny mew, a pink tongue appeared in the darkness.
“Well did you ever? So small!” Eulogy gasped. “Oh, do come and see.”
Slowly, Prudence leant forward.
“Oh he’s adorable.” Mrs. Featherstone reached into the box and lifted out a scrap of black fur that settled in the palm of her hand. “The poor soul, he’s nowt but skin and bone.”
Quickly, wrapping the kitten in Gibbe’s old blanket, she tucked him under her arm and stood.
