“I slept tolerably sir, thank you.”
Huntley couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen such a vision. The reason for his visit flew out of his head and an uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Miss Foster weakened first, lowering her eyes to pluck at that brown sack of a dress, but nonetheless, there was a dignity in her bearing that caused sympathy to soften Huntley’s mood.
He recalled his wits and scowled.
“Sir?” Her voice was soft, with a faint country accent. “I thank you sincerely for your actions yesterday evening. Without your intervention, goodness only knows what would have become of me. Thank you.”
It took more strength that a boxing round at Gentleman Jackson’s to fashion a reply.
“I was glad to be of assistance.” He was almost completely drunk on the sweep of her dark lashes. “No doubt you wish to be reunited with your acquaintance, as soon as possible,” he said gruffly.
Miss Foster grew pale and that puzzled him.
“Did those ruffians take much?’ Jack asked.
Miss Foster seemed to shrink before him. “Items of great sentimental value, letters of introduction, documents….and all my money.” A sob hitched in her throat that almost rent Jack in two. Clearly he must be on his guard against this woman. In his experience no woman was truly vulnerable, not for nothing had he nurtured a heart of stone.
“The money, of course will be long gone, but perhaps for the papers I can make inquiries.”
Miss Foster clasped her hands together. “Really, they are terribly important. The key to my future. I would be forever in your debt.”
Something stirred in his groin at the image of this delightful creature being indebted to him.
“And in the meantime I will cover your expenses.”
Fire entered Miss Foster’s eye. “Sir, I cannot accept such an offer.”
It seemed Miss Foster was not only foolish but obstinate to boot.
“I think what Mr. Huntley was trying to convey in his own clumsy way,” Mrs. Parker said smoothly, “was that you can’t just wander the streets. It would be on his conscience, and on mine. But if you have other plans, no offence was meant.”
“Oh,” Eulogy slumped. “I’m sorry. I must seem ungrateful. It’s just that I reason to hope I will be made welcome at Grosvenor Square. Mr. Huntley’s assistance simply isn’t necessary.”
Huntley’s eyes narrowed, his mind suddenly on alert. The girl was either playing a game or hiding something.
“Your relative lives there?”
Biting her lip Miss Foster nodded.
Jack stirred uneasily. She had been turned away from Devlin’s, a bachelor. If her relative was staff, then she would have called at the tradesman’s entrance. Going to the main door implied she had business with the master of the house and yet dressed like a country bumpkin, what possible link had she to Devlin?
A chill settled on Huntley’s bones. No decent woman would call on a notorious womanizer and blackguard like Devlin! There could only be one likely explanation, the seemingly oh-so-innocent Miss Foster must be one of Devlin’s conquests, perhaps even his mistress.
Huntley reeled. Why he had blamed himself for that kiss when clearly she had invited it? How could I have been so taken in? That kiss…she had seemed untutored, and yet it just went to prove how deceitful women are. A familiar chord chimed deep in his soul.
Think, he commanded himself. Perhaps some other explanation; he knew nothing about her and shouldn’t condemn her out of hand. Think! Where does she hail from?
Easterhope.
Devlin’s country estate bordered Easterhope.
Huntley’s mind raced. It all made horrible sense. Devlin visiting the estate and taking a fancy to Miss Foster’s country innocence. Miss Foster had followed because she was ruined. Perhaps even with child. Damn it, he’d let a pretty face cloud his judgment, but no longer.
“You wish to return to Grosvenor Square?” he said tersely.
“Indeed.”
For once he hated being right, that disappointment unexpectedly bitter.
“Tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock sharp. I will send my carriage to collect you.”
“I had thought…today.?”
“Tis too late for polite calls.”
Her face fell, but she nodded.
“Tomorrow then, three o’clock sharp.”
One more day and his responsibility would be absolved. Huntley gritted his teeth. Why did it feel like throwing a lamb into the lion’s den? He ought to be relieved, so why did he feel so wretched? On his honor, he should warn her, after all she had no one else to advise her.
Against his inclination, he grunted. “Have a care, robbers and thieves are not always clothed in rags, nor do they just inhabit dark alleyways. If it is Devlin you seek, be warned he is not the gentleman he appears.”
There, he had warned her and now whatever happened was up to Miss Foster. He made to stand. She was no longer his responsibility. So why then, did the thought of Devlin pawing this divine creature turn his stomach so?
Leaving Farm Street, Jack Huntley scowled. His shoulder stung. He suspected it was bleeding again and all because of a brown-eyed chit who’d dallied with a man he loathed.
Turning the corner, a flower seller pushed a posy at him.
“Fur yur sweetheart, mister?”
Jack glared back and she shrank away.
“Only offerin’ mister!” she muttered after his wide shoulders.
But Jack didn’t hear, lost in thought as he turned toward Bond Street.
Fifteen minutes later, warmed by the brisk walk, he arrived outside The Gallery and he began to feel calmer. He inspected the front windows with a client’s eye, and could find no fault. The matched Romney’s looked superb—not for sale of course, that would be too vulgar—but hinting at the treasures within. Huntley’s gallery was exclusive, a client had to pass muster and only then might he commission one of Huntley’s stable of great artists.
“Afternoon, Mr. Huntley.” The doorman touched his hat. Huntley nodded approvingly as everything seemed in order—the man immaculate in dark green livery and polite to a fault.
“Morning, Johnson. Is Mr. Chaucer about?”
“In his office, sir.”
The gallery’s manager, Chaucer, was a visionary like Huntley. Between the two of them they had designed a unique gallery with largest plate glass windows in London. An airy, uncluttered premises where the pictures had space to breathe and sing, so different from the crowded jostling frames at less exclusive galleries.
Huntley respected Chaucer’s judgment, a strange little man with milk bottle glasses and impeccable taste. A man of great knowledge and tact, capable of guiding wealthy patrons without them realizing his influence. In Chaucer’s hands a towering ignoramus came away congratulating himself on making a shrewd investment that would make him the envy of his peers.
The gallery smelt reassuringly of lemons, with an undertone of linseed oil. Huntley inhaled deeply, his agitation subsiding. Here he was king and knew true from false.
“Ah, I thought I heard you arrive.” Chaucer emerged from a back room with the dazed expression of an academic disturbed at his studies. The two men shook hands warmly.
“I wasn’t expecting you again today. Is there a problem?”
Jack faltered. Why had he come back? The question was sobering indeed, especially as the answer involved running from Miss Foster. Absent mindedly he rubbed his shoulder and winced.
“I forgot to inquire if the tryptic had been hung.”
Peering quizzically over the rim of his spectacles, Chaucer nodded
“Of course, I took the liberty of arranging the pictures in the Green Room. Shall I show you?”
“You have much to be getting on with. I can find my way.”
Huntley relaxed, grateful as ever for Chaucer’s tact over his employer’s sudden interest in a minor artist’s work.
“Very good, sir. Viscount Bushart has an appointment within the hour and I have preparations to make.”
“Please. Don’t let me detain you.”
Chaucer bowed and withdrew.
Having expressed interest in the tryptic, Jack felt committed to viewing them. He didn’t usually exhibit religious works, but there was something about this group of paintings that he’d liked immensely. Unusual pieces, they would command a good price with the right buyer.
The Green Room suited them, this smaller space lending a solitary, almost meditative air to the work. Silently impressed by Chaucer’s insightful hanging, Jack rubbed his chin. Really he should show his appreciation more often, good men like Chaucer, reliable and honest, were hard to find. His thoughts flipped back to Miss Foster. Huntley gritted his teeth. Like as not the chit was none of those things, and yet her memory had pursued him deep into his sanctuary and it bothered him.
To the casual observer it appeared Mr. Huntley was lost in contemplation over the paintings, whereas in reality he saw nothing. Instead, he stood stock still, analyzing his reaction to Miss Foster. She seemed unaware of her natural beauty and she clearly possessed spirit. She was educated, but a stranger to town and it ways, with a soft voice that sent shivers down his spine. The germ of an idea began to take root. Why that voice alone, if she sang as prettily as she talked, would cause a sensation on the stage. Huntley fidgeted. The girl was an uncut diamond; if she could be facetted, and trained as an actress she would be a sensation.
Immediately, Jack’s mood lifted, relieved that it was his business acumen that had been on the alert after all, and not his heart.
He weighed up putting Miss Foster on the stage. His reputation as a patron of serious art was coming along nicely, did he really want to dabble in the world of dancing girls and actresses? Perhaps through an intermediary, an agent, on a purely business arrangement, that could work.
A bespectacled face peered around the door. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”
Huntley nodded. “Fine thank you, Chaucer. Couldn’t be better.”
-oO0Oo-
Rising Venus-like, from a hip bath, Eulogy reflected on the recent past. London, she concluded, was a city of contradictions. Since her arrival two days ago, she had been turned away, attacked and robbed, but also met with great kindness from strangers.
Wrapped in a towel, she considered her forthcoming call. It had been a mistake calling on Devlin when she had. What footman worth his salt would not turn such a disheveled creature away? In his place she would likely have done the same.
Ten minutes later, dry and dressed, Miss Foster’s fledgling optimism dipped as Mrs. Parker surveyed her with a frown.
“Your relative lives in Grosvenor Square?”
“Yes.”
“Are you well acquainted?”
“Not at all.” Eulogy hung her head.
“Then I’m afraid, my dear, that dress simply will not do. No self-respecting coal merchant would receive a guest who was dressed in that old sack.”
“Oh.” Eulogy swallowed hard. “It’s all I have. My luggage was stolen.”
“Hmmm, then we shall improvise.” Mrs. Parker walked around, measuring her by eye. “I am taller but our figures are similar. If we take up the hem I have a suitable gown.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“And why not?” Mrs. Parker regarded her sternly.
“I am a stranger to you and owe you so much already.”
“Hush now, I insist. Come with me.”
Eulogy followed Mrs. Parker into her private dressing room. Self-consciously she averted her eyes, trying not to stare at the gilt cherubs cavorting round the walls. Mrs. Parker threw open a trunk and began rooting through the contents. With a flourish, she held up an elegant muslin day dress, cream with pale blue spots.
“Just the thing,” she shook out the folds. “Not quite this season but pretty enough and quality always tells. Now, if I can find the right petticoats…”
“It’s beautiful,” Eulogy sighed, as the soft fabric whispered in her hands.
Mrs. Parker beamed. “Let’s see how it fits.”
Eulogy disliked casting aside her mourning but had no choice. Shedding her woolen dress, the muslin fell in a graceful column, glancing off her hips and grazing her legs with airy softness. Freed from the weight, Eulogy felt light, untethered and daringly exposed. The gown’s bodice was low, fitting snugly over the bust, fastened at the back with a row of seed pearls.
“A few minor alterations,” Mrs. Parker clucked approvingly, “and then here, see for yourself.”
Eulogy turned toward the mirror and saw herself dressed as a lady of quality.
“How can I ever thank you?”
Mrs. Parker fussed around the hem. “It needs taking up a couple of inches….and somewhere I have matching gloves…and the most darling shawl that is just perfect.’’
“You are too kind.” A lump formed in Eulogy’s throat.
“Nonsense. And shoes. The blue silk slippers should do it.”
“I couldn’t,” Eulogy objected weakly.
“Hush, shoes, and what else do we need? Hair! That plait is a crime against such a natural blessing, I insist on dressing it properly.”