Miss Prestwick's Crusade (17 page)

"Yes, yes, of course. When was the last time you saw them?"

"Well, let me see. I was going to wear them last night to the Gilfords', but—oh, dear Stanford, there you are!” This as Mr. Welladay burst into the chamber. “The most dreadful thing has happened!"

Several more chaotic minutes were spent in explaining matters to the dowager's brother. At last Edward was able to make himself heard again.

"Yes, but if you did not wear them to the Gilfords', when
did
you see them last?"

Aunt Emily wrung her hands. “I don't know! I know that I wore them to the Biddingdon Assembly last month, but I don't remember if I've worn them since."

"Oh, but my lady,” interjected Severs, a plump, middle-aged woman, whose main cause for concern at the moment seemed to be that she not be blamed for the missing jewelry. “I cleaned them just a week ago. Don't you remember? You thought the clasp was looking rather grimy. I locked them away then—you saw me do it!—and they haven't been outside their case since."

"Good God!” Mr. Welladay was the very picture of outraged astonishment. “You mean your pearls have been stolen, Emily?"

The dowager paled. “Oh, no, Stamford, dear. I merely said they are missing. Surely you don't think . . . ?” She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth.

Instead of answering, Mr. Welladay swung to face Edward. His prominent jowl quivered. “I knew it!” His glance shot toward Helen, and he pulled urgently on Edward's sleeve. “Ned!” he gulped meaningfully. He opened his mouth to continue, but Edward lifted his hand in abrupt negation.

He stared thoughtfully at the older man for several moments. “Not here. Uncle,” he murmured. “If, as I suspect, you are about to make a complete fool of yourself, let us take ourselves elsewhere.” Ignoring his uncle's outraged gasps, Edward physically propelled him from the room, pausing only to bend a significant look on Helen, who had whitened in dawning apprehension.

Helen felt as though she might slide to the floor in a pool of terror. Her thoughts whirled chaotically, like frightened brown rabbits. Dear God! Lady Camberwell's pearls! Missing! How long would it be before she would be the target of pointing fingers? Stamford Welladay! He had made his enmity all too patent. He had just entered her chamber. What was the meaning of Edward's glance as he left the room with his uncle? He had seemed very angry, but at the same time she thought she had detected a smile toward her. With an effort, she turned to minister to the dowager, who was still sniffling in distress.

Once in the corridor, Uncle Stanford whirled out of Edward's grasp.

"You see?” The older man was fairly salivating in his triumph. “I'll wager everything I own that Emily's pearls will be found in that Prestwick woman's chambers."

Edward knew an almost overwhelming urge to throttle Uncle Stamford where he stood. Instead, he laid a hand on his shoulder. He was not surprised to see the older man wince.

"You know. Uncle,” said Edward softly. “I am very sure you're right."

After a surprised moment Mr. Welladay snorted in satisfaction, but before he could reply, Edward continued speaking, still in that silky tone that was far more menacing than a shout. “There is not the slightest doubt in my mind that Aunt Emily's necklace is in Miss Prestwick's chambers. Not because she is a thief, however—and if you ever express anything remotely resembling that sentiment in the future, you will be very sorry for it. No, if the necklace is found there, it is because you put it there."

Mr. Welladay blanched visibly, but he drew back in a great show of astonished bewilderment.

"I don't understand,” he rasped, once more twitching out of Edward's grasp. “What the devil are you talking about?"

"I thought I was making myself plain. You have apparently taken Miss Prestwick's work on the art collection as an unforgivable incursion into your own private domain. This despite the fact that you know no more about art than I do about mining coal in the Mendips. It is for this reason, I suppose, that you have taken a dislike to Miss Prestwick and are determined to drive her from Whitehouse Abbey. I should not be surprised that you would borrow from a third rate penny-dreadful plot to achieve this goal."

Mr. Welladay had grown increasingly pale, and at Edward's words, spoken in a voice of steel, he said nothing of substance, only gabbling in a weak semblance of outrage. At length, he drew himself up. “Now, see here, Ned,” he quavered. “I should like to know by what right you make such a preposterous claim. Good God, what reason would I have to do such a thing? Just because I'm apparently the only one in this house who realizes we're about to become the victims of a monumental hoax?"

The next moment, he quailed, and backed up against the wall in his effort to distance himself from Edward, who had once more advanced. This time, his hand flashed forward to clench the older man by the shirtfront.

"You are an inept marplot, sir. You allowed yourself to be seen entering Miss Prestwick's chambers not an hour ago."

Welladay started at this unpleasant news, but he had gone too far now to revise his battle plan. “What the devil are you talking about? Why would I—?"

Edward tightened his grip, ever so slightly, on Uncle Stanford's neckcloth.

"I never, I tell you. Well,” he amended, as he began to experience serious difficulty in breathing. “Ned, my boy, don't take a fellow up so."

At Uncle Stamford's increasingly purple hue, Edward loosened his grasp slightly. He felt sick to his stomach and wished he could throw the vicious old weasel to the Boor and go wash his hands.

The older man choked and wheezed at some length but at last spoke. “Well, all right. Yes, I did go into Miss Prestwick's rooms, but only to—to see her about—about—ah— about that painting in my study!” he finished triumphantly. “Yes, I wanted her opinion of the—of the Harlequin that hangs over my desk. You know the one—been there forever."

Edward felt a red haze pass over his eyes. Repressing his rage with more effort than he knew he possessed, Edward drew a long breath. “Uncle Stanford, I do not like you. I am infinitely grateful that you and I are not blood relations. If it were not for Aunt Emily, you would have been tossed out into the snow a day or two after I moved in. At this moment, your position is tenuous at best. If you go through with this ludicrous scheme of yours, you may be sure that, Aunt Emily or no, by tonight you will be packing your bags."

Edward watched as Stamford absorbed the failure of a scheme he had no doubt hatched with high anticipation. His face grew pasty and his eyes seemed to pull in on themselves until they looked like raisins in a bowl of oatmeal.

"I'll tell you what I think we should do. Uncle,” Edward said calmly. “I think you should go upstairs now. I shall remove the ladies to the, ah. Yellow Salon. In a few minutes you will join us there to inform Aunt Emily that you decided to conduct your own search of her chambers and that you found the pearls fallen behind her dressing table. Do you think you can manage that?"

To Edward's relief, for he did not see how he was to maintain his facade of cool menace when he wanted nothing more than to thrash this sad, evil old man, Stamford stepped aside. His lips clamped together. “You malign me, my dear boy. I shall leave you now, and I will indeed search Emmy's room. I hope you will not rue this day, nephew,” he continued, his smile sagging noticeably. “Mark my words, your infatuation with that—” Noting Edward's expression, he huffed. “That female will bring tragedy to us all."

So saying, he swiveled about and strode stiffly down the corridor.

Edward found that his hands were shaking as he turned to reenter Aunt Emily's chambers. What a wretched clot was Stamford Welladay—willing to destroy a young woman's life merely because he had taken a dislike to her. He paused. And that was an odd thing. Uncle Stamford was ordinarily the most phlegmatic of men. He had almost made amiability an art form, for his livelihood depended on it. Edward had never known the man to get so worked up over anything. It was hard to imagine him in such a taking merely over what might seem to him a slur on his artistic expertise. Nor could he see Welladay truly concerned about a dispute over the title of Earl of Camberwell. It wasn't as though he had any stake in the matter himself.

Shaking his head, Edward let himself into the chamber. His gaze flew to Helen, who still stood at Aunt Emily's side with Artemis, soothing the dowager with word and gesture. Helen was still pale, and her returning glance was stricken. Suppressing an urge to hasten to her side and draw her to him in a consoling embrace, he satisfied himself with a reassuring smile. Then, he bent himself to the task of shepherding the ladies
from
the chamber.

"Trust me, please,” he murmured to Helen on the way out of the door. “This is all going to turn out all right."

There was neither time nor opportunity for the myriad questions Helen would have liked to pour over him, but his smile did much to dispel her perturbation. The little group was still in the Yellow Salon some fifteen minutes later when Mr. Welladay sauntered in to join them.

"Well, Emmy,” he said jovially. “See what I have brought you.” Reaching into his pocket he proffered a gleaming strand of pearls. His sister gasped.

"Stamford! My pearls! Where on earth did you find them?” She flung herself on him.

"You silly chit,” he said with a beaming expression of fondness. “I took it upon myself to conduct my own search of your chamber. I looked behind your dressing table, and there was the necklace. You must have brushed it off the last time you took it off before, er, what's-her-name had a chance to put them away."

"But I don't understand.” Lady Camberwell's face wrinkled in bewilderment. “Severs and I both looked behind there, and I would have sworn it wasn't there."

"Ah. You just didn't pull it out far enough. Anyway, m'dear, all's well that ends well.” He cast an expansive smirk about the room, studiously avoiding Edward's eye. He led his sister from the room, and Artemis followed, expressing herself in muted squeals.

Alone in the salon, Edward moved to Helen. Taking her hand in his, he gazed at her searchingly.

"Are you all right?"

Helen smiled painfully. “I am now. Good heavens, Edward, was Mr. Welladay actually about to accuse me of theft?"

Edward's returning smile was also rather grim. “I'm afraid so. I'm still trying to fathom what his motive was, but we're fortunate that he's such an unskillful weaver of plots. Please don't be concerned. Lord,” he expostulated, “what a stupid thing to say. One cannot help but be concerned at the evidence of enmity on the part of another."

He secured her other hand. “All I'm saying is that you need not worry about any further such action on Uncle Stamford's part. I think we can consider him more or less a spent force.” He tried out another smile. “I can only express to you my heartfelt apology for the whole episode, concluding with the even more heartfelt wish that Aunt Emily had been born an only child."

At this, Edward was rewarded by Helen's wry chuckle. “I suppose I am fortunate that he didn't simply push me into the ornamental pond. In truth, I am sorry to have created such a mistrust in him, but I suppose you. must think yourself fortunate that your relatives are so protective of your interests."

"Stanford Welladay is
not
my relative. I should sooner be related to Cesare Borgia, except that Mr. Borgia was clever."

Helen laughed outright at this sally but sobered immediately. After a slight pause, she said, “Edward, I must thank you."

"Thank me? For housing the rascal that, if I am not much mistaken, nearly caused you tears?"

She looked at him straightly. “Thank you for supporting me—for believing in me. For all you know I may be a charlatan of the worst sort, here to rob you of your birthright. I expected to have to fight you tooth and nail for an opportunity to place William in his rightful position, but you have been all that is kind and decent."

Edward stepped back from her a pace or two. “Well, now you've come to the nub, haven't you? You're right, I have no way to know what is in your heart. I have known you such a short time. However, I feel I'm a reasonably good judge of character—and if you're a charlatan, I'm sure you're one of the better sort.

"Helen,” he continued in a more serious vein, “I can only go by my instincts, which tell me that you, as well, are kind and decent—and honest. I plan to operate on that assumption."

"Until proven otherwise?"

Edward sighed deeply. “I'd be lying if I disputed that. I know I would be doing my family a disservice if I acted solely on my instinct.” He almost added “and my heart” but was saved by the last remnant of his inbred caution and objectivity.

Her lovely gray eyes were shadowed, and he wondered if his words had caused her pain. Had she thought his promise of support would translate into unquestioning faith? On an acquaintance of less than three weeks? Even the most hopelessly smitten schoolboy would retain a certain degree of common sense—would he not?

Her next words brought him some ease.

"Of course you must behave with circumspection. I would expect nothing less from you. I am simply grateful that you have chosen to examine with care a story that, as you said, is well nigh unbelievable."

Her silvery gaze, pure as a crystal mountain stream, reached into his, and he felt the by-now-familiar stirring deep within him. He recaptured her hands and drew her close to him.

"Now you've done it,” he said, his voice catching.

"I beg your pardon?” Her eyes widened, and she seemed to be having trouble with her own breathing.

"When you look at me like that. . . The thing is, I very much fear I'm going to have to kiss you again."

"Oh, dear.” She splayed her fingers against his lapel as though she would push him away, but he felt no such pressure. Instead, he could have sworn she leaned into his embrace. The next moment his arms were full of supple, warm, fragrant female whose essence filled his senses. He pressed his lips to hers and was at once lost in the womanly mystery of her. She tasted of flowers and cinnamon and a hundred other delectable things, and he wanted to pull her into himself, to make her one with the spirit that raged to possess her.