Miss Prestwick's Crusade (3 page)

"Yes,” he replied warily. “I am Edward Beresford, the Earl of Camberwell."

"I think not, sir.” Her tone was high and brittle. “For I have brought the true earl home to take his rightful place.” She raised a protective hand over the small bundle on the chair.

. Edward stiffened. Lord, the woman was evidently a believer in the theory of firm and immediate offense. Glancing at the bundle, in the depths of which could now be seen the face of a sleeping infant, Edward spoke mildly. “Yes, Stebbings spoke of your claim.” He gestured to a nearby settee. “Perhaps we could sit down and talk about this.” When his guest had gracefully disposed herself, he seated himself next to her. “Now, then, you are Miss Prestwick?"

The woman nodded. “Miss Helen Prestwick. And this,” she indicated with a sweep of her hand, “is my duenna, Miss Horatia Barnstaple."

For the first time, Edward became aware of the room's other occupant, a female of, as Stebbings had so discreetly put it, indeterminate age. Definitely on the far side of fifty, however, Edward surmised. She acknowledged Miss Prestwick's introduction with a silent nod.

"Duenna?” asked Edward, puzzled by this foreign expression.

"Yes,” said Miss Prestwick. “I—we have lived in Portugal for a number of years, and—"

His eyebrows rose. “You have traveled here from the Continent?"

"Yes. We arrived in London two days ago. As I was saying,” Miss Prestwick continued in some irritation, “I tend to use Portuguese phraseology.” She took a deep breath. “I can imagine your surprise and consternation at this moment, Mr. Beresford."

Edward could only nod bemusedly, though he took some exception to the lady's tone. Judging from the worried glances she kept shooting toward the child, she seemed to think he might sweep the infant off to be drowned in a bathtub. Was she the infant's mother? She called herself Miss Prestwick, but that did not mean . . . Was she in mourning for Chris? She rose to take the child up in her arms.

"Allow me to introduce you, Mr. Beresford, to William Christopher Beresford, the twelfth Earl of Camberwell.” She paused for a moment, her expressive eyes flashing, as though she expected some sort of protest from her adversary. Edward was given pause as he realized that, indeed, Miss Prestwick seemed to view him in that confrontational light. “William,” she continued in a milder tone, when the expected outburst did not materialize, “is the son of the eleventh earl, Christopher, and his wife, my sister Beatrice.

At this point, Edward opened his mouth to offer a contradiction but was forestalled as Miss Prestwick hurried on. “They were married secretly—for reasons I shall explain later—a year ago last November. Christopher was not even aware that True was enceinte when he was killed. William was born last October. He is nearly six months old now."

She glanced down at the sleeping infant. Edward leaned forward and, without touching the baby, peered into his face. He could see no resemblance to Christopher, nor to anyone else in the family, but he supposed it must be early days to discern any real likeness. Oddly, he felt no particular perturbation at Miss Prestwick's declaration. Indeed, he felt peculiarly disassociated from the situation, as though it was all happening to someone else. Possibly, he thought wryly, because of the improbability of her tale. Chris married secretly? So secretly that he would not so much as send word of it to his own family? Absurd!

Determined to get to the heart of the matter, Edward cleared his throat.

"And your sister? Where is she? Why—?"

"My sister is dead, Mr. Beresford,” she said flatly. “She died shortly after William's birth.” Here, her voice broke slightly. “From complications of childbirth."

Ah, that explained the mourning. He was oddly relieved at the assurance that Miss Prestwick was not the mother of the alleged earl.

"Please accept my condolences on your loss. Miss Prestwick. However, I must point out that your story—"

"I knew you would not believe me,” she snapped.

"Do you blame me?” Edward noted interestedly that her cheeks had colored most becomingly. He returned to what he felt was the nub of the situation. “Might I ask if you have proof of the marriage between your sister and my cousin?"

Miss Prestwick's blush deepened, but she lifted her chin. “If by that you mean the marriage certificate, no, I do not.” From the portmanteau she removed a small, flat sandal-wood box. She opened it with the air of a magician about to produce a rabbit, disclosing a velvet-lined interior in which lay an assortment of items. She proffered them one at a time as she continued speaking. “I do, however, have Trix's wedding ring, engraved with their initials and the date of the marriage, and William's birth certificate, as well as a—a valuable pearl necklace; his bridal gift to her—and a small portrait of himself, which is inscribed, ‘to my dearest Trixie, from her devoted husband.’”

Edward examined the items, taking particular note of the portrait. It was impossible to tell if it had been done before or after his departure for Portugal. To his eyes, the rendering was somewhat clumsy—the perspective seemed slightly skewed, and the features ill-defined. Still, the artist had caught much of Chris's golden charm.

"Very touching, of course, but hardly conclusive proof of a marriage. Surely, if marriage lines existed, they would not be difficult to produce."

"I am aware of that, but there were circumstances—"

At this moment, a soft knock sounded at the door, followed by the entrance of Stebbings, who shepherded in two footmen bearing a tea cart and the necessary accoutrements. Having arranged these to his satisfaction, the butler gave every evidence of prolonging his presence as long as possible, withdrawing with his usual austere dignity only at Edward's nod. Accepting Edward's gesture of invitation, Miss Prestwick settled William once more in his chair and seated herself at the tea table, where she proceeded to dispense refreshments with grace and surety. Miss Barnstaple drew near but remained silent.

"I must admit,” began Miss Prestwick, “the circumstances are somewhat, er, bizarre. The wedding was performed by a retired cleric at his home near our village. The gentleman subsequently moved—back to England, I heard, but his whereabouts are unknown."

"There was no record made in any church?"

"No. Since Portugal is a Catholic country, there are no actual English churches. Most British marriage ceremonies are performed in civil facilities. A notification is normally sent to a local authority—or to the British embassy—or some such—I'm not sure exactly which,” Miss Prestwick concluded in a strangled tone. “Chris collected the papers himself for later delivery to his commanding officer, but he obviously never delivered them. Reverend Mr. Binwick no doubt inscribed the marriage lines, which he may have brought back to England with him. I am hoping that a search at Doctors’ Commons or Somerset House will turn up a record—provided by the reverend by post. However, as I said, the mail service being what it is now between England and the Continent, I cannot honestly say I am hopeful."

"I see. What about witnesses to the marriage?"

Miss Prestwick sighed, an act which did interesting things to the nicely rounded bosom. “I'm afraid Miss Barnstaple and I were the only witnesses to the ceremony. As I said, Christopher wished to keep the marriage a secret, but my sister and I—” Here her voice caught once more. “—were very close."

"Ah. It was Christopher who insisted on the secrecy?” Edward raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.

"Yes,” replied Miss Prestwick, thrusting her chin even farther forward. Having completed the tea-pouring ritual, she turned to face Edward. “Please, Mr. Beresford, let me tell my story from the beginning."

"Yes, indeed, why don't you do that?” Edward sat back, allowing nothing but polite expectancy to show on his features. He realized, to his discomfiture, that he was beginning to enjoy this confrontation. The beautiful Miss Prestwick had brought an unexpected challenge into his life. She might be a victim of dementia or possibly an adventuress, but the encounter with this beautiful stranger so far had started his blood fizzing and his heart skipping like that of a young boy.

Helen gazed across the little table at her adversary, clutching her fragile teacup in fingers that trembled despite her best effort. She hoped that none of her inner turmoil was visible to the earl—or no, to Mr. Beresford. Dear God, she had come so far—she must not fail in her purpose. So much depended on the outcome of this interview. She eyed him assessingly. He was not the picture of evil she had expected. Indeed, the gentleman looked to be just that—a gentleman, calm of demeanor and mild of expression. He appeared to be in his late thirties. His dark hair was thick as thatch and cropped neatly, but with little thought to fashion. His face was long and narrow and his features angular, and he was possessed of black, deep-set eyes that looked out at the world with a quizzical air. Deep creases ran from either side of his nose to bracket a mouth that was presently twisted into what she could only call a suspicious half-smile.

Well, who could blame him for that? On the other band, it was not required of a bad man that he look the part. What was that quote? “A man may smile and smile and be a villain.” Still, she found Mr. Beresford's attitude of forbearance encouraging, skeptical though it might be. She smiled and was rewarded by an answering glimmer from her host.

"You say you have been living in Portugal,” he prompted, glancing at the baby, who had begun to stir in his nest of blankets. Miss Barnstaple rose to gather him to her scant bosom.

"Yes,” replied Helen. “I must take you back a number of years, I'm afraid. My mother and father moved to Portugal shortly after they were married. A relative of my mother's had offered Papa a position in his art gallery. Papa, you see,” she added, “is an authority on art."

"And he still lives in Portugal?"

"Yes,” Helen replied, puzzled at the question.

"Then, if I may ask, why is it not he who has come to claim his grandson's birthright?"

Helen stiffened. Lord, she'd been afraid he would ask this. “My father,” she replied carefully, “is occupied right now with the press of business. He has owned his own gallery—a highly successful enterprise—for a number of years. During this time, he has acquired a wide reputation on the Continent as an expert in many art media, as well as a restorer of artworks. He has been quite active in our little community, having acquired many friends among the English living there—as well, of course, as with many of the officers quartered from time to time in Evora."

Helen exhaled in a gust. At least she had not been forced to lie. Everything she had said was true—up to a point. She continued hurriedly.

"Among Father's friends was Colonel Foster, your cousin's commander, and it was at a dinner party at the colonel's home that Beatrice met Christopher. It was a case of—"

"—love at first sight.” Mr. Beresford finished the sentence with a flip of his hand. “You need say no more, Miss Prestwick. My cousin affected most women in that fashion, and I assume your sister was a beauty."

"Yes, she was.” Well. So it was true that Edward Beresford was jealous of his handsome cousin. “In addition, she was sweet and loving and giving.” She felt her eyes misting and she continued briskly. “At any rate, they were acquainted for only a few months before they became betrothed."

She frowned. “By that time, unfortunately, a disagreement had sprung up between my father and Colonel Foster. Such was the acrimony of their feelings for one another that Christopher hesitated to tell his commander of his plans to marry John Prestwick's daughter. I don't suppose the colonel could have forbidden the match, but he could have made life extremely unpleasant for the newlyweds— to say nothing of destroying Christopher's career."

"So they were married in secret."

"Yes,” she answered firmly, hating him for the skeptical curl of his lip.

"And Chris was so fearful of discovery that he could not even tell his family of his nuptials?"

This time disbelief and—Good God, was that amusement?— radiated from his every feature.

Helen's fingers curled inside her gloves and she cleared her throat. “As to that, I—I'm not sure. He said that he wished to tell his mother personally, but I think—um, I think there might have been—some private reason that he did not confide in you."

At this, Edward almost burst into laughter. Some private reason, indeed! Chris had never dealt well with confrontation. The idea of informing his family that, instead of marrying the eminently eligible Elspeth Morwent, he had plunged into wedlock with an unknown female of dubious parentage would have filled him with horror. Much better, he would have concluded, to wait until he arrived at Whitehouse Abbey, with his bride in tow, the marriage a fait accompli. Or more likely, at the last possible moment before he was to come home, he would have written someone—the vicar, perhaps—instructing him to tell his family, so that the news would already have been delivered and the first shock abated by the time of his arrival.

So far, Edward concluded ruefully, Miss Prestwick's explanation was improbable—but certainly not impossible.

"Chris and Trix were married at the home of the Reverend Harold Binwick. As I said, Barney and I were the only witnesses. I believe Chris did not even tell his closest friends of his marriage."

Edward's eyes glinted. “Let me see if I have this straight. My cousin and your sister were married in deepest, darkest secrecy by a minister who was subsequently—I forget— spirited away by fairies?"

"Reverend Mr. Binwick returned to England,” retorted Miss Prestwick icily. “He was, I gather, somewhat of a recluse. He did not confide his plans to any friends or neighbors, and no one knows in what city he now resides."

"Why does this not surprise me?” Edward murmured.

Miss Prestwick picked up the teapot; and for a moment, he very much feared she meant to throw it at him. However, she merely poured a second cup of tea for Miss Barnstaple. Somewhat shamed, he continued.

"But when your sister became, er, enceinte? Surely then—"

"Christopher's brigade left Evora shortly after they were married. He was not there on a permanent status, you see, but was quartered there often on a temporary basis. The mail service was practically nonexistent, and Chris was killed at Oporto before she could apprise him of her condition.” Miss Prestwick's voice was sharp and brittle.