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

Eulogy’s soul and her head jerked up. As she saw the commanding Mr. Huntley bearing down from across the road, she marshaled her wits. It would not do for him to witness her distress.
    “Miss Foster, my carriage is nearby.” His eyes burnt into her skin, challenging her to decline. Too drained to argue, Eulogy accepted his arm and beneath her fingertips, the steel of his muscle felt reassuring and, like it or not, his terse presence was a comfort.
     
    They travelled in silence. Eulogy pretended a fascination with the passing streets as she fought back tears. She lamented not her penniless state, nor her homelessness, but the distress she had caused her guardians. It pained her to remember how she had despised the country life and nagged to visit London. How her rebellion must have hurt them and now they were gone and she had what she wanted, the achievement rang hollow.
    She sniffed, and to her surprise, Huntley held out his handkerchief.
    “What will you do now?” he asked softly.
    Eulogy met his eyes. “Return Mrs. Parker’s dress.”
    “And after that?”
    Eulogy faltered, she had been asking herself the same question. “Find a family friend…”
    “Forgive me, Miss Foster, my intention is not to probe,” he continued gently, “but Mrs. Parker won’t mind you staying with her, and besides, I have a business proposition for you.”
    Eulogy listened blank faced. Mrs. Parker had warned Huntley was not a sentimental man, but the reality was sobering.
    “That’s most kind, but I can look after myself.”
    “You haven’t heard what I have to say.”
    “Whatever it is, the answer is no. Once I find mother’s friend’s address…then all will be well. Mother wrote very warmly of him.”
    “Him?” Jack tensed.
    “Yes, he.” Eulogy bit her lip, thinking it best not to tell Huntley that the letter of introduction had been stolen and she had forgotten the man’s name. Despair cloaked her shoulders, her hopes founded on a man whose name she had forgotten. Mercifully, Huntley did not to press her further as a wave of home sickness, for a life that no longer existed, threatened to engulf her.
    But rather than succumb to self-pity, she rallied. She had skill as a nurse, or she could work as a governess or housekeeper and when she traced her mother’s friend, she could lodge there. If only she could recall his name.
     
    Concentrating hard, she pictured Lady Devlin’s letter of introduction. She had studied it a hundred times on the coach from Easterhope. Closing her eyes she visualized the sprawling writing, how the p’s and d’s were elegantly looped. The letters slanted from left to right-the long sweep of a capital T. Eulogy’s heart accelerated. That was it. The name began with a T and his surname with a similar sweep. An F! An Irish name! In a blinding flash it came to her. Tristan Farrell. The man’s name was Tristan Farrell!
    Now all she had to do was to find him.
     
    -oO0Oo-
     
     
    In Mrs. Parker’s parlor, exhaustion washed over Eulogy. With heavy arms she accepted a cup of jasmine tea.
    “That’ll help dear.” Mrs. Parker smiled.
    “Indeed. Tea it is.” Jack raised an ironic brow, as if he’d rather have brandy.
    Eulogy’s hands shook, rattling cup against saucer. Huntley made her uneasy, pacing the parlor like a caged animal as every now and again his unreadable eyes slid toward her and then jumped away again.
    “So, Miss Foster, what now?”
    Gone was the earlier concern, replaced by a stony chill. Inwardly she flinched, wishing she didn’t need his help, but what other course had she? Her heart thudded, it was like appealing a block of granite.
    “Mr. Huntley, I fear I must impose on your good nature, one final time.”
    His face remained impassive. “Of course.”
    “The friend I mentioned in the carriage resides in London. It was my late mother’s wish that I call on him.”
    “Very well.”
    Eulogy paled. “I don’t know his current address and I wondered if you would