Miss Prestwick's Crusade (13 page)

A few minutes later, after splashing a few drops of water on her heated cheeks, she made her way downstairs to the storeroom above the laundry area. With her she carried a sheet of paper and a pencil. While it behooved her to make a complete catalog of all the works of art in the house—a daunting task in itself—she felt it necessary to deal first with the imminent damage threatened by the steamy heat coming from below. Reaching her destination, she crouched over the paintings, moving them from their stacks against the wall. She sorted them by those the most, then the least, damaged.

She had been engaged thus for a half an hour or so when she became aware of another presence in the room. Startled, she looked up to behold Stanford Welladay standing in the doorway, his arms folded, his face a thundercloud of disapproval.

"Busy, are you?” he sneered, observing her surprise. “I just thought I'd drop in to see how you're progressing."

"Why, I've barely started.” Helen stirred under his glare. “But, as you say, I am quite busy and shall probably be so for some time to come."

There was a moment's silence while Mr. Welladay advanced into the room and stood above her.

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to, Missy,” he growled at length.

Helen sat back on her heels. She had been made well aware that the dowager's brother was not one of her supporters, but his blatant attack came as a shock. With some effort, she maintained her composure.

"And what would that be, Mr. Welladay?” she replied calmly.

"Why, you're trying to foist a bastard brat on Edward— on all of us—as the ‘true heir’ to the Camberwell title!"

"I'm not trying to foist anyone on anybody. William is Christopher's son, and—"

"Ho! I'm sure he is—Chris's by-blow!"

"Chris married my sister in a legal, British ceremony. You—"

"Now, that I don't believe for a minute, and I'm not going to let you pull the wool over Edward's eyes. He may be a spineless fish, easily swayed by feminine wiles, but he has me here to stand beef for him."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Mr. Welladay. I am sorry if you view me as interfering in your own work on the collection, but surely we can accomplish the rest of the task together."

Mr. Welladay's only reaction was a malevolent growl. Helen sighed.

"Why do you find it so hard to believe that Chris might have married my sister?"

"Because I knew the young whelp. I can easily picture him tossing up your sister's skirts round her ears, but marriage?"

After a moment of stunned silence, Helen rose to face her adversary. “Mr. Welladay,” she grated, “you are speaking of my sister, and I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head."

An expression of surprise crossed his plump features and he stepped back. “Um. Well, perhaps I spoke too harshly, but surely you cannot blame me for my suspicions. You must admit your story is as full of holes as an old stable blanket."

Helen drew up every bit of cool authority at her disposal.

"All I am prepared to say to you is that I am telling the truth. Chris and Trix were married, and William is their legally begotten son. I am sure proof will be forthcoming soon. All that is lacking, after all, are the marriage lines, and they are recorded somewhere. We merely have to wait until Edward's people have completed their investigation, when it will be shown that William is the twelfth Earl of Camberwell."

Apparently, Helen's attempt was neither as cool nor as authoritative as she had hoped, for Mr. Welladay merely raised an eyebrow.

"Edward, is it? How cozy. Which brings me to another point. With regard to our working together—that is my plan exactly. You have hoodwinked my nephew, but you haven't pulled the wool over my eyes regarding your designs on our treasures. I mean to keep a weather eye on you while you catalog and mend and whatever else you're up to. And I believe I'll set my own investigation into motion. I would be most interested to learn your history, Miss Prestwick, and more about this alleged business you've been conducting with your father. Yes, indeed. Miss Prestwick, or whatever your name is, you have a pretty face, but, as they say, pretty is as pretty does."

At these words, Helen reeled back as though from a mortal blow. The room spun around her, but with a monumental effort, she drew herself up into a position of icy outrage. “You're being ludicrous, Mr. Welladay. Now, if you are through spouting cliches, I have work to do. If you will excuse me."

She turned her back and bent once more to her task. A few moments later, footsteps tramped away from her, and the door slammed.

Helen slumped to the floor in a trembling puddle. Dear God, now she was for it! What was she to do? Lord, it would take approximately five minutes’ worth of investigation on Mr. Welladay's part to discover the true state of her father's business and why it had come to such a shambles.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The next few days passed in relative harmony. The Camberwell ladies treated Helen with wary cordiality. Even Uncle Stamford seemed to have pulled in his horns. Helen concluded her inspection and repair of the paintings stored above the laundry room.

Edward fell into the habit of inviting Helen to his study for an hour or so every evening for a briefing on her progress that day. Helen realized with some dismay that she was beginning to look forward to these secluded, lamplit interludes.

"You've been spending quite a bit of time with Mr. Beresford."

Helen started and gaped at Barney, who had stopped by for a visit with William to Helen's little attic workroom. William crawled about on the floor, playing with a new rattle, a gift from Lady Camberwell.

"Um, well, it is necessary to consult with him fairly-frequently on my progress."

"Of course."

Helen bridled defensively at the skepticism in the older woman's tone. “Oh, for heaven's sake. Barney, it is not as though we are engaged in clandestine assignations."

Barney said nothing for a moment, then remarked quietly. “That would certainly be unwise."

Helen gasped. “What in the world has got into you? Have I ever been the sort of female who engages in dalliance with gentlemen?"

"No, but—my dear, he is not just any gentleman, is he? That is, it is not too difficult to discern that you have become very, er, fond of him in a short time."

Helen colored. “It's true that I like him a great deal more than I thought I would, but—well, really, Barney. I scarcely know him. Believe me, I have learned to my sorrow that those one counts as friends may prove as the bent willow. I shan't make that mistake again. In fact"—she hesitated—"I don't think I mentioned this to you, but I learned some disturbing facts the other day.” She related the tales told her by Artemis on the day they had chosen her come-out gowns.

"Hmm.” Oddly, Barney did not seem discomposed. Pausing to scoop William away from an oily cleaning rag that had attracted his attention, she pursed her lips. “I can set your mind at ease there. I heard the same tales—from Mrs. Hobart. She and I have become great cronies, you know. The occurrences took place just as you said—only Artemis had the handle at the wrong end. It was Chris who locked Edward in the closet and Chris who killed Edward's puppy."

At Helen's gasp, she continued. “I didn't want to tell you. Speaking ill of the dead and all that.” She pleated her crisp, black muslin skirt with her fingers. “Actually, while young Christopher always possessed the ability to make others love him and do his bidding—Mrs. Hobart says he could talk a dog down from a meat wagon—in many ways it sounds as if he was a most unpleasant child."

"Oh, my,” Helen breathed. She felt sickened as she contemplated what life might have been for her sister with this golden-haired charmer. At the same time, she was swept with a wave of relief, as though a burden had been lifted from her soul. She shook herself. Just because Edward was innocent of harassing his cousin or torturing puppies did not mean she could let her guard down with him. She must still view him warily. She sighed. It was surely becoming harder and harder to do so.

Helen picked William up and settled him in her lap. He had’ somehow acquired a large smudge across his nose and one cheek, and she and Barney laughed as they bent themselves to the task of repairing the damage.

On Tuesday next, as scheduled, the Camberwell entourage set off under a cloudless sky for the residence of the Viscount Gilford. While chatter was as voluble as ever among the females of the group, Edward felt he was drowning in his own discomfort. Good God, he would rather be hung by his ankles over a pit of crocodiles than spend an evening with the Morwent family—particularly with Elspeth Morwent. And even more particularly in company with Helen Prestwick. Who was looking particularly fetching this evening, he noted. He was no expert on ladies’ fashion, but he felt that her gown—of some sort of silky material the color of forest leaves—set off her beauty in spectacular, yet respectably modest, fashion. Had she taken special care tonight? he wondered. Did she view the dinner party at Gilford Park as yet another gauntlet to be endured? Her support, Miss Barnstaple, was absent, having been temporarily felled by a migraine. To his left, Uncle Stamford sat silently, disapproval writ large on his normally placid features.

"Dear Frances is so anxious to show us what she has done to the music room,” burbled Lady Camberwell. “She says we simply won't recognize it."

"I doubt that, Aunt,” said Edward waspishly. “No matter what you hang on the windows and the walls or whatever, the piano is bound to remain, as well as the harp and the violins and the music case. They're a dead giveaway."

The dowager stared at him for a moment before retorting briskly. “You are being deliberately obtuse, Edward. One of your little jokes, I suppose. Of course, I merely meant that we shall be pleasantly surprised. I don't know why you must always take one up so."

Edward became aware that the carriage had passed through the iron gates of Gilford Park, and he turned his attention to the evening ahead. It was bound to be unpleasant—to say the least, he brooded. The air would be thick with expectancy, with both the viscount and his lady—and most likely Elspeth, as well—creating islands of seclusion for Elspeth and himself. His instinct was to paddle as fast as he could for more heavily populated shores.

The Morwents were perfectly nice people, if one did not require any degree of intelligence in one friends. No, that was unfair. The viscount and his wife and offspring were not unintelligent, it was merely that their thoughts rarely rose above neighborhood affairs, the management of their home and estate and, most distressingly, whom they would snaffle as marriage partners for their offspring. He had pretty much resigned himself to marriage with Elspeth— yes, perhaps he might have taken the leap tonight—for he knew it was his responsibility to the title to do so. Now, however, with young William heaving to over the horizon, there was the strong possibility that Ned Beresford would be folding his tent and moving out of Whitehouse Abbey, as titleless as the day he'd been born. Even more—Lord, how could he possibly consider proposing to Elspeth, now that Helen Prestwick had plunged into his life like a comet?

Hold on, there, laddie, he thought startled. Was he thinking . . . ? Good God, he hardly knew Helen Prestwick—if that was even her real name. How could he consider spending the rest of his life with her? She might be a conniving, skillful adventuress. Yet, this sudden, utterly intriguing idea of taking her back to Briarwood as his bride fairly took his breath away. On the other hand, even if she proved to be honest as a vicar, as he believed, and her claim proved valid, she was a diamond. Why would she consider marriage to a dull country squire? She was obviously accustomed to traveling in cosmopolitan circles. On yet another hand, she seemed to like him. She had put out a hand in friendship.

Which she might have done to the village smithy.

Still . . .

The next moment, he made a decision, that seemed so right and forceful that it might have been inserted in his mind by a supernatural power. He by God was
not
going to propose to the Honorable Elspeth Morwent on this fine spring evening—or any other. He felt a little sorry for Elspeth. Surely the two families, though bordering on the medieval in their view of tradition, would not consider betrothing her to a four-month-old infant. Well, she would just have to find her peer elsewhere.

He sighed as the carriage pulled under a porte cochere to disgorge its passengers. The little group was admitted by a jovial butler who greeted them with all the cordiality due to friends of the family. Edward suspected that the man was well aware that the daughter of said family was expecting a marriage, proposal from the head of the visiting family that very evening.

Once inside the house, the butler led them directly to one of the salons bordering the Hall, where the viscount and his wife waited to greet them. Charles, Viscount Gil-ford, was a portly country gentleman of some fifty summers, bluff and hearty of manner. His wife, Frances, Lady Gil-ford, was a good inch taller than her spouse and slender— though some, less charitable, might call her thin to the point of emaciation. She bent a toothy smile on her guests, one which Edward could have sworn became positively predatory as she turned to him.

"Dear Elspeth will be down momentarily,” she said, “but here is Tom, all ready and waiting to greet you."

Edward swung about to observe the Gilford heir and pride of the house, young Thomas. He was a fair, plump eighteen-year-old, pleasant, if somewhat vacuous of expression. He smiled dutifully and put out a pudgy hand to the males. On the females, he bestowed brief, moist kisses to their fingertips. On Artemis's hand, he planted an especially worshipful salute.

Helen was introduced under the intent scrutiny of the viscount and his lady.

"Oh, yes, we heard you were entertaining a guest, Camberwell.” Lord Gilford did not go so far as to peer at Helen through his quizzing glass, but his scrutiny could not have been more penetrating had he done so. Edward felt that, had Lady Gilford possessed a quizzing glass she would have had no hesitation in using it, for she subjected Helen to an equally minute examination. Her “So very pleased to meet you, Miss, ah, Prestwick” was patently false.