Miss Prestwick's Crusade (4 page)

"And,” Edward continued sharply, “at her death, you took it upon yourself to mount a crusade on behalf of the result of their union."

"Crusade?” Miss Prestwick appeared startled. “I had not thought of it in that light, but, yes, I suppose you might call it that. You see,” she concluded quietly, “William had no one else to speak up for him."

At this, Edward rose from his chair, now very much ashamed. He cleared his throat.

"You must admit, Miss Prestwick, your story is well nigh unbelievable.” He lifted a hand to forestall the contradiction he saw rising in her eyes. “If the infant is indeed the son of Christopher Beresford, the eleventh Earl of Camberwell and his lawfully wedded wife, he is indeed the twelfth earl. If this is the case, be assured I shall, of course, step aside and do all that is necessary to see that young, er, Willliam is installed at Whitehouse Abbey with all due ceremony.” He lifted his brows at the muffled snort that issued from Miss Prestwick's beautifully curved lips.

"My dear young woman,” Edward declared in some dudgeon, “I am receiving the distinct impression here that you believe my reaction to your—story—to be that of a less than honorable man."

Miss Prestwick flushed to the roots of her hair, but she maintained her composure. “I am truly grieved to have given that impression, Mr. Beresford; however, you must admit that the news of William's existence must come as an unpleasant shock."

"Ah,” replied Edward silkily, “you perceive me to be the sort of blackguard so greedy for a title and wealth that I would bar my own nephew from his rightful inheritance."

Helen gasped. This was, of course, precisely what she believed of him, but she had not intended to be so transparent in her speech.

"No!” she blurted hastily. “That is—no, of course not."

Mr. Beresford lifted skeptical brows but did not pursue the subject further. He moved to the silent Miss Barnstaple. “May I?” he asked, extending his arms for the infant, who had once again fallen asleep.

Glancing at Miss Prestwick, the older woman, with an incoherent murmur, relinquished the baby. Settling the child into a comfortable position, Edward drew aside the blanket and subjecting the tiny form to an intense scrutiny. Could this really be Chris's son? Edward's first instinct was to dismiss the whole situation as a tissue of lies from start to finish.

Still, what if it had happened as Miss Prestwick had described? What if this insignificant little scrap of humanity was the legitimate son of the eleventh Earl of Camberwell and his countess? Edward drew a finger along the incredibly soft perfection of the child's cheek. The rosebud mouth opened suddenly and turned toward the intrusion before sinking once more into an apparently dreamless slumber. Carefully, Edward returned William to Miss Barnstaple's care, then turned to Miss Prestwick.

"Well, dear lady, you have accomplished your purpose. No, no,” he continued hastily as her velvet eyes widened. “I have by no means accepted your improbable tale. However, I cannot in all conscience simply turn you and the child out. I shall look into the matter.” He steepled his fingers in what he hoped was an authoritative, judicious gesture. “I shall contact the family solicitor and instruct him to hire investigators. If there is a shred of evidence to support your claim, we will discover it. Conversely, if your tale proves fraudulent, as I must admit seems the case to me as of this moment, you will be subject to whatever punishment the law metes out for such transgressions.” He drew a long breath. “In the meantime, allow me to welcome you into my home—or, at least"—he smiled thinly— “into the home of the Earl of Camberwell, whoever he might be."

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Helen sank back in her chair, quivering with relief. She had done it! She had stormed the citadel of the evil usurper and emerged victorious! Well, perhaps not victorious—not yet, at any rate. She knew she was being absurdly melodramatic, but she had been so very fearful that Mr. Beresford would simply drive her from his home with a fiery sword, threatening unnamed but unpleasant retribution should she ever darken his door again.

From his position across the room, Edward gazed at her, nonplussed. Had he done the right thing? Perhaps he should have turned Miss Prestwick away, agreeing to look into the matter. He could have told her he would contact her later if he found any facts to substantiate her claim. He could have set a few inquiries into motion which, in all probability, would come to nothing, and he might never hear from her again.

Oddly, this thought created a hollow feeling that spiraled down to his toes. He refused to examine this sensation. After all, he was not a spotty-faced adolescent slavering over an attractive woman. But she wasn't just attractive, was she? Her eyes were exceptionally compelling, and her form more than usually graceful and, er, well crafted. However, he reflected dizzily, it was not just her physical attributes—outstanding as they were in every respect—that drew him like a compass needle to true north. Somehow, he felt like a man who, after wandering in a frozen, very lonely wilderness for a very long time, had just been offered shelter by a warm fire. It was, he supposed, the expression in those clear gray eyes. It spoke of warmth and wit and intelligence and ... a quality he could not define. He only knew he wanted more of it. He'd always scoffed at the idea of love at first sight, but something in him—perhaps a boyish dream he had not entirely put aside—had responded to something in Miss Prestwick. A voice within told him as clearly as if the words had been spoken aloud that he must not let this woman slip away from him. Not before he had a chance to investigate the possibilities of ... what might be.

And then, of course, there was William. There was no question he owed it to his family—and, he supposed, to Chris—to discover the true facts regarding William's birth and the legitimacy of his claim.

Lord! His family! What would their reaction be to Miss, Prestwick? Their immediate instinct, he was sure, would be to band together to eject her and her preposterous assertion, to say nothing of young William, from the sacred precincts of Whitehouse Abbey. On the other hand . . .

He tapped his chin for several seconds, sure the sound of his furiously churning brain must be evident to the woman gazing at him so relievedly.

He moved to the bell pull, tugging decisively before turning back to his guest.

"I think our first step,” he said, smiling, “is to get young Will settled in the nursery. After that, I shall introduce you to my—mine and Christopher's—family."

When Stebbings arrived, Edward directed him to summon Mrs. Hobart, the housekeeper. That lady arrived in a few moments, the keys at her belt fairly vibrating with curiosity. Briefly, Edward put her in possession of the bare facts of the situation, namely that Miss Prestwick and Miss Barnstaple, with their small charge, would be guests at the Abbey for an indefinite stay. He instructed her to commandeer one of the maids to act as nursemaid.

"And please show the ladies to their chambers,” he concluded, mentally crossing his fingers that suitable chambers were ready and presentable.

"Of course, my lord,” responded Mrs. Hobart austerely. His lordship was well aware that a sufficient number of bedchambers was always kept in readiness for unexpected guests.

"I know you will make all right, Mrs. Hobart."

Edward turned once again to his guest. “And when you are settled in, Miss Prestwick, I would like to introduce you to the family. One of the servants will show you the way down to my study."

This matter taken care of, Mrs. Hobart, her curiosity obviously unsated but her demeanor all that was discreet, departed from the salon with Miss Prestwick, carrying William. Miss Barnstaple, still silent, brought up the rear.

Edward gazed after them abstractedly for some moments before he turned on his heel and exited the Yellow Salon.

Climbing the stairs, Mrs. Hobart issued a steady stream of information. “It's been many a year since the nursery was in use. Occasionally, of course, we entertain visitors accompanied by little ones—and, naturally, the cradles and cots and toys and all are still in place from when Lord Camberwell—Mister Christopher, that is—and Lady Artemis were children—and who knows who else before them."

Having reached the second floor and quite out of breath, the housekeeper strode down a long, dim corridor before pausing at a sturdy oak door, its panels scarred by generations of small hands and feet. She opened the door with a flourish and ushered the ladies into a large room, from which led other, smaller chambers. The room was spacious and sunny, and as she progressed, Mrs. Hobart flung off Holland covers to reveal that one of the smaller chambers was furnished with two infant cots, three small beds, and a cradle.

The housekeeper gestured to the latter, and Helen proceeded with William to a waist-high table nearby, its purpose evident.

"I think,” she said, smiling, “I'd best change him before we put him down for a nap. Although,” she said, her forehead wrinkling, “I should imagine he'll be demanding his dinner soon. Have you—?"

"Of course, Miss.” Mrs. Hobart spoke authoritatively. “We have fresh milk and a plentiful supply of bottles and nipples. As for changing the baby, young Finch will be here momentarily. She can take care of that chore as well as all the other nursing duties for the young gentleman. That is, his lordship intimated that you will be here for some time.” Her voice lifted questioningly.

"Yes, I expect we will, Mrs. Hobart,” replied Helen easily. She began to remove his clothing, ignoring the infant's vociferous protest at this invasion of his person. “Oh, dear, he's soaked all the way up to his eyebrows.” She wrinkled her nose. “And not just that. I fear he's going to require a complete sluicing to make him anywhere near socially acceptable."

At this moment, a young woman rushed into the room. She was garbed in a plain, dark round gown covered with a crisp white apron. On a tightly bound mop of naming red hair perched a demure cap. She bobbed a curtsy first to Mrs. Hobart, then to Helen, and, as she noticed Miss Barnstaple, added one more for good measure.

"You wanted me, ma'am?” she asked Mrs. Hobart.

The housekeeper nodded before turning to Helen. “This is Finch, Miss. She is quite reliable and the eldest of a large family. I'm sure she will do for the young gentleman."

Helen informed Finch of William's current unsavory situation, which, she admitted ruefully, under the circumstances was scarcely necessary. The young master had by now worked himself up to a fit of screaming outrage, and Finch hastened to remove him from Helen's arms. This accomplished, Mrs. Hobart beckoned to Helen and Miss Barnstaple.

"I'll show you to your chambers now. Miss."

"Oh, no!” cried Helen, putting up a hand in protest. “I would rather stay here. That is, surely there are beds here . . ."

Mrs. Hobart's not inconsiderable brows lifted in surprise. “Well, yes, of course there are, Miss, but they are for the accommodation of the nurse and her staff. Surely—"

"Come along, Helen,” said Miss Barnstaple abruptly. “You didn't sleep in William's room at home, and I do not believe you are required to do so here. I'm quite confident that, er, Finch, here, will look after the little tyke admirably."

"Oh, yes, mum,” breathed the little maid fervently.

"You see?” said Miss Barnstaple with a smile. She added in a gentle aside, “You have nothing to fear."

"No, of course not,” Helen replied hastily, aware that she did indeed fear for William. How could she leave him unattended to face the far-from-tender mercies of the man who must consider him a threat of the first order? On the other hand, it would present a decidedly odd appearance if she were to insist on continually hovering over the child. She certainly did not wish to betray her extreme distrust of Lord Cam—that is, Mr. Beresford. She feared she had already raised his suspicions.

Pressing her lips tightly together, she followed Mrs. Hobart from the room. They returned to a lower floor.

"Oh, my!” exclaimed Miss Barnstaple upon entering the chamber opened to them by the housekeeper. Helen echoed Barney's sentiment silently, for the room was elegant and utterly charming. “I hope you will find this satisfactory, Miss?” asked Mrs. Hobart, turning to Helen.

Helen could only nod bemusedly.

"Very good, then. Mr. Stebbings will have your luggage brought up in a moment. You will no doubt wish to rest now after your journey. A light luncheon is usually served in the Breakfast Room at about one. If you wish to go downstairs before then, your maid will take you to Lord Camberwell, who has expressed his intention of showing you about the house when you are ready. In the meantime"—she gestured to Miss Barnstaple—"if you will follow me, ma'am ...” She turned and whisked the speechless spinster down the corridor.

Helen had barely time to absorb the elegance of the sitting room's furnishings, which included several Louis Quatorze chairs, a small writing desk and an ornately carved cupboard, when a scratch at the door heralded the arrival of a footman and a serving girl. The former bore Helen's two portmanteaux and her dressing case. The serving girl announced that she would be acting as Miss's personal maid—for the time being, until Miss could make her own choice.

Miss stood for a moment in the center of the room, nonplussed. A denial of her need for a maid, personal or otherwise, sprang to her lips, only to be immediately suppressed. She had not up until this point considered the image she wished to convey to Mr. Beresford, but she realized now that it behooved her to present herself as a lady of quality. Such a specimen, of course, would be accustomed to attendance on a twenty-four hour basis by a personal servant.

The Prestwick home in Evora had, of course, been fully staffed, but the daughters of the house had shared a maid who took care of delicate laundry, styled hair and performed other personal functions. Still, thought Helen with a twisted smile, she supposed she could accustom herself to the services of a female whose sole mission in life was to wait on her hand and foot.

She turned a smile on the maid, who stood waiting somewhat apprehensively for approval. She was small and plump, with large brown eyes and a wispy halo of mouse brown hair. She gave the appearance of a small ruffled owl in her neat gown of dark homespun.