Miss Prestwick's Crusade (8 page)

Fairly
attractive? thought Edward in some astonishment.

"—and a winsome smile. I suppose you're going to hand over the title of the Earl of Camberwell to an infant who is no more Christopher's legal heir than I am."

For a long moment, Edward simply stared. He knew a brief impulse to knock the man down for his calumny against the lady with the winsome smile, but a moment's reflection produced a bewildered startlement. What had happened to Stamford Welladay's usual jovial indolence? Lord, he could not remember ever seeing him in such a taking. Was he really so proud of his supposed art expertise that he would begrudge having a real expert take over his task? He fixed the older man with an icy stare.

"Miss Prestwick is a guest in our house, Uncle. As such I expect her to be treated and spoken of with respect."

Stamford deflated suddenly. “Well—of course, I didn't . . . That is—I just meant it would not be prudent to allow a stranger such access—"

"I know what you meant, Uncle, and I appreciate your concern. However, even if Miss Prestwick's motives are less than pure, I hardly think she is likely to stuff her portmanteau with paintings and figurines and steal off into the night. In addition, I assure you I intend to launch a most thorough investigation into her background and that of the child. I know you will agree that if William is the genuine article, it is our duty to see him installed as the twelfth earl with all due pomp and ceremony."

"Well, yes, of course,” blustered Stamford. “I merely meant—urn—you know I have only your interests at heart, my boy."

"Thank you. Uncle,” replied Edward dryly. “And now if you will excuse me . . .” Turning on his heel, he exited the room. On his return journey to the luncheon salon, he mused unpleasantly on Welladay's words. Although he referred to this gentleman as his uncle, Edward was profoundly grateful that there was no actual blood relationship between them. As much as he might deplore Stamford's sentiments, however, Edward was forced to admit a certain logic to them. But he was also forced to admit that in his heart, if not in his head, he believed Helen's tale. as improbable as it seemed. In this, he was being undeniably foolish. Still, he kept returning to those wide, gray eyes and her forthright expression. The trinkets she had spoken of—the wedding ring, the portrait—merely served as a reinforcement for this surety.

"Ah, ladies!” The two women were bent over the coin case. To his surprise, the glass door had been opened and Helen was huddled over a specimen held in her hand. At his entrance, she whirled about, guilt written large on her face.

"Oh, dear!” She exclaimed ruefully, “I'm afraid I succumbed to temptation and took one or two coins out to examine them. Ancient Roman history is rather a hobby of mine, and my fingers fairly itched to look at both the reverse and obverse sides. I'm afraid I know relatively little about the Roman occupation of Britain. I see these bear the portrait of the Emperor Trajan. They must date from the first century, then."

Helen knew she was babbling. Good Heavens, she had not committed such a terrible solecism. It was perhaps a bit coming of her to open the display case and actually remove one of these coins, but surely she could not be blamed for an appreciation of the collection. Then, she was appalled to note, for the merest instant an expression of suspicion crossed Mr. Beresford's features. Dear God, did he think she'd purloined one or more of the coins? She felt the blood drain from her face.

She drew herself up to her full height and sent him a frigid glare. “You may count the coins, if you wish, Mr. Beresford. They are all there.” She halted, the blood rushing back to her cheeks. Her wretched tongue! No matter her indignation, she must concede a certain justice in his misgiving. Finding a stranger—particularly one who was trying to unseat him from his title—rifling through his possessions was certainly cause for suspicion. Lord, she had become too accustomed to being on the receiving end of that emotion of late. She opened her mouth to issue an apology but was forestalled as Barney strode forward to face Edward.

"Of course, they are all there,” she snapped. “And if you think Helen Prestwick would so much as consider touching someone else's property, you have another think coming. Helen is as honest as—"

"Please, Barney,” Helen interrupted. She turned to note that Mr. Beresford's jaw had fallen open in astonishment. “I'm sure Mr. Beresford did not intend—that is—I'm sorry,” she finished lamely. “I did not mean . . ."

"Well, of course you did,” returned Mr. Beresford, with a smile that took much of the sting from his words. “And while I am not still not altogether sure of your motives, I am sure you were not pilfering my valuables just now. And may I commend Miss Barnstaple on her spirited defense of her friend? Now, if we are all in concert with one another, may we move on?"

Really, he was most infuriatingly disarming. He made it tediously difficult to maintain her own degree of mistrust toward him—and it was crucial she not let down her guard. She nodded awkwardly and pushed Barney ahead of her as they followed his gesture toward the door. “Yes, indeed,” she murmured. “I—we—are looking forward to the tour."

"Most of grandfather's collection,” began Edward, “is located in the ground floor rooms, so we may as well begin in the Library.” He led the way to a chamber near the front of the house. The furnishings, mostly of leather, seemed steeped in age and tradition, and the tables, scattered in convenient locations, were of heavy mahogany. Helen moved immediately to a small case set between two long, mullioned windows that looked out over the drive.

"Goodness, wherever did your grandfather come by these unusual Persian daggers?"

"Persian? Really? How can you tell that? My grandfather did not even know. He purchased them in a bazaar in Rome and was rather under the impression they were Turkish."

Helen laughed. “Well, I cannot be sure, of course. They may well be Turkish, but I was going by the sharpness of the carved edges. And, too, the Persian work is usually richer in design than the Turkish. These are exquisite."

"I am most impressed, Miss Prestwick."

As the tour continued throughout the lower regions of the house, Helen found herself marveling over Murano glass, Meissen figurines and, most of all, an eclectic assortment of paintings. A Menuni hung beside a de Hooch and Chinese water colors jostled cheek by jowl with medieval tapestries. She was unsure of many of the artists but knew fizzles of excitement as a possible Watteau or even a Frans Hals hove into view. The majority of the works appeared completely valueless, except for perhaps a sentimental attachment. Others she found exceptionally well executed, though she did not recognize the names of the artists. Oh, my, perhaps she would discover a new talent!

As she and Barney moved through the rooms with Mr. Beresford, she took note as well of the layout of the house and its elegant furnishings. Mr. Beresford had spoken the truth. The place was huge and a veritable maze to navigate. Despite this orientation tour, she knew she would do well for the first week or so to provide herself with a supply of breadcrumbs every time she set foot outside her bedchamber.

In these magnificent surroundings, Helen mused, Mr. Beresford had spent the last several months of his life. She supposed he lived the life of the stereotypical British peer—days spent in sport, nights in gambling and other excesses. Although a quick glance from under her lashes did not lend the impression that he was much given to that sort of thing. Despite his apparent cordiality, Helen told herself, nothing would convince her that he could bear to give all this up.

Her thoughts drifted. How much of the year did he and the family spend here at Whitehouse Abbey? At luncheon, young Artemis had mentioned going to London for the Season. She would no doubt find a husband there. And what of the faux earl? It was surprising to find him unmarried. Surely, one of an earl's premier duties was to secure the line. She shot him another sidelong glance. She could see no reason why he had not been snapped up long ago. Even if he had only acceded recently to the title, he had always, according to Christopher, possessed deep pockets. He was certainly attractive, if one were partial to long, lean limbs and angular features—which, she discovered to her disconcerted surprise, she seemed to be.

What nonsense. She turned hastily to peer at what appeared to be a Greuze, a small, pretty still life of no discernable artistic merit. “How nice,” she murmured.

"Monsieur Greuze is not to your liking?” Mr. Beresford bent that peculiarly charming grin on her that she was already finding more than somewhat unsettling.

"I beg your pardon? I didn't say—"

''My dear Miss Prestwick, I have learned in our short acquaintance that when you say ‘How nice’ in that particular tone, the artist may as well throw away his palette and paints to take up cucumber farming."

She smiled into his eyes, and Edward's knees turned to soup. “I must admit to being somewhat judgmental. Greuze has always seemed rather mawkish for my taste. But this,” she continued, moving on to the work next to it, a softly lit landscape, “is marvelous, I think."

She bent to examine it more closely. “I see no signature, but I think it very well might be by Agostino."

"Yes, I like that one, too. But come with me. I'll show you my favorite piece of all.” Edward beckoned, and Helen gestured for Barney to precede her. Helen realized guiltily that she had all but forgotten the silent companion who formed part of the little procession. Mr. Beresford led the way back across the main hall to his study, where he lifted a wood carving from the mantelpiece. It was dark with age and polished by the touch of generations of hands. It was a bust of an old man and had obviously been crafted with love and care. Age lines framed a strong nose and a generous mouth. Long hair, growing sparse, drifted across a broad brow and over deep set eyes, whose eternal spirit had been expertly caught by the artist. Helen caught her breath.

"It is exquisite,” she breathed.

"Can you tell who created it?” asked Edward

"No, I have no idea. It has some of the characteristics of carving that comes from the mountains of Italy, but I could not put a name to the creator. In any event he—or she—was a master."

"She?"

"You are surprised,” came the tart reply. “But, yes, while women are rarely recognized for their artistic talent, there are those among us who outshine any man one can name."

"Ah, you are an advocate of women's rights, then?” Edward watched with some fascination the play of color over her cheeks and the militant sparkle that sprang to her misty eyes.

"No—not precisely, that is. But I have seen too many women of blazing talent whose work never sees the light of day simply because they had the misfortune to be born female."

"You, for example?"

"Me?” Helen chuckled. “No, indeed. I cannot draw or paint—or barely even sketch for that matter, but I do like to see those who can be enriched for their pains."

"And quite rightly. I will admit that I never considered the plight of a talented female artist."

"Nor, I should imagine, that of any female trying to make her way in almost any path in a world ruled by men."

Edward's eyes widened. “You sound like the veriest firebrand.” He found himself enchanted by the spark in her eye and the rise and fall of her bosom.

She laughed again. “Perhaps I didn't realize until now how much of the spirit of Mary Wollstonecraft and Hester Blayne lurks within me. But, do not fear, Mr. Beresford, while I am here I shall not write inflammatory tracts on Whitehouse Abbey stationery or launch tirades from the top of the hall stairway."

"You will have my undying gratitude for your forbearance, my dear."

This time, the endearment and the warmth of the smile with which he laved her quite took Helen's breath away, Dear Lord, here was another unexpected weapon wielded by the unexpected Edward Beresford.

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"I think things are going very well, don't you?"

Barney perched on a small tapestry-covered chair in Helen's sitting room. She was garbed in a demure, high-necked dressing gown and a rather frivolous cap that sat at odds with her prim features.

It had been a very long first day at Whitehouse Abbey, and the two ladies had joined for a bedtime tisane and an analysis of the day's events.

"Yes—that is, I suppose so."

Barney's brows lifted at Helen's dubious tone. “Well, my goodness, it seems to me Mr. Beresford has been most cooperative, to say nothing of courteous. Just look at our accommodations.” She swept a band. “I am not overly familiar with the great houses of England, but I should imagine these are some of the finer ones available."

"Yes,” said Helen again, “but do you think perhaps be is being just a bit
too
kind? To a pair of strange females who have just appeared on his doorstep announcing that he is an interloper who must abandon his home and title to an infant of unproven antecedents?"

"Mm, I see what you mean. But I was pleasantly surprised at Mr. Beresford. I mean to say, I was rather expecting a devil with horns and a long tail. In actuality, he seems a perfectly ordinary gentleman—and a very nice one. He did not throw you out into the snow, so to speak, but instead welcomed you as an honored guest. He did not sneer at your story but promised to look into the matter. I think he means it, don't you? If he did not, he would surely not have invited us to stay here. Or do you think him merely devious?"

"I must say I do wonder about that. Although, I can't see how it would serve any evil purpose he might have in mind to welcome us into his home."

"Yes, indeed. My goodness, Helen, he has virtually turned you loose among the family treasures. Surely—"

"I wonder about that, too. Owners of priceless objets d'art simply do not hand over the job of cataloging and evaluating them to total strangers. Mr. Beresford does not strike me as the sort of lackwit who would entrust a task of this magnitude on a whim."

"N-no.” Barney cast a sidelong glance at Helen. “However, it did occur to me that the gentleman might have an ulterior motive in mind—one that has nothing to do with William and his claim."