Miss Prestwick's Crusade (22 page)

"Just imagine the nerve of those two p-perfectly
dreadful
people!” she sputtered. “I believe they came here just to tattle on Helen.” She swung toward her uncle. “Surely you did not know what they were going to do!"

Across from her. Lady Camberwell gasped once more. “Of course he did not. It must have been the merest chance. Was it not, Stamford dearest?"

Gauging the mood of his audience, Stamford ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Why, of course not,” he fairly bellowed. “When I learned they were from the same village as Helen, I merely thought what a treat it would be for her to—"

"That will be enough, Uncle,” snapped Edward. “Please do not insult me by trying to convince me of your innocence in this matter. I shall deal with you later. In the meantime—I have matters to discuss with Miss Prestwick."

If Aunt Emily had noticed the change from “Helen” to “Miss Prestwick,” she said nothing but sniffed dolefully, “Yes, what
about
Miss Prestwick?” She shifted her gaze to Helen. “I must say, Hel—Miss Prestwick, I had come to believe in your tale, and—and to love William as my own flesh and blood. But I have to say that your— confession has created grave doubts.” She put a handkerchief to her eyes.

Mr. Welladay, apparently unable to restrain himself in the face of this new opportunity, spoke again.

"What did I tell you, Ned? I knew nothing of what the Belkers would say, of course, but doesn't this all bear out what I've been saying? The Prestwick woman,” he snarled, pointing, “is nothing but a scheming hussy—oof!"

This last was occasioned by the gentleman's abrupt descent into a nearby chair. It was, perhaps, too much to say that he had been struck, but he was left in no doubt as to Edward's intent as he pushed him with more than a modicum of force.

"Welladay,” Edward grated. “I swear if you open that large, fat mouth of yours one more time I shall close it for you most emphatically, despite your blubber and your general age and decrepitude. Now, get out."

With a cry, the dowager hurried to minister to her brother. With murmured words of comfort, she helped him from the chair and, motioning to a wide-eyed Artemis, assisted him from the room.

The silence in the Drawing Room after their departure seemed to swirl threateningly around Helen like a flock of birds of prey.

She stared at Edward, who still stood directly in front of her. He had not only defended her against the Belkers’ accusations, but he had taken her side against Stamford Welladay's vicious slander. Could this mean that he did not plan to expel her and William from the Abbey? Did it mean he believed what she had revealed? That he would place no blame on her for the situation in which she had found herself in Evora—or the fact that she had not told him about it? She firmly suppressed the faint whisperings of relief that stirred within her. Lord knew she deserved some sort of punishment—not for her supposed transgressions in Portugal, but for her concealment of her tribulations from Edward. Surely, he ...

Her wild ruminations were brought to a halt as Edward spoke.

"Now, then, I believe we have something to discuss. Miss Prestwick.” Neither his tone nor his demeanor, both as cool as polished metal, lent any credence to Helen's rising hope. She stepped back.

"Edward,” she began. “I can understand your anger. I can only say that I am so sorry—"

"For what?” he asked, in a deceptively quiet voice.

"Why—for deceiving you. For not telling you at our first meeting about the scandal over
Woman at the Window."
She searched his face in vain for a clue to his feelings, meeting only that same distant courtesy—and something else at the back of his gaze that she could not define. “Edward, please believe me. I wanted to tell you. I wanted that desperately, but I was so afraid—"

"Afraid?"

For the first time, Helen detected a note of emotion in Edward's voice. Yes, there was a definite hint of anger behind that one word.

"Afraid of what?"

"Why—why, afraid that you would not believe me. I did not see how you
could
believe me! I feared that the revelations of my supposed fraud would destroy whatever trust had grown between us. I was afraid that you would disbelieve my entire claim on William's behalf and that—"

"And that I would drop my investigation into your claim and simply boot the two of you—no, the three of you— from Whitehouse Abbey?” Edward's voice was still quiet, but, as Helen had envisioned in her most agonizing moments of reflection, his eyes no longer laughed into hers with the warmth of a sunny afternoon. They were cold and distant.

"Well—yes,” admitted Helen, feeling as though a large, heavy stone had been dropped into the pit of her stomach.

"I see.” Edward moved his hand wearily. “Well, let me relieve your mind, Miss Prestwick. Perhaps I am the most trusting fool in Christendom, but I do believe your touching story of devotion to your father. Until his claim is proved or disproved, William will remain at Whitehouse Abbey. You and Miss Barnstaple may remain as well."

Helen should have been relieved by these words, but the manner in which they were spoken caused a churning sense of dread to grow within her.

"Edward, please believe me—I wanted desperately to tell you my whole story. If my only concern had been me, I should have done so without hesitation. But I had William to consider."

Edward turned away from her and paced for several seconds before the hearth. When he spoke again, his voice was a rasp. “I can certainly understand your concern. What I do not understand is your fear that—that even if I was convinced that you had perpetrated a fraud against Colonel Foster, I would toss you and William and Barney out of Whitehouse Abbey, and consign your bits of evidence to the flames and halt my investigation into William's claim."

"But—but . . .” Helen could only stammer.

Edward resumed his pacing. “You know,” he began, and Helen could fairly feel the tension radiating from him. “I had thought we were friends. You made it abundantly clear that you wanted no more than that from me, and I had— well, I accepted friendship with you instead of ... It gave me a measure of consolation that you—that you at least liked me and considered me—well, your confidante. And yet. . .” He turned to face her again, and now his eyes were wells of pain. “You thought—you just
assumed
that, even given the compelling evidence you had produced ... It was not legal proof, but, by God, William's resemblance to Chris was assurance that at the very least he was Chris's child—and that, coupled with the wedding ring and the portrait and all the rest, was enough to convince me that a proper investigation should be launched. You assumed I would shut William out of his very possibly legal claim to the tide just because one of his maternal relatives was a felon?"

The chill that had begun in the pit of Helen's stomach suddenly engulfed her. Dear God, she had never thought of that!
But why not?
She was perfectly aware that Edward was not the sort of man to back out of a commitment because of an irrelevant act on the part of another party. No matter what her suspicions of Edward when she had first entered Whitehouse Abbey, she knew him now. She trusted him. And now she had destroyed whatever trust she had engendered in him.

The realization hit her with the force of a killing blow that all her protestations of concern over William's fate at the hands of Edward Beresford were so much smoke in the wind. She had concealed her part in the
Woman at the Window
scandal simply because she did not want Edward to think badly of her.

The silence, again a hurtful entity, was smothering. At last, Helen said brokenly, “I'm so sorry."

"You've already said that,” replied Edward curtly. “And I'm sure you are. Never mind, Helen, I'm sure you'll get over it. After all, I believe your story—because I trust you. What I can no longer trust is your declaration of friendship. You have betrayed me there, and—you see, that meant rather a lot to me. I don't believe I can forgive you for that."

He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Now, as I said, William will remain here while I continue my investigation. In fact, I've been thinking about that. I believe that no matter what the outcome of the investigation, William should remain here. He is Chris's son and, legitimate or not, he should grow up at Whitehouse Abbey with all the privileges such an arrangement would entail—schools, entry into society and a career in the army or whatever he chooses. As William's closest maternal relative, you may certainly live here as well—and Miss Barnstaple. If you should wish to live elsewhere, of course, you may feel free to do so."

With that, Edward turned on his heel and left the room. The click of the door sounded with the finality of a crack of doom, and for several minutes Helen remained motionless, staring at the paneling. At last, with seemingly impossible effort, she rose from the chair and made her way to her chamber.

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In the hours that followed, Helen had ample opportunity to ponder the scene that had just taken place in the Drawing Room. She spent the long hours of the afternoon undisturbed in her chambers, declining to appear for luncheon and dinner and finally accepting a tray in her room that was taken away later, untouched.

It seemed, she thought despairingly, that she had managed to misread Edward Beresford from the moment she had arrived at the Abbey. First, she had assumed he would be an unscrupulous monster. When she found that was not at all the case, she continued to assume that he would react cruelly to the story of the
Woman in the Window.
Even when it became apparent that something warm and wonderful was developing between them, she had persisted in her fear of his actions. She had worried needlessly and shamefully that he might turn William away from his inheritance.

Good God, Edward had proved that he was an honorable man and that he would do his utmost to discover proof of William's claim. He was not interested in maintaining his hold on the title illegally. In short, Edward was thoroughly decent and utterly likable.

Her thoughts swung dismally to his words regarding William. William would stay. He wanted the child to live at Whitehouse Abbey, which would assure him a life of privilege. Even if he was considered the earl's bastard, if the family accepted him, so would the rest of society—for the most part, at least. He would go to Eton and later to Oxford or Cambridge, and, if he were not proved to be the heir, from thence he could go into a respectable career.

Obviously, however, Edward did not wish her to remain at the Abbey as well. He had not said she was welcome to live at the Abbey, merely that she would be allowed to do so. It was painful enough that his love was forever denied her, but that she had destroyed his friendship was a snake in her belly, writhing and twisting and gnawing until she thought she might scream from the pain of it.

She forced her thoughts to her future. Once William's future was settled, she would leave the manor to make her own way in England. The cataloging and restoration of the Camberwell art collection should provide a leg up on a successful venture in her chosen field in London. That is— did Edward still want her to continue in that task? Now that he no longer considered her a friend . . . ?

It took her many hours to admit that it was not just the return of his friendship she craved. He had set a fire blazing with his kisses, and the feel of his hands on her body had sent her into a spiral of wanting. It was not just the heat of her response to him that remained with her, it was—oh, a hundred things—the light in his eyes, the laughter in his voice, the wonderful leather and spice smell of him, the connection she had felt at their first meeting, the—

She rose from her chair, determined to stem this unbecoming categorizing of Edward's virtues. But she remained where she was, unable to return to her tasks with the Camberwell art collection, or even to playing with William.

Bedtime brought no respite, for Edward's eyes stared coldly down at her from the ceiling, and his voice repeated endlessly, “I cannot rely on your friendship. I cannot forgive.” No matter how she tossed and turned beneath the bedsheets in an effort to escape, her anguish grew until she thought she would smother in a cold, sodden blanket of despair.

After a sleepless night of self-recrimination and fruitless maundering over what she had lost, Helen crept from her bedchamber at an early hour. Unable to face Edward, she made her way to the nursery and, for the first time in days, took part in William's morning libations. Afterward, she climbed the stairs to her attic workshop, taking care to avoid areas of the house where she might encounter Edward. She was discovered there by Lady Camberwell shortly before luncheon. The dowager appeared uncomfortable in the extreme and had obviously spent some time girding her loins before approaching Helen.

"My dear,” she began, after the appropriate greetings of the day were accomplished. “I'm sure I scarcely know what to say to you—except that I regret the words I uttered yesterday. You must realize, I hope, that I was completely taken aback by what those dreadful people said and then, later, by your own tale."

Helen came to the surprising conclusion that the contrition in the older woman's eyes was genuine. The dowager could hardly be blamed for a certain initial doubt in Helen's veracity, and Helen was moved beyond words at this expression of affection and faith.

"Please,” she said hurriedly. “If you have come to tell me that you believe what I said, that would make me very happy."

"Oh, my dear!” Lady Camberwell threw her arms around Helen's neck. “Those dreadful people! I wish you had told us all about your, er, experience when you first came to us, but I can understand why you hesitated. What an awful thing to have happen, and, believe me, I feel for your father as well.” She dabbed at her eyes. “And dear Stanford has assured me that he had absolutely no idea the Belkers were going to bring up such an unpleasant subject."

Helen swallowed her anger, for she had been left in no doubt as to Mr. Welladay's motivation in bringing the Belkers to the Abbey. She said soothingly, “Of course, my lady, and—"