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 help me find him?”
Huntley’s voice growled low. “A name would be a start.”
Eulogy’s head spun, Huntley was regarding her in the most peculiar manner.
“The letter of introduction was stolen….”
Huntley’s eyes bored into her.
“But his name is Mr. Tristan Farrell.”
Huntley froze and was overtaken by a coughing fit. When the coughs subsided to splutters, the glance he exchanged with their hostess was not lost on Eulogy.
“Is something amiss?”
Huntley avoided the question. “Is there absolutely no one else?”
Eulogy shook her head. “No.”
“Then you will stay here with Mrs. Parker.”
Eulogy bridled. “Mr. Huntley, whilst I am grateful for your assistance, it is not for you to dictate my actions.”
“I think only of your wellbeing. Might I ask who Farrell is to you?”
How to answer when evidently she knew less about Farrell, than Mr. Huntley did? “My late mother trusted him.”
Huntley crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling. Something in his disapproval irked her.
“Mr. Huntley, what is wrong?”
“I assume your mother knew him some years ago?”
“What makes you say that? You know Farrell? Is he dead?”
“Yes, he’s alive. And oh yes, I have the misfortune to know him.”
She brightened. “Then you can take me to him?”
“Farrell is a shadow of the man he once was.”
“Then tell me what you know.” Really Huntley was being just too infuriating for words.
“If you insist, but it’s a sad story of a life gone to seed.”
“I promise not to swoon.”
Huntley glanced at her dubiously.
“Tell her, Jack,” Mrs. Parker interjected softly, “she ought to be told.”
“Very well, for your own good, I’ll tell you.” Huntley took a deep breath. “Years ago Farrell was a great artist, bordering on genius. It was he who created works such as The Fall of Troy. You recall the piece?”
“No, I’m afraid not. There are no galleries in Easterhope.”
“Ah, well, suffice to say they were inspirational, quite outstanding and then, something happened, no one knows what and overnight his talent dried up.”
“Oh?”
“Couldn’t paint a stroke. Word has it he searched for his lost muse at the bottom of a bottle. Now he’s a recluse, a pathetic soak who scrapes a living tinting prints for Gilray, and that’s only because Gilray feels sorry for him.”
Eulogy considered the news. What to do? Impose on Mrs. Parker and be beholden to Huntley, or, seek out the drunk who her mother once trusted?
“You know where he lives?”
“I do,” Jack said grudgingly.
“Then once I have changed, I would be obliged if you would direct me there.”
Huntley grew rigid with disapproval. “Very well, but if you insist on this foolhardy course of action, this time I insist on accompanying you.”
Eulogy was at loss as to decide which was more irritating, Huntley treating her like a child, or the way her heart jumped when in his company.
“Directions will suffice.”
“Listen to Mr. Huntley, dear. It is right that he escort you. After all, you don’t want a repeat of two nights ago.”
Eulogy quivered at the memory. “Very well.”
“Good.” Huntley rubbed his hands together. “But it is too late to visit today. I suggest we call on Mr. Farrell in the morning, when he is more likely to be sober.”
His dark eyes locked with hers, challenging her to disagree. With dignity, Eulogy nodded.
“Tomorrow it is.”
Chapter 6
Even with the benefit of a night’s reflection, Huntley’s low opinion of Farrell remained unchanged. The weather was kind for the time of year, a blank canvas devoid of cloud or sun, as Huntley handed Eulogy up into his carriage.
“Typical,” he muttered. “Devlin…and Farrell!”
“I beg your pardon?”
Under the scrutiny of Miss Foster’s liquid brown eyes, his mind went blank. “Nothing, just talking to myself.”
With a shrug, he took the seat opposite his erstwhile ward and folded his arms. What ailed him? The thought of Miss Foster alone in the city made him feel physically ill, tossing and turning all night. He’d even had second thoughts about putting her on the stage…all those other men watching and wanting her. His hands balled into fists.
“Mr. Huntley, are you in discomfort? You are grunting.”
“Me? No, of course not.” Huntley grimaced at her concern, to hide that his icy heart was slowly thawing. With brutal determination he forced himself to recall that this same chit had asked Devlin for help.
His blood seethed at the memory. Women were inconsistent, devious creatures and only a fool would believe Miss Foster to be different. To twist the knife he summoned the specter of Caroline Bloxham, tricked by her pretty face only to have his beating heart ripped out. No, that would not happen again, and especially with a woman below his social standing and linked to Lucien Devlin. He scoffed. Did Devlin seek to wound him a second time?
His gaze strayed to Miss Foster. Such natural beauty. He wasn’t a man who gave his time freely, and yet here he was acting nursemaid to a country chit.
With a ‘humph’ he pulled out his watch. Take her to Farrell, let her see what a soak Farrell was, and then she’d beg to return to Mrs. Parker’s clean, cozy home. Then he’d find someone to prepare the girl for the stage, sit back and reap the profits. Business as usual. Huntley forced the tension from his shoulders.
They made rapid progress, the streets nigh on empty with the ton still abed at this unfashionably early hour. Clearing Mayfair, driving east towards Holborn, the carriage turned sharply into Red Lion Square and slowed. A sorry, stone obelisk—the monument of a grieving widow—cast a somber shadow in the weak sun. Unprepossessing terraces flanked a dismal garden.
Eulogy grasped the sill and leant forward. “Is this it?”
Gruffly, Jack slid down the window as they stopped beside a peeling door. “This is it all right.”
After handing Miss Foster down, she grew pale and Huntley ignored the protective thunder of his heart. He set his jaw at its most arrogant angle and offered his elbow. His senses jolted at her touch and when her hand trembled, he gave a reassuring squeeze. Embarrassment soaked his bones as he scanned the street, hoping no one had witnessed his moment of weakness.
“Ready, Miss Foster?”
“Indeed.”
With distaste Huntley lifted the knocker and rapped. Hollow echoes died deep inside the house.
No one answered.
Huntley knocked again.
Nothing.
“Once more, then we go.”
On the final attempt, the door cracked ajar. An elderly woman in a widow’s cap peered out. Her crepe-like neck extending cautiously around the jam, putting Jack in mind of the tortoise he had once seen at a fair.
“Good day, Madam. Miss Foster and I have come to pay a call on Mr. Farrell. Is he at home?”
“Why of course,” the woman smiled benignly. “Where else did thee suppose he’d be?”
A sound rumbled deep in Jack’s throat. Eulogy glanced at him in appeal.
“Then might we come in?”
“Oh yes, silly me. Do follow.”
The interior exceeded the exterior’s lack of promise. Bare floorboards and plaster walls, Spartan and bleak. With no rugs to muffle their tread their footsteps echoed intrusively as they followed the housekeeper. A scrawny ginger cat shot past their ankles, his claws scratching the wooden floor as he fled.
“That’s just Gilbert, don’t mind him. He’s not used to visitors.”
Huntley’s nose wrinkled at the musty odor of mouse droppings, apparently the cat didn’t earn his keep.
“Mr. Farrell’s in the kitchen. Tis warmer than the parlor. Here we are, sir. I’m afraid Mr. Farrell hasn’t long been up.”
“It’s nigh on midday,” Jack said, “I didn’t have him down for society habits.”
He inserted himself in front of Eulogy. determined to greet Farrell with minimal courtesy and then remove Miss Foster with all possible haste.
A feeble fire fluttered in the grate without touching the chill. Close by stood a scarred pine table and two rickety chairs, the soot-stained walls witness to decades of dirt. Then the smell of stale beer hit. And in the shadows, slumped over the far end of the table, the husk of a man in his shirt sleeves and stocking feet.
Bracing his arm across the doorway, Huntley sought to shield Miss Foster from the sight.
“Mr. Huntley.” With gentle pressure, she lowered his arm. “It is quite all right.”
Humbled by her trusting eyes, powerless to resist, he stepped aside.
“Mr. Farrell?” Her voice soft and honey sweet with a gentle country bur. “Mr. Farrell, I have come a long way to meet you.”
Slowly, Farrell raised his head and stared around blankly. Huntley recoiled in disgust. The man’s nose was swollen and red, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, obviously struggling to focus he swayed and rubbed his face with a beer stained sleeve.
“Once the toast of the ton.” Huntley scoffed. “Now a sad, pathetic, relic…”
“Hush,” Eulogy said sharply. “He’ll hear you.”
“That’s what I intended.”
Eulogy approached the hunched figure. “Mr. Farrell, I hope you will pardon my calling, especially as we have not been introduced.”
Farrell swayed slightly.
“… A long time ago you knew my mother. It was she who suggested that I call on you…”
“Your mother?” Farrell licked cracked lips. His speech slurred, exaggerated by a soft Irish drawl. “I didna ken your ma.”
“Yes, you did, Mr. Farrell. It was twenty years ago.”
Huntley shut his eyes on the charade. Miss Foster was sadly deluded if she thought he was going to let her remain here... but then…to his surprise Farrell stared at Eulogy, his eyes fixed on her unblinking. A miracle of sorts was being revealed before him as a slow lopsided smile spread over Farrell’s face and he exclaimed.
“Well as I live and breathe! I’ll be damned!”
“Language,” Jack snapped. “A lady is present.”
“Aye, that there be.” Farrell’s eyes widened to a piercing shade of blue. “As I live and breathe, she’s the living image of Ella!”
But if Farrell’s reaction came as a surprise, Eulogy’s alarmed Huntley even more as she grew pale and grasped at the chair back for support.
“Miss Foster, do you feel faint?”
“I’m fine thank you…just a little overwhelmed.”
Then Huntley saw it, the scales peeled back from his eyes. Of course! Miss Foster said Farrell knew her mother twenty years ago. And how old was she? Not short of twenty herself!
What sweet irony that this goddess was the offspring of Farrell’s loins. He almost laughed aloud: mistress of his arch enemy and illegitimate daughter of a drunk who he despised. It was beyond tolerance! He’d see Miss Foster settled then forget her and drop the plans to put her on the stage. The damage to his self-esteem simply wasn’t worth the price.
“Mrs. Featherstone, did you ever?” Farrell turned to his housekeeper. “As I live and breathe I niver thought to see such a t’ing.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.” Mrs. Featherstone hummed happily, as if such revelations were an everyday occurrence in the Farrell household. Chair legs scraped on slate as Farrell rose unsteadily. Leaning heavily on the table, shakily he extended a hand.
“Forgive the state o’ me, Mauvoreen, but I wasna expecting visitors today, you understand.”
Huntley sneered. “Today nor any other day by the looks of it.”