Miss Prestwick's Crusade (16 page)

Which brought her to another point. She had been telling herself for days that it was time to present Edward with a round tale concerning the forgery of
Woman at the Window.
She must not delay any longer. It was still too soon to worry about Uncle Stanford's investigation. He would no doubt turn up something eventually, but the English Channel provided a comfortable cushion of time. But that wasn't the point. She owed Edward the truth. She would just have to steel herself to the prospect of watching those warm, brown eyes chill to the color of storm-washed pebbles. She could whisper defensive phrases—that she had done no wrong, had, in fact, tried to avert disaster—but how could she expect him to believe her? The evidence was damning, and, after all, Edward hardly knew her.

Wearily, she drew herself up from the little chair and began her preparations for bed. She declined to call Bing-ham, who would no doubt scold her in the morning, but she might as well get used to a return to her former state— sans abigail.

Once beneath the covers, she tried to compose herself for sleep, but it was many hours before her eyelids closed and her breathing deepened. Even then, her rest was disturbed by unpleasant dreams featuring a wrathful Edward Beresford. His eyes spat an icy fire and his voice howled through the corridors of Whitehouse Abbey with ringing condemnation. In the end, she stood before a locked and shuttered Abbey, alone and desolate. She woke in the darkness before dawn, a sob in her throat and her eyes wet with tears.

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Edward rode mindlessly, allowing Lion to take his own path through the home farm and on to the bordering forests. The day had dawned to a fine spring morning, with winter obviously on the wane. Nature's beneficence, however, was wasted on Edward. His mind, indeed his whole being, was concentrated on the events of last evening.

Frankly, he had always thought of himself as rather a cold fish. He liked women—he had been intimately involved with more than one member of that sex, but his appreciation lay more in the generic than in the individual. In short, he was not a man to be overwhelmed by the proximity of a beautiful woman. Yet, his embrace with Helen Prestwick, the kisses they had shared, had shaken him to the foundations of his soul. The feel of her mouth against his, her silken skin, heated by his touch, her body warm and pliant in his arms, had conspired to drive him to the point of madness.

He had wanted that moment, of course, from the instant he had beheld her in the Yellow Salon. Her and the infant William and her absurd claim on his behalf. What else did he want from the beauteous Miss Prestwick—besides the obvious, of course? Did he want marriage? He realized this was the second time he had considered the idea, and the very concept fairly caused him to break out in a rash. He had long ago seemingly accepted the fact that he was never going to meet his perfect mate. This had not caused him any great emotional upheaval. He had lived his life along lines that were perfectly acceptable to him. He had grown to enjoy his rather solitary existence.

Then along came Helen with her warm gray eyes, her lovely smile and her charm. She seemed to like him—which in and of itself was not astonishing, he supposed. Many people liked him. He was a decent enough sort, and, though he might be dull, he was not obnoxious. But, more than that . . . His mind flashed back to last night. He would swear her response had been genuine. And therein lay the miracle. Was it possible that this jewel among women returned his feelings? Could she learn to love him?

A surge of breathless exhilaration swept through him, as though he had been sent flying into the air to soar the sunlit heights of the sky above.

The discipline of a prosaic lifetime reached to snatch him from this electric fantasy, and brought him to earth with a thump. He scarcely knew Helen Prestwick. She had plummeted into his life with a preposterous assertion, and... All right. Supposing she was a complete fraud. God help him, he would probably still love her. But he hoped he would have the strength to turn away from her. He might find himself obliged to press criminal charges against her. This would, he thought with a grimace, not only break his heart but would no doubt effectively squash their burgeoning romance like a boot heel on a rosebud.

However, he did not believe she was a fraud. Lord, he would not have fallen in love at first sight with a woman he felt capable of such chicanery. In which case, he had fallen in love with a woman of good character and unexceptionable background. There was no reason they should not marry.

At this point, his mind wandered into a cloud of rosy dreams, featuring visions of Helen's mahogany hair spread out on the pillow next to him, of long walks in the gardens at Briarwood, of evenings before a crackling fire on cold nights. Of children's laughter.

Children! Lord! A crackle of perspiration filtered into the exhilaration. He had not even considered children. But... In turn, his apprehension gave way to a warm wash of yearning that surprised and delighted him. His own child, produced in close cooperation with Helen. Dear God, the concept was overwhelming. If—

His ruminations were cut short as he realized that Lion had apparently wearied of his travels and had opted for home and a handful of oats. Edward swung his leg over the saddle at the stable door and turned the reins over to Wilkins, the head groom. Upon entering the house, his first query concerned Miss Prestwick's whereabouts, and when he was told her direction, he took the stairs two at a time to the attic. He apprehended his quarry in a storeroom full of paintings. She had set up a large table in the center of the chamber, on which rested a pad of paper, a magnifying glass, a candelabra set about with several reflectors and other less identifiable items. She had just selected one of the paintings stacked against the wall, bringing it to the table.

"Oh!” she cried, startled, upon beholding her visitor. She set the painting down with a thump and put a hand to her throat.

Really, Helen thought in annoyance. She needn't have jumped like a startled rabbit. Of course, she had known she would encounter him at some point during the day, and she had already practiced an expression of cool courtesy. If only he had not crept in on her so unexpectedly.

She placed her hand on the painting and assumed her rehearsed stance.

"Good morning, sir. You have been out and about early, I see,” she said indicating his riding clothes.

"Yes, I like to get out most mornings. I find a brisk canter helps dear the cobwebs.” He pulled a watch from his pocket. “It is still earlier than the ladies of the house usually arise. You are busy betimes as well."

Helen felt as though their conversation was being held on two levels. Beneath the casual morning chatter sizzled the knowledge of what had passed between them. The experience left Helen with the peculiar feeling that she was unable to breathe properly and that she needed to sit down and put her head between her knees.

Perhaps Edward was laboring under the same burden, for he actually did sit down rather suddenly on a nearby stool and motioned Helen to a chair. There ensued an awkward silence, broken only when Edward said with a wry laugh, “About last night..."

Helen lifted her hand. “I think all that needs saying about that, er, encounter was said last night. It was an impulse of the moment and won't be repeated, so I think we can safely tuck it away into our separate memory books."

It seemed to her that a spark of name leaped deep in Edward's eyes, but he said nothing. The next moment, he had resumed his usual expression of detached calm.

"I see you have started on your task,” he said.

"Yes.” She rose from her chair to approach the table, gesturing to the painting that reposed there. “What I thought I'd do is look at the paintings one by one, noting any repairs required. I assume you would like me to first ascertain the most valuable artworks—or at least, those of most merit. Then, I shall sort them from least to most damaged, at the same time arranging them by category—style, or perhaps nationality."

Edward looked at the painting in question and the stack behind her. “It sounds a sensible plan but a monumental task. There must be hundreds of them. Just categorizing them will take years, I should think, and that does not take into account the repair. Then, of course, there are the statues, figurines and other bric-a-brac. You will still be at work when you are a very old lady."

Ignoring the implications of this statement, Helen laughed. “Oh, dear, I do hope not. Actually, I believe the work will progress faster than I had originally thought. For example, I believe I shall require not much more than a month to appraise the works—roughly. If it meets with your approval, I shall go to London after I have looked them all over and have a better idea of their value. Over the years, I have become acquainted by mail with art dealers and experts there, and I should like to confer with them, since my usual contacts are so far away now,” Her voice quavered for an instant, as she contemplated the fact that her usual contacts were no longer speaking to her. “Sometimes,” she continued, “it takes a bit of consulting to ascertain the provenance of a work—to assure that it really is a Tintoretto or Tiepolo or whatever."

"It sounds an interesting process. Can you tell me a little of what is involved?"

Helen sent him a sidelong glance, wondering if his interest was genuine. But what reason could he have for pretending otherwise?

On his stool, Edward shifted uncomfortably. Lord, he was being hopelessly transparent. Surely she could see that he was only trying to prolong his visit to her little domain up here in the attic. To his relief, Helen apparently took his question seriously. He settled back to marvel at the way the sunlight from the tiny window created russet flames in her autumn-colored hair.

"Well,” she replied slowly, “there are a number of factors involved. Of course, it helps if the artist has signed his work. If one is familiar with his signature, that is. One must be familiar with the history of the artist himself—the sort of model he preferred, perhaps, or where he lived. K you find a painting purported to be by Goya, for example, and the scene depicted is obviously in the South Seas, you know you have a fake on your hands.

"Receipts, are helpful, of course. The ideal is to find bills of sale for the work from the time it left the artist's hands to the time it fell into those of the present owner. This doesn't happen very often, naturally, so we must rely on other indicators. Eyewitnesses, perhaps, who can verify that the artwork hung in the owner's home for so many years, or who were present at the sale, or who have some other firsthand knowledge. Lacking any of this, we rely on things like a knowledge of the artist's work habits—his brushwork or—"

She was interrupted by the sound of light footsteps running up the stairs, followed by the breathless entrance of Artemis.

"Here you are!” she gasped. “I've been looking all over for you."

Curls flying, she flung herself on the stool vacated by Edward for her use. She fanned herself with Helen's pad of paper. “I believe I asked every servant in the house where you were before I finally found a maid who had seen you come up here. For awhile, I thought you must be with Uncle Stanford, but I saw him later leaving for the stables, so ... Anyway,” she finished in a rush, her blue eyes round with exasperation, “it does seem that you might tell a person when you plan to hide yourself away."

Helen smiled. “Well, now you that you have found me, how may I be of assistance, my lady?"

Artemis glanced up uncertainly, not sure whether she was being made fun of. Deciding not to take offense, she continued. “I was trying on one of the gowns from Mrs. Brinkson—the jonquil muslin. Helen, the woman set in a ruffled hemline instead of the Van Dyke I ordered. I can't think—"

"Wait a moment,” interrupted Edward. “What made you think Helen was with Uncle Stanford?"

"Uncle . . . Oh. I saw him enter her room. He knocked, and I thought he must have been bidden to come in, because that's what he did."

"When was that?” Helen asked, puzzled.

"Oh, about an hour ago, I suppose."

"I've been up here since before eight o'clock. In any event,” Helen continued tartly, “I am not in the habit of inviting into my room gentlemen who are virtual strangers to me."

"Mm, yes, I thought that was rather odd, but you being from Portugal and all... That is, I'm sure they do things differently there in a heathen country."

"Not that differently. And Portugal is not a heathen country—"

But here the conversation -was interrupted once again, this time by the sound of a shrill scream echoing from the lower regions of the house.. Immediately, the three raced from the room and down the stairs. The source of the commotion was soon discovered to be Lady Camberwell's chambers, and the lady herself was found standing in the center of her sitting room, still giving forth with some volume. She was succored by her maid. Severs, who provided an antistrophe of sobs and ineffectual squeals.

"For God's sake!” exclaimed Edward. “What is it, Aunt?"

The dowager swung about to face the little group. She tottered forward to grasp Edward's hands. “My pearls!” she cried. “The Camberwell pearls. They're gone!"

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Pearls?” echoed Edward blankly.

"Yes!” wailed the dowager. “The Camberwell pearls! Severs went to get them for me a few minutes ago, and—and they're not there!"

Edward patted her hand and led her to a fragile Louis Quatorze chair near a window. He seated her gently and squatted on his heels before her.

"Now, now. Aunt Emily. Surely you must be mistaken. Where do you keep them?” he asked hurriedly to forestall the protest he saw forming on her quivering lips.

"In my jewel box, of course,” she cried. “I know I am not supposed to keep them here at the Abbey, and indeed I used to keep them in the London vault, but I do like to wear them fairly frequently. I mean, they're not like diamonds or the ruby parure that I only wear on state occasions. For example, I wear the pearls every Wednesday when the vicar and some of the other ladies come to call. They are elegant without being showy, you see. I do think it's so ill-bred to drape one's good pieces all over oneself before the, er, lower classes, but pearls—"