Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy) (29 page)

In buoyant mood, Jack strolled to The Gallery.

“Good morning, Johnson.”

Not expecting anyone of quality to arrive on foot, the doorman jumped to attention and Jack chuckled.

“Good mornin’, Mr. Huntley. And I believe congratulations are in order, sir, on your forthcoming marriage.”

“Indeed they are.” Basking in the anticipated glow of matrimonial contentment, Jack paused. “Tell me, how is Mrs. Johnson?”

“I believe as she is well enough, sir, albeit living with another man.”

“Oh.” Huntley looked startled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Once inside, a quick glance sufficed to assure Huntley that The Gallery had been well managed in his absence. He let out a contented sigh. Ostensibly, Jack had come to inspect the books, but in truth a certain painting haunted his mind. As he made his way through the first two viewing rooms, like an alcoholic scenting gin, he licked his lips. Huntley’s feet led him to stand before a large gilt frame. The painting before him was ludicrously expensive and yet he anticipated it would still sell.

Reverentially, Huntley raised his gaze, bracing himself for the impact of Eulogy’s brown eyes staring into his soul from the canvas. Pride thrummed at his core that this glorious woman with her wit, kindness and courage was to be his wife. Huntley whistled under his breath. The painting was even better than he remembered. A moment of youthful exuberance captured, her cheeks rosy with exertion and the wind whipping her skirts, hinting at the lithe body beneath. Farrell had exceeded himself.

As Huntley drank in Eulogy’s image, he felt sick to think of the risk she had taken to find him. Like a recurring nightmare, thoughts of Devlin intruded on his happiness. Huntley ground his teeth. The urge to call that coward out was an obsession, but he must resist for Eulogy’s sake he had given his word.

“Well, if it isn’t the shop keeper himself.” A voice slick with insincerity broke into Huntley’s daydream. He froze. It was as if his thoughts had summoned Devlin. He made no attempt to hide his contempt.

“Devlin,” he growled, “You are not welcome here.”

Lazily, Lucien wafted a hand so that a gaudy diamond ring glinted in the light.

“I need a daubing to cover a stain and thought you’d be glad of the trade.”

Huntley clenched his fist. Only Eulogy’s words, begging self-restraint, stopped him flattening Devlin there and then.

“They’re outside your price range and besides, I only sell to quality.” His head pounded with the effort of control. “I don’t want a reputation for selling to the undiscerning.”

“And by that you mean?” Lucien feigned confusion.

“You know full well.”

“Oh.” Lucien arched a brow. “Anyhow these paintings aren’t to my taste. Far too common. Why,” he gestured toward the wall, “why would anyone want a painting of a whore on their wall?”

Jack counted to ten, balling his fists, clinging to the final shred of restraint.

“Do I take it,” Lucien flicked open an enamel snuff box. “That little gutter snipe has convinced you of her pretense?”

Jack shook as he stepped forward. Taller than Devlin, his closeness should have been intimidating. Devlin ignored him, arrogantly lifting the snuff to his nose.

“The only reason you are still breathing is that Miss Foster begged me to leave you alone. She has more honor in her little finger than you have in your entire body. Now leave my gallery and never return.”

“Ah.” Devlin nodded significantly. “Poor, man. I pity you.”

“Get out,” Jack barked.

“Taken in by a pretty face, and a few tears. Telling you what to do, what to think. She is lying of course.”

Jack took a deep breath and forced his shoulders down from around his ears.

“It’s no good, Devlin. I won’t descend to your level. If it’s your reputation that concerns you, Miss Foster is ashamed of being a Devlin and has no intention of pressing her very legitimate claim. As for me, I pity the poor woman you trick into marriage and see it as my duty to forewarn her of your true character.”

Lucien grew red. “You will do no such thing!”

“A-ha, that’s it isn’t it? Run out of money? Plan on getting your hooks into an heiress? Well let me tell you that after your little stunt, I shall make sure no decent woman will be seen talking, much less marry, you.”

Sweat beaded Devlin’s brow. “Well at least I’m not marrying a whore and a conniving one at that.”

Jack’s vision blurred, blood whistled in his ears. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Devlin was shaking now, lips pursed and tense as he narrowed his gaze to Farrell’s painting. “No decent woman poses like that. Why your precious Miss Foster is a schemer. Modeled herself on Lady Hamilton I shouldn’t wonder. Snared a soft-heart fool to lend her an air of decency then cuckolded him for a better man. Who will Miss Foster leave you for? Who will be her Lord Nelson? For she won’t be content with you for long, just like dear Caroline.”

Blood sang in his ears. White rage coursed through his veins. Eulogy was no Caroline and it was up to him to protect her reputation. A mist descended over him. He was conscious of nothing but broiling anger. How he didn’t kill Devlin there and then he wasn’t able to explain.

“Honor? And that from a man who denies his own sister, plots to murder her. So help me I’m going to teach you about honor, a lesson you’ll never forget, and end this nonsense once and for all.”

Chapter 22

The sun rose on a misty morn, the air heavy with unshed rain. In the half light, bleary eyed scullery maids coaxed fires to life whilst the quality lay snug abed. Eulogy was wide awake and dressed, her stomach churning as she alighted from a hackney carriage by Hampstead Heath. An ashen-faced Farrell had woken her with the news he’d learnt from the milkmaid, who’d heard it from the butcher’s boy. Talk of a duel, two gentlemen of the ton, one newly engaged. Her heart had shattered anew.

The older, less agile man descended and paid the driver. The smell of coal soot from the distant city stung Eulogy’s nostrils, coating her dry mouth. Desperately Eulogy cast around the rolling heath with its glades, woods and walks, her heart sank for it was so much bigger than she remembered.

“Which way, Farrell?” Her chest heaved, fear robbing her of breath. Spread before them across the city skyline, the pinkish blush pushed aside the remnants of night.

“Yonder, that stand of trees to the right. Beyond that is a clearing.” In his hastily risen state, Farrell’s dress was even more disheveled that usual but his blue eyes wide and alert.

“Please, hurry!”’ Eulogy called over her shoulder. “Tis dawn already.”

Please, she prayed under her breath, please don’t let it be too late.

Lumbering behind and puffing heavily, Farrell waved.

“Go, Mauvoreen, don’t wait for me.”

With a whimper Eulogy picked up her skirts and ran. The trees an impossible distance away, hunched like gnarled old men, forbidding and eerie. After the thaw, the ground was muddy, causing Eulogy to slip and slide. Like a recurring dream of running in which she got nowhere, stubbornly the trees came no closer. Dread bound her heart in iron bands, a clawing fear the made her hair stand on end.

With fresh resolve Eulogy sprinted toward the copse now looming, gray-green and spearmint-blue in the swirling mist. She stopped short. Tangled briars barred the way, no way in. Sobbing with desperation Eulogy skirted the perimeter, then, at long last finding a narrow track, recently trodden down, she plunged headlong into the wood.

Fleet as a thoroughbred hunter she ran, her skirts pulled up round her knees, brambles clawing her stockinged legs. Oblivious to a thousand cuts she ran, jumping fallen trees, ducking branches and leaving snags of watered-silk on tugging thorns. Plunging onward hawthorn whipped at her arm, but she intent only on reaching Huntley before it was too late.

She took heart as eventually the path began to widen and heard Tristan’s heavy breathing behind her. A smell of leaf mold and damp soil, the mulch of autumn leaves recently disturbed, fresh tracks on the muddy path. Ahead she glimpsed a glade and ignoring her burning lungs, plunged onward. The canopy of bare branches thinned out at last and through the trunks, a clearing appeared, with a huddle of shadowy figures, their legs swathed in the mist.

Blood surged in her ears. Faltering, legs heavy as lead, she tried to shout but no voice came. She saw a small group, with two men back to back, now moving apart with measured paces. Her hand flew to her mouth. A nightmare come true, watching helplessly as Jack went to his death. Ever since their return to London, despite his assurances, foretold in her dreams, she had known this moment would come. He’d changed, grown grim and unreachable if she mentioned her fear.

A strangled cry gurgled in her throat, stumbling on, trying to close the distance between them. Anger fired her now. How dare he do this to her? He knew how she abhorred violence, to be robbed of her mother and then lose Jack, she would not tolerate it.

She burst through the hazel copse and tried to shout a warning, but could only whimper like a puppy.

Two men pacing with measured steps, Devlin facing her, Huntley away. The former glanced up, she swore he saw her and smiled, and with deliberate intent turned early. Through the mist she saw Jack turn…but Devlin fired. The flint flashed, the smell of cordite, then a deafening boom. Eulogy saw everything in slow motion–how Devlin squeezed the trigger on an unprepared man and the horrible surprise on Jack’s face.

“No!” Eulogy lurched to life, as Jack swayed and dropped his pistol. He touched a hand to his chest and winced, looking puzzled by the strange wet redness running down his fingers.

“Jack!” Hobbled by twisting skirts, she ran, covering the last few yards as his knees buckled.

 “Eulogy? What are you…doing here?” He licked his lips, his eyes glassy as he struggled to focus. “I feel… a bit…queer.” His words drifted as all color drained from his face and he crumpled to the ground. Icy fear gripped Eulogy’s bowels.

“Hush,” she threw herself down. “Keep still, let me look.”

Biting her lip, she unbuttoned his jacket, the fabric already sodden, her fingers sticky with blood. Every heightened sense was focused on Jack, the metallic smell of blood, lips tinged with blue, the gasp of his breathing and the fluttering eyelids. For a moment she became two people in one. The outwardly calm Eulogy, whilst inside she wanted to howl like a dog. The rational side won out.

Breathing deeply, she started to distance herself and think of Jack as a patient. Trembling, she forced her churning mind to think. What would Doctor Foster have done?

Instantly she knew. With a silent curse, she tore a length of cotton from her petticoat and formed it into a pad.

“Jack, listen to me. I’m going to stop the bleeding, do you hear?”

He nodded weakly.

Eulogy loosened his waistcoat and almost swooned at the sight of his crisp linen shirt stained ruby red, wet and glistening with spilt life blood.

“Jack, can you hear me?”

His eyelids fluttered.

“Listen to me, stay awake!” She entreated, stroking his clammy forehead. Around her she was vaguely aware, of men shouting and pounding feet, and prayed help was on the way.

“Mauvoreen? What can I do?” Puffing heavily, Farrell leant over her shoulder.

“His neck cloth, remove it and use as a bandage.”

“Aye.” With a glance of respect, the artist did as he was bid.

Taking a deep breath, Eulogy eased the sodden shirt from Jack’s chest.

Blood welled up. With a whimper she pressed the linen pad firmly against the ugly hole, and ignoring Jack’s groans forced herself to count to sixty and then again, once, twice, three times before cautiously raising a corner of the compress.

The fabric was soaked, but from there was no fresh blood flow.

“Good. Now I’m going to bandage you.”

She almost laughed with relief at Jack’s cry of pain for it meant he was still alive. A fresh pad in place, Eulogy’s mind raced. Jack was so pale and shaking.

Shock!

Urgently, Eulogy waved to Farrell. “Your jacket. Now!”

She threw the jacket over the prone figure and shuddered.

“Jack, Jack can you hear me?”

His lay still, eyes shut, with a waxen pallor to his skin.

“Wake up, please wake up.”

A gentle hand gripped her shoulder. “Jack’s second has ridden for a surgeon.”

“How long?” she sobbed.

“Five, maybe ten minutes at most. The second took the precaution of having a doctor waiting near the Heath.”

“Devlin fired early.”

Tristan grimaced. “I know.”

Eulogy nodded and turned back to Jack, feeling for his pulse.

“Is he…?” Tristan’s voice cracked.

“No, thank goodness, there’s a weak pulse.”

“Thank the Lord.”

“Now all we can do is hope and pray.”