Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy) by Grace Elliot Read Free Book Online Page A

Five
     
     
    As the door clicked shut on Miss Foster, a vein ticked on Devlin’s temple.
    “Why? Why now?”
    How he had dreaded this day, and hoped it would never come. Nerves taut, muscles tense, anger thrummed through his blood. He balled his hands into fists. An intolerable pressure built in his head, until he could bare it no longer and lashed out, sweeping a priceless Severs vase from a side table to smash against the wall.
     “Think, damn it. What proof has she?”
    Cautiously, as if feeling for broken glass, he drew the gold and turquoise ring from his pocket and turning it over, his eyes shone with unnatural brightness. It was many years since he saw it last, but he remembered as a child, how the veins in the turquoise stones had fascinated him. He had loved it best of all his mother’s jewels, because on occasions she had let him slip it on his own finger, which made him feel like a pirate decked out in gold.
    He clenched a fist around the ring. In his mind’s eye he remembered the same ring on his mother’s tapered finger, reliving the bitter frustration of jealousy as she cradled baby Frederick, showering her love and affection on a weakling! How he despised her for that!
    It all came back to him, remembering how before his baby brother’s arrival, his life had been perfect. But Frederick had spoilt everything! It was only after his brother’s untimely death that Lucien was noticed again, even if his mother’s gaze was sad and disapproving, and nothing he did pleased her.
    But he was strong like his father, not weak like Freddie. He, Lucien, was a true Devlin and not a milk sop who took after their mother and would sully that name! How to explain a sibling given away at birth to society? He snorted. It was unthinkable! He would be a laughing stock in the ton, and he could not allow that to happen. Whatever madness had prompted his mother’s actions, plenty in the ton would whisper that the Devlin’s reputation for cruelty was not ill-founded.
    Devlin started to pace. What a bloody mess! He needed time to woo Miss Washington and then once she married him, his money worries would be over. But if he acknowledged Miss Foster, his courtship would be hampered. Besides, society would expect his sister to be launched on the ton and with no credit his disastrous financial state would be revealed!
    Devlin made for a walnut bureau, sliding a finger under the decorative trim, pressing the button that released a secret compartment. He tossed the ring inside, and pulled out a letter, yellowed and foxed with age. With barely concealed distaste, between finger and thumb he held his mother’s letter. For a moment his conscience pricked, but then his practicality reasserted itself. Devlin grimaced. Giving the child away had been his mother’s choice.
    He tapped the parchment against his lips and frowned. His mother’s letter made him sick, left to him in her will, a pathetic explanation of her actions. Typical! If he acknowledged Miss Foster it would be him who paid the price of his mother’s eccentricity—gossip, disgrace and financial ruin.
    Calmer now with his mind made up, Devlin made for the hearth. With grim satisfaction he fed the parchment to the flames, waiting until the edges darkened, curled and shriveled before releasing it into the heat of the fire. With a grunt, he reached for the poker, pushing the charred remains deeper into the hot coals until there was nothing left but ash.
    But one problem remained. What to do about Miss Foster? Devlin paced the room. Requesting her silence might work for now but a more permanent solution was needed. But what?
    First, he needed to know where she was staying and then have her watched in order to find the leverage to convince Miss Foster that a quiet country life was crucial for her long-term health. With grim satisfaction Devlin reached for the bell pull. Somehow, Miss Foster must be made to disappear.
     
    -oO0Oo-
     
    The deep, masculine voice resonated through