Miss Prestwick's Crusade

by Anne Barbour

  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.

  “I am Bingham, Miss,” she replied in answer to Helen's question. She immediately busied herself with Helen's belongings, whisking handkerchiefs and undergarments into cupboard drawers, gowns into an intricately carved wardrobe. “I shall do everything in my power to make your stay here comfortable. Oh!” She started upon opening Helen's dressing case, for it contained not jewelry and cosmetics but an odd assortment of items including a magnifying glass, several artist's brushes and a number of small bottles.

  “Never mind, Bingham,” said Helen, more sharply than she intended. “Those are, er, tools for my, er, hobby. I'm an, ah, artist—of sorts.”

  “Very good, Miss,” Bingham replied colorlessly. She eyed the contents of the case dubiously before closing it with the care one might take in caging a reptile of unknown antecedents.

  Having assigned all Helen's clothing to its proper storage place, Bingham, after assuring Helen that she would return momentarily with clean bed linen, whisked herself from the room.

  Helen, alone for the first time since she had started her journey what seemed like an eternity ago, stared about her in bemusement. Her gaze lit on the dressing case and she rose to open its lid. Idly, she sorted its contents. She was not sure why she had brought her equipment with her, for the chance of her using it seemed unlikely. Still, once she had seen William acknowledged as the twelfth Earl of Camberwell, she must earn her bread somehow. She could only hope that the expertise that had made her name well known in art circles on the Continent would serve her well in the land she now planned to call home.

  She turned away from the dressing table. Surveying the sitting room and the bed chamber beyond, she marveled once again at the luxury in which she now found herself. It was hard to believe this would be William's home for the rest of his life. In his rightful position, he would be raised as a peer of the realm. His playmates would be the scions of the wealthy and powerful, and he himself would one day take his place in the House of Lords.

  And when that time came, she realized with a pang, the name Helen Prestwick would mean nothing to him. For surely after she had left Whitehouse Abbey, William's family would have no interest in keeping up that particular connection. If she were lucky, they would allow visits from time to time from William's doting spinster aunt. Perhaps—

  Her somewhat lugubrious reflections were interrupted by the reentrance of Bingham, this time bearing a ewer.

  “You'll want to freshen up a bit, Miss.” This seemed a statement rather than a question. “Before you go downstairs to meet with his lordship.” She poured water into a waiting basin on Helen's dressing table, and as Helen dabbed dutifully at face, neck and ears, Bingham inspected the array of gowns in the wardrobe.

  “This one is lovely,” she said enthusiastically, selecting a morning ensemble of pearl gray sarcinet. It was trimmed with a ruching that fell off around the neck and could by no means be considered mourning attire. However, Helen had decided before setting out on her journey that it was time she began garbing herself more normally. At Helen's bemused nod of agreement, the little maid drew the garment over her arm. “I'll just give it a bit of a press and be back in the twinkling of a bedpost.” The next moment she was gone again, leaving Helen once more to her thoughts.

  This time, however, she had barely dried her recently laved portions when Bingham was back. She assisted Helen in removing her travel-stained carriage dress and donning the sarcinet. Then Miss's hair came in for a protracted session under the hairbrush before Bingham declared her suitable for public consumption.

  “There, Miss. You do look a treat.”

  “Thank you, Bingham.” Helen turned to inspect herself in the glass. “Like William, I fear I need a good soaking bath to make me really presentable after such a long journey, but you have wrought a miracle.” She could not help a surge of satisfaction at her appearance. She might not seem a bulwark of authority, but she looked every inch the lady. Lord—Mister—Beresford would surely see her as a woman not to be taken lightly. With such a formidable champion at William's side, he would certainly think twice about trying to sweep the infant's claim under a manorial carpet.

  Bingham blushed in gratification. “His lordship instructed me to show you back down to his study, Miss, at your convenience. So, if you're ready ...”

  Hesitating only a moment, Helen nodded. She was certainly not nervous about encountering William's saturnine relative again. After all, she had accomplished the major part of her task. William was home. Mr. Beresford had accepted him into Whitehouse Abbey and said he would look into the matter of the child's parentage.

  So far so good.

  She nodded briskly and swept from the chamber in Bing-ham's wake.

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  * * *

  Chapter Five

  In his study, Edward paced yet another circle in the carpet, the morning's events still churning in his mind. He pictured Helen Prestwick upstairs, placing young William in one of the nursery cradles, settling herself in one of the Abbey's myriad bedchambers. Which one had Mrs. Hobart chosen for her, he wondered idly. The Bluebell, he rather hoped, so named because of its delicately flowered wallpaper, Lord! He ran a distracted hand through his hair. What the devil difference did it make where the Prestwick woman laid her head at night? Had he made a ghastly mistake in allowing the slim beauty into Whitehouse Abbey at all? That had certainly been the reaction of his family to the news. He had found them awaiting him in the Library, their mouths uniformly agape with anticipation.

  “Have you seen her, Edward?” Aunt Emily's voice was high and breathless. “Did you send her about her business?”

&nbs
p; “What did she look like?” chimed in Artemis. “Was she beautiful? If she's an adventuress, I imagine she must be beautiful.”

  Edward held up a hand. “After meeting Miss Prestwick and speaking with her, I have invited her to stay with us until I can investigate her claim. And yes,” he admitted grudgingly, “she is quite attractive.”

  As he had expected, his statement was greeted by a chorus of vociferous protest.

  “I knew it!” exclaimed Aunt Emily. “You've been taken in by a pretty face!”

  Artemis weighed in with approximately the same sentiments, adding for good measure, “You're such an innocent, Edward.”

  “Well, then,” said Mr. Welladay, at length, “what sort of cock-and-bull story did she trot out for you?”

  “Yes, Edward,” chimed in Aunt Emily. “She obviously experienced no difficulty in drawing you into her net. What tale did she spin? Do not keep us in further suspense.”

  Calmly, with certain careful omissions, Edward related the conversation that had taken place between him and Miss Prestwick. There was a moment's silence before cacophony broke out once more, and this time it was difficult to ascertain which of his loving family was the most clamorous. At length, Aunt Emily won out.

  “Well—as I live and breathe, I vow I have never heard such an outrageous taradiddle.” She stared accusingly. “Since you have been so gullible, the rest of us must decide what to do about the adventuress.”

  Suppressing an urge to shake his aunt until her cap flew off, Edward drew in a breath before launching the strategy he had formulated on his way from the Yellow Salon to the Library.

  “Yes, Aunt, but do consider. What if she is telling the truth? She has indeed brought a child with her, and I do believe"—he crossed his fingers—"he is the spitting image of Chris. If the child—William—is the son of Chris and his legal wife, why, would it not be a wonderful thing? Just think—Chris's child—the rightful Camberwell heir.”

  He paused. A blessed silence settled on the room as the notion sank into its various occupants. Edward fancied he could hear wheels grinding and cogs clicking.

  “Chris's child,” repeated Aunt Emily consideringly.

  “The true heir,” breathed Artemis. “Ooh, it's just like a fairy tale!”

  “Who would be the child's guardian, I wonder,” interposed Stanford thoughtfully.

  Warning flags sprouted in Edward's mind like dandelions. Good God, he might not have wanted the title of Earl of Camberwell, but he'd be damned if he'd turn over an innocent child to a parcel of featherbrains or a scheming weasel like Stamford Welladay. If young William were indeed the Earl of Camberwell, there should be little difficulty in getting himself—as the child's nearest male blood relative—declared the child's guardian. He raised a hand.

  “I believe,” he said firmly, “that would be a matter for the courts to decide.”

  At this point, a marked change of attitude had swept over the assembled relatives. Aunt Emily was now twittering over the infant earl—the rightful earl. Artemis murmured disjointedly that she was glad someone had appeared at last who was fit to be the Earl of Camberwell. However, she also seemed entranced about the engaging prospect of a baby in the house. Uncle Stamford still seemed bemused, steepling his fingers before him and tapping them thoughtfully.

  “But when can we meet the woman?” asked Aunt Emily eagerly. “Mind you, Edward, I am not wholly reconciled to your notion that the infant she has brought is actually Chris's son—legitimate or otherwise. However, you know how I am—always open to new ideas.”

  “Of course, Aunt. She is upstairs with her companion at the present. She—”

  “Companion?” echoed several voices in unison.

  “I must apologize,” said Edward smoothly. “You will recall Stebbings mentioned another woman. Of course, Miss Prestwick would not travel without a duenna, as she calls her. Miss Barnstaple is an old friend of her family— has served as governess, in fact, for a number of years.”

  “I don't know,” murmured Aunt Emily dubiously. “Portuguese, for heavens sake.”

  “Oh, Mama. Miss Prescott can't be Portuguese. Nor I should think is this Miss Barnstump. They sound quite English.”

  “It's Prestwick,” said Edward through gritted teeth. “And Barnstaple.”

  “Um.” Artemis waved a hand. “At any rate, where is she now?

  “My gracious, yes!” The dowager hurried toward the door. “We must prepare a chamber for her, I suppose— and the Barnstump woman as well. The baby—William, is it?—will go in the nursery, of course. Artemis, do ring for Mrs. Hobart. We must—”

  “All is in order, Aunt. Mrs. Hobart has taken the ladies in tow and the last I saw of them they were on their way upstairs to settle in.”

  “Settle in where?” Aunt Emily continued on her way undeterred. “I must see that everything has been arranged properly. And I want to meet that woman,” she said again, somewhat ominously.

  Edward found himself oddly reluctant to throw Miss Prestwick to the lions, as it were, just yet. He acknowledged his wish to protect her from the Beresford menage, and he felt a need to satisfy himself that this inclination was based on more than a simple attraction to the woman. Although, he reflected ruefully, perhaps “simple” was not the mot juste.

  “Miss Prestwick is freshening herself right now, Aunt: I instructed Mrs. Hobart to have her sent back down to my study when she has changed. I must speak to her further, so that I may set an investigation in motion. As you say,” he continued purposefully, “there is still much I must learn from her—and about her—before I can make a decision on how far I should go with my inquiry. This may, after all, require a great deal of time and effort on our part, and if she is—again, as you say—an adventuress, it would be best to determine that at the outset.”

  Aunt Emily nodded approvingly. “Well said, Edward. While it would be the best of all possible news if the child were Chris's legitimate offspring, we cannot be too careful. The world is full of charlatans and frauds.” She laid a finger significantly alongside her nose. “We must proceed with extreme circumspection.”

  Suppressing a laugh, Edward merely nodded— circumspectly. “I promise you shall meet her at luncheon,” he said, hastening from the room as Uncle Stanford opened his mouth.

  Now, back in his study, he awaited Miss Prestwick with some trepidation. Aside from the pull he felt toward this most delectable specimen of the female sex, her appearance boded a huge change in his circumstances. Despite the resentment he had felt at the disruption of his orderly life when the title had been forced on him, he had grown to enjoy many aspects of the position. He had found in himself a talent for estate management and had felt no little pride in the improvements he had made to the Camberwell domain. Then, too, as humble as one liked to feel oneself, life was made considerably easier on those occasions when one could, for example, sweep into an inn and avoid any tiresome waits or inferior service simply by announcing—or having one's minions do so—that one was the Earl of Camberwell.

  However—and he felt himself bristling once more with indignation at the aspersion she had flung at him—he certainly did not begrudge the possibility that he might be replaced by an infant of six months. In fact, he would do his utmost to guide the child—teach him his responsibilities, ensure that he grew into a caring, prudent paterfamilias. This would cause him considerable inconvenience, of course, but he thought himself up to the task. He snorted. He couldn't possibly rear a worse specimen than either of his two predecessors.

  But first things first. Before he launched into any rearing and caring, he must ascertain the truth or falsity of Miss Prestwick's claim. He sensed that it might be difficult to maintain his objectivity, given his unbecoming fascination with her. He shook himself. For God's sake, he was three and thirty years old and had never been the sort to be bowled over by a pretty face. He would, of course, maintain his customary dispassionate behavior, and—

  He was interrupted in his increasingly self-righteous pronoun
cements by a scratch on the door, immediately followed by the entrance of Miss Prestwick, ushered in by a housemaid. He was caught at once in her gray velvet gaze and at that moment felt all his pious theories trickle out through the bottoms of his shoes.

  “Do come in,” he said brusquely. He moved to the chair behind his desk and gestured to one just opposite. “I have apprised my—Chris's—family of your claim.”

  “And?” Miss Prestwick seemed only mildly interested.

  “They are most anxious to make your acquaintance.”

  “Yes, I suppose. And, of course, I am eager to meet them as well.”

  Despite her assumption of ease, Helen settled warily into the comfortable old leather chair. When Mr. Beresford expressed a courteous wish that Mrs. Hobart had made her and Miss Barnstaple comfortable, she managed to reply coolly, “Yes, of course. Our accommodations are—more than acceptable. And William is all tucked up in the nursery.” She was annoyed to find herself smiling. “My chambers are lovely. The wall covering is exquisite—bluebells, I think.” Quizzically, she observed Mr. Beresford's nod of what seemed to be satisfaction. “And the view is breathtaking. What are those hills in the distance?”

  “I'm not sure they have a name. They are merely called the chalk hills.”

  An awkward silence fell for some moments. Trying not to think about the coming ordeal of Chris's family, Helen looked about her. The furnishings, including the spacious chair in which she was seated, lacked the elegance of those of the rest of the house. They were comfortable but far from new. Some, indeed, were actually a little shabby. The desk was scarred as though from generations of boots resting on its surface. She turned to find Mr. Beresford gazing at her with lilted brows.