“Prepare yourself. I could barely believe it at first…but on my late mother’s grave I swear it is the truth.”
Lucien stared, as if seeing her for the first time.
“If you claim to be pregnant then I warn you, I’ll deny everything.” He raised a brow. “Mind you, I would have remembered a face like yours.”
“Sir,” she replied, indignantly, “have a care, I am your sister!”
Devlin brow rose into his hair. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sir! As God is my witness, what I say is true.” She gripped a chair back. “Sir, I have… had papers…private letters and a signed affidavit by my mother’s maid and a letter of explanation written by Lady Devlin herself.”
Lucien Devlin whispered so low, she strained to hear. “What papers?”
“Proof of my claim as your sister…only they were stolen…that first night I called.”
“How very unfortunate.” Lucien’s eyes turned glacial, “You must understand. A complete stranger turns up claiming to be my sister, a sister of whom I have no knowledge, who has no provenance but claims documents were stolen. I am entitled to be skeptical.”
“The proof was stolen,” she echoed lamely, as Devlin frowned.
“Well, if there is nothing else?” He reached for his walking cane, the fine emerald ring on Lord Devlin’s thumb glinting in the firelight. Eulogy’s heart jumped with relief, how could she have forgotten it—Lady Devlin’s ring!
She twisted the gold band set with turquoise and pearls from her middle finger.
“Here,” she said, holding the ring like an offering. “This belonged to Lady Devlin…our mother. See! It’s inscribed with the date of her marriage. It was placed in trust to the woman who raised me, Mary Foster, to be given over on the event of hardship or death, to prove my identity.”
With a disbelieving glare, Lucien snatched at the ring, turning it round so the inscription caught the light.
“This ring,” he frowned, “proves nothing. Even if it is genuine, any light-fingered housemaid could have stolen it.” With a slight of hand he slipped the ring into his waistcoat pocket. “I have no sister.”
“The ring, sir. Please return my ring.”
“Your ring? Just now you claimed it to be Lady Devlin’s—in which case, as her sole surviving relative, the ring is now mine.”
Desperate, Eulogy plunged on. “Think sir, I beg you. When you were seven years old, you remember Lady Devlin being large with child?”
Lucien grunted. “Perhaps, but I also recall that child died at birth.”
“No! The baby, a girl, survived. Do you remember the name of the family physician at that time?”
“No. Why on earth would I?”
“The doctor’s name was Foster.” She regarded him pleadingly, hoping to see the dawning light of compassion but instead his features darkened.
“What of it?”
Eulogy wrung her hands. “Doctor Foster and his wife raised me as their own after Lady Devlin died giving me life.”
Lucien Devlin narrowed his eyes. “Now I know you are lying. When I was seven, my mother gave birth to a still-born child, but Mother recovered and two years later gave birth to a boy, who outlived his mother by four weeks. She died of child bed fever two weeks after that boy’s birth. I was nine, and if you doubt my memory, there are gravestones to prove it.”
“But Mary Foster told me…” Eulogy’s head began to spin—Devlin seemed so sure.
“Miss Foster, you are misinformed.” Devlin tugged heartily on the bell pull.
Eulogy felt confused beyond reason. Mary Foster never lied. There must be an explanation. She had read the documents and beyond doubt she was Lord and Lady Devlin’s child. Her mind raced. Lucien was a boy at the time, perhaps grief had confused him? Perhaps the young Lucien had closed his mind to his mother’s loss?
“Miss Foster, your visit is at an end.”
“On her death bed Mrs. Foster told me I had a brother and I’ve seen the letters.”
“Which were conveniently stolen,” Lucien said patiently. “Miss Foster, I believe you to be in earnest, but misinformed.”
“Lord Devlin, this has come as a shock. I appeal to your kindness, I only wish to learn more about my mother and seek shelter.”
Lord Devlin threw out his arms in exasperation.
“Madam, you are too cruel. I don’t know what game you play, but raising the specter of my dear departed mother for your own gain, it is too much. I must insist you leave.”
The footman appeared.
“I shall return with proof.”
“Very well.” Devlin gripped the mantle shelf, his knuckles shining white. “Very well, Miss Foster. I shall put this down to grief over the recent loss of your step-mother. I am not an unreasonable man, and if you can furnish me with proof then I will hear you out. But in the meantime, on your honor I ask for your silence. You understand how distressing it would be if ill-founded gossip about my late mother started to circulate?”
“Of course.” Eulogy gasped. “I would not dream of saying anything. You have my word.”
She felt adrift and alone. Her brother’s disbelief was like being bereaved all over again, and yet perhaps there was hope, Devlin had the ring. Perchance he would dwell on its significance and wonder how she came by it. Strengthened, she took her leave and in a few days she would call again.
Until then, the void of an unknown future yawned. For without her brother’s protection and with no money of her own, heaven only knew what she would do.
-oO0Oo-
Huntley waited to see Miss Foster enter Devlin’s residence and then ordered the coachman to drive off. Settling back against the leather upholstery, he congratulated himself on dealing with this awkward situation with minimal disruption to his schedule. And yet his conscience prickled. Did he truly believe Miss Foster was safe? He sat forward on the seat.
“Devlin is a carouser, a user of women…”
He thumped urgently on the carriage roof.
“Hell and damnation…take me back to Grosvenor Square.”
Too restless to sit still, Huntley promenaded round the gardens. He walked with the agitation of a swarm of bees seeking pollen.
“How many virtuous women call on a gentleman unchaperoned?” He quizzed himself. “Answer: none! That wide-eyed innocence is just an act and one I would do well to remember.”
On his third pass round the gardens, a movement caught his eye as Devlin’s door opened and Miss Foster appeared.
Unaccountably, his heart lifted, but Miss Foster seemed distressed. Her face chalk white as she hurried down the steps. All thoughts of remaining aloof forgotten, Huntley decided to tear Devlin limb-from-limb if he’d harmed her in any way.
Chapter 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 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!