Miss Prestwick's Crusade

by Anne Barbour

  Edward grimaced. For the past several years, Mr. Welladay, perhaps in an effort to justify his long residence at the Abbey, had taken it upon himself to catalog the sprawling, somewhat chaotic Camberwell art collection, gathered mostly by Henry, the fourth earl. As far as Edward could ascertain. Uncle Stamford's knowledge of objets d'art was nil, but he had acquired several weighty tomes on the subject and could be seen frequently prowling the corridors of the manor, magnifying glass in hand, peering at paintings, vases and figurines. The gentleman now fancied himself an expert on all matters artistic. He made copious notes but so far had not actually evaluated the collection or begun a serious catalog.

  Edward sighed. “I shall send to Babcock this afternoon to ready Camberwell House.”

  Lord, he thought, running a hand through his hair, he was no good at this sort of thing. Still, he was rewarded by a lightening of the dowager's expression and a burst of triumphant laughter from Artemis.

  He glanced surreptitiously at a portrait of Geoffrey, the first Earl of Camberwell, frowning down from above the fireplace. What, he wondered, would the earl say to him should he step down from his gilded frame. Nothing good, most likely. No doubt he would deplore the interloper in the breakfast room as a smudge on the purity of the line that had lain unbroken between himself and Chris, the eleventh earl. Geoffrey had been granted his title because of favors done for the eighth Henry, happily just after the Dissolution when Henry had plenty of favors to give. Not that Edward was actually guilty of interrupting that sacred connection. He was, after all, a Beresford, nephew of William, the tenth earl. But a nephew had never acceded to the title. There had always been plenty of male heirs in the direct line.

  Until Chris, who had died unwed on the bloody field of Oporto.

  Lady Camberwell spoke again.

  “I understand,” she said carefully, picking delicately at her eggs, “that the Gilfords will also be in London for the Season.”

  A chill struck Edward, and his teeth clinked against his cup.

  “Oh?” he responded colorlessly.

  “Yes, indeed,” continued the dowager, warming to her subject. “And, of course dear Elspeth will be with them.”

  “Ump.” This, a little wildly.

  “How lovely for you, Edward,” chimed in Artemis. “You will have someone to talk to at the parties. There will be no excuse for you to skulk in a corner as you always do.”

  Devoutly wishing for a convenient corner into which he could skulk right now, Edward tipped back the last of his coffee. He moved as though to push back his chair, but the dowager forestalled him.

  “You have not forgotten, I hope, Edward, that we have been invited to dinner at Gilford Park on Tuesday next. Not a large party, Francis informs me, so you will have plenty of opportunity to, er, chat with Elspeth.”

  Edward felt large drops of perspiration form along his spine. He was well aware that his aunt was merely disguising an iron command that he hitch up his breeches and propose to Elspeth as he should have done shortly after his arrival at the Abbey.

  He had brought himself to the realization that he would have to marry some day. It was simply one more of the obligations that had descended on him with his entry into the peerage. He had nothing against marriage as an institution and, indeed, had long ago cherished visions of a laughing, sweet tempered helpmeet, a comely woman of wit and intelligence, who would enter into his interests and talk with him of. poets and prodigies, dreamers and schemers and thinkers of great thoughts. However, he did not stand on tiptoe awaiting the appearance of this paragon, and when she failed to materialize, he eventually shrugged with admirable insouciance—if a little wistfully—and turned his attention elsewhere. He was forced to admit that, aside from a few lonely moments now and then, he was undoubtedly happier than the average man.

  At least, he had been until Elspeth Morwent had plunged into his life like the neighbor's pig into one's garden. Well, no, that was a bit harsh. Elspeth was not the pushy sort; she merely appeared at inconvenient intervals wearing an air of expectancy. The daughter of the Viscount Gilford, she had been chosen by Chris's family to become his affianced bride before he marched off so gloriously to his doom. He had unaccountably failed to make his proposal at the time, but it had been expected that he would do so immediately on his return. Now, the viscount and his family—and Edward's as well—seemed to feel that, having been deprived of one Earl of Camberwell, Elspeth was entitled to another. Edward had nothing personal against Elspeth. However, he wished—

  His dismal ruminations were cut short by the entrance of Stebbings, the butler, who strode into the room with an expression of consternation on his normally austere features. He paused as he approached the table, as though for dramatic effect, and, drawing in a deep breath, announced in clipped tones, “My lord, a young female has just arrived—with an infant whom she claims is the Earl of Camberwell.”

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  Chapter Three

  The chaos ensuing from Stebbings's announcement was all that any butler could wish. Assorted gasps, squeals and faint screams were heard all around. Lady Camberwell's reaction was the most pronounced, for she gasped, squealed and screamed almost simultaneously.

  “A female!” she cried, when she had recovered her voice. “The Earl of Camberwell! What on earth . . . ?” She trailed off, waving her napkin distractedly.

  “My word!” exclaimed Mr. Welladay in mild astonishment, mopping up the few drops of coffee he had spilled in his startlement. “A child? The earl? What nonsense! The woman must be mentally disturbed. I think it's best you send her away without seeing her, Ned.”

  “Yes! Or—no!” Artemis, not unexpectedly, had chosen the squeal as her preferred mode of expression. It was a sound she'd honed to perfection, and it had penetrated just now, true and shrill, into every corner of the chamber. Remarkably, she was not even short of breath as she continued. “She is obviously an imposter! I think you should call the constable!”

  Edward, who of all the company had remained silent, contained his surprise behind his customary facade of austere calm.

  “How very extraordinary,” he murmured.

  “But who is she?” cried Artemis, wriggling in her chair.

  “That is a very good question,” said Edward, turning to Stebbings. “Did she give her name?”

  The butler nodded reprovingly. “I naturally ascertained this fact at once, my lord. The female says she is a Miss Helen Prestwick. She arrived in a carriage hired from the Pig and Whistle, and she bade the coachman to return there.” This in a tone of shocked disapproval. “In addition to the child, which I would estimate as somewhat under a year old, she is accompanied by another woman of— Stebbings cleared his throat delicately—"indeterminate age.”

  Edward began to rise from his chair, only to be halted by an explosive sound from his aunt.

  “Surely you are not going to see the woman, Edward!” she exclaimed, her face flushed with indignation. “Dear Stamford is right. She is obviously disturbed in her mind. Or worse,” she continued ominously. “I quite think Artemis may be right as well. The female is up to no good.”

  “That may be. Aunt,” replied Edward mildly. “However, I believe it behooves me to at least meet with her so that I may form my own conclusions.” As he rose, the others at table also sprang to their feet. “No, no,” he added hastily. “I prefer to see her alone. I promise I shall be circumspect, and I shall give you a full report after I have seen her.”

  Pausing only to order tea to be sent to the Yellow Salon, where Stebbings had installed Miss—what was her name? Prestwick?—Edward made his way through the network of corridors that led to his destination. He mused somewhat distractedly on this astonishing turn of events. What an unthinkable situation—a female invading the hallowed precincts of Whitehouse Abbey with a preposterous claim. There was only one Earl of Camberwell, after all, and he was it. His relatives were no doubt right. The woman was either a charlatan or mentally un
balanced. He rather hoped she was the former, for a confidence trickster could be easily dispatched. A lunatic, however, was another matter. One could not be cruel to someone suffering from a delusion, and it might be difficult to get rid of her.

  Edward sighed. In any event, he would handle the situation, just as he had managed the countless small crises he had encountered since he had ascended to the exalted title of Earl of Camberwell. Not, of course, that any of those contretemps compared to the situation now confronting him. He sighed again and reached for the door handle of the Yellow Salon. Upon entering, his gaze encountered a slender form, which swung about at his entrance.

  Edward gasped. Standing before him was quite simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  High, prominent cheekbones gave her an exotic, almost Oriental aspect. Her nose was long and well-shaped, her mouth wide and generous and beautifully curved. At the moment, however, it was pressed into an uncompromising line. A glossy brown explosion of ringlets escaped in abundant profusion from under the rim of her bonnet to cluster around those remarkable cheekbones. Her most outstanding feature, however, was a pair of extraordinarily large, speaking gray eyes, the color, thought Edward dazedly, of moonlight on velvet. Above them, like banners, flew thick, straight, dark brows. Her gaze, as she surveyed him frankly, sparkled with what looked like indignation.

  The bonnet, as well as the rest of her ensemble, was of a soft, untrimmed gray. She was in half mourning, perhaps? Edward was by no means an expert in female fashions, but her austere garb, despite its plainness and the inexpensive materials with which it was fashioned, appeared reasonably a la mode. The somber gown flowed elegantly over a nicely rounded bosom, a trim waist and slim, almost angular, hips.

  She did not approach him but stood where she was, near an armchair on which reposed a small bundle of blankets. The child, he supposed. Next to the bundle rested a small portmanteau, which the woman had apparently carried in with her.

  “You are—Edward Beresford?” the woman asked in a melodious if somewhat breathless voice.

  “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.