by Anne Barbour
“This is your study?” she murmured inanely.
“Yes.” He smiled ruefully. “It could use a little refurbishment, I know, but I haven't got round to it yet. In fact, I daresay I never shall. It rather suits me in its present state. I've always preferred comfort above elegance.”
Helen smiled disbelievingly. Did he really expect her to believe that given the choice, he'd rather live in a cozy cottage than a grand manor? She well knew that men of his stamp liked to live ostentatiously. She also knew she was being unfair, which only made her angrier.
Mr. Beresford's friendly smile faded and he turned to the pad of paper on the desk.
“I think,” he said frigidly, “we should begin. First of all, Miss Prestwick, tell me again the name of the minister who"—he paused, and the silence seemed to roar through the chamber—"allegedly performed the marriage ceremony for Chris and your sister.”
Helen's fingers clenched, but she allowed no reaction to show on her features. “The Reverend Harold Binwick,” she replied with great calm. “Unfortunately, I have no idea where he resided in England before he came to Portugal or where he went when he left.”
She tried to ignore the extreme skepticism that filled Mr. Beresford's returning stare. “Mm-hmm.”
The next hour was filled with more questions, with Mr. Beresford making copious notes on the pad. Helen could feel the tension rise within her as he probed deeper into her family background and their life in Portugal.
“No,” she found herself replying at one point, her hands gripping her skirts. “I really could not say what caused the rift between my father and Chris's commanding officer. I do know that, while they had been great friends before, with much visiting back and forth, they did not so much as speak to one another for several months before Chris and Trix were married.”
Her adversary stared dubiously, and Helen swallowed the panic that rose within her.
Edward did not consider himself particularly perceptive, but he knew that Miss Prestwick was disturbed at his question and that she was holding something back. What was there about the feud between her father and Colonel Foster that was causing her such discomfort? Did it have a bearing on the legitimacy of her claim on William's behalf? He began to form more questions in his mind to probe this intriguing circumstance but was interrupted by the faint sound of the luncheon gong.
“Ah.” He pushed back his chair and noted interestedly that Miss Prestwick fairly sagged in relief at his next statement. “It's time for luncheon. I'm afraid we'll have to postpone our, er, discussion until later. I hope you are ready to meet the rest of the family.”
At this. Miss Prestwick stiffened once more, but she merely replied, “Certainly, I am looking forward to it.”
Edward smiled at her blatant falsehood—at which she jerked even further upright. “Very well.” He led her to the door and out into the corridor. “First of all, there is my Aunt Emily, Chris's mother, the dowager Countess of Camberwell. Then there will be his sister, Artemis—she is eighteen and looking forward to another London Season. Last is Aunt Emily's brother, Stamford Welladay, who has lived with us for some years.”
There was a slight pause before Miss Prestwick replied in a strangled voice. “How delightful.”
In a few moments, Edward halted before the door to the Blue Salon, where luncheon would be served. He touched Miss Prestwick's hand lightly and was appalled at the surge of warmth that streaked up from his fingers.
“Here we are,” he murmured, wondering if the sharply indrawn breath of his companion sprang from that same touch or merely from the thought of meeting the family en masse.
He swung the door open wide and ushered Miss Prestwick inside.
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Chapter Six
It seemed to Helen that the room was inordinately full of staring eyes and the sibilant whisper of silken skirts. She was not reassured when these features separated into two perfectly ordinary females and one male. She did, however, feel oddly encouraged when Mr. Beresford placed a gentle hand on her back. Lifting her head, she moved into the room with a wholly spurious air of confidence.
She heard little of Mr. Beresford's introductions, her attention being focused on the faces of William's new family. She saw little sign of friendship there. The dowager's expression was downright hostile. That of her daughter—Artemis, was it?—displayed a disbelieving curiosity. The gentleman seemed suffused with a contemptuous arrogance.
“Well, then,” said Edward in conclusion. “Shall we dine?”
“Of course not!” exclaimed the dowager. “I shan't be able to eat a morsel until I have seen Chris's son. Alleged son, that is,” she amended carefully.
“Ooh, yes!” cried Artemis, once again in squeal register. “Do have someone bring him down, Edward.”
“I think it would be better,” interposed Helen, anxious to establish her authority in matters concerning the heir, “if we were to go up to the nursery. I can understand your eagerness to meet William, but he was considerably fatigued from his journey and is, I'm sure, sound asleep at the moment.”
The dowager simply stared at Helen for several seconds before replying stiffly, “I'm sure I know enough not to disturb a sleeping child. Miss Prescott.” She turned to the others. “Come along, Artemis, and you as well, Stamford. I wish to have your opinion on the child.”
Without waiting for a response. Aunt Emily swept past Mr. Beresford and Helen as though they did not exist. To Helen's surprise, Mr. Beresford grinned at her ruefully, and she was astonished at the warmth that spread through her. She almost reached out a hand to him but was saved from doing so by the entrance of Barney, ushered into the chamber by a housemaid.
Introductions flew round the group once more and Barney murmured appropriate replies, scarcely lifting her eyes above waistcoat level. The dowager merely sniffed, as though acknowledging Barney's presence as no more than a disagreeable and ideally temporary presence in her home. Turning, she resumed her majestic progress from the Blue Salon, her entourage trailing behind, leaving Mr. Beresford, Barney and Helen to bring up the rear.
“Well, then,” murmured Mr. Beresford. “I surmise you are firmly put in your place.”
His words, humorously spoken, did much to take away the sting of Lady Camberwell's rudeness, and to Helen's surprise, a chuckle escaped her. How very odd, she thought distractedly, to find herself in such cheerful harmony with a man she must consider her enemy. She shook herself. Not only odd, but dangerous as well, and she'd better remember that. Rearranging her features to an expression of cool acquiescence, she swept past him to follow Lady Camberwell and the rest of the party.
In the nursery, true to Helen's prediction, William was discovered sleeping in his cradle, the picture of cherubic bliss. Nearby, Finch sat mending a small shirt. The air of serenity and security was completed by the singing of a small kettle on a hob set just outside the bedchamber. The Camberwell menage circled the cot on tiptoe, conducting, in stage whispers, an extensive catalog of the infant's similarities and dissimilarities to Christopher, to Christopher's father and mother, and an exhaustive collection of recent ancestors, both male and female.
Not surprisingly, the commotion, muted though it was, aroused William. Hiccupping, he turned a wide, blue stare on the assemblage. Then, he turned a smile so beaming it might have been rehearsed on the dowager countess and held his arms up to her. As though pulled by strings. Aunt Emily scooped the child into her arms and, returning the smile in full, began an incomprehensible babble of endearments.
Edward darted a surprised glance at Helen, who returned it in full measure. She had never known William to respond so to a stranger. While acknowledging she could not have selected a surer strategy for promoting her cause, she knew an unbecoming twinge of jealousy. Artemis had by now stepped up, putting out a cautious finger to stroke William's hair. Only Mr. Welladay remained aloof, perhaps not unnatural in an elderly bachelor. He stood just inside the chamber door, an ex
pression of deep skepticism creasing his plump features.
When, after some minutes, he harrumphed loudly. Lady Camberwell started and turned toward him. “What is it, Stanford?”
“I'm sure the child is a fine specimen of infanthood, but I don't see that the fact that he has, er, ‘woodgy, woodgy pink cheeks’ or ‘booful, bluest eyes,’ indicates any proof that he is the legal heir to the Camberwell title. In addition,” he continued austerely, “I want my luncheon.”
The dowager bristled. “Well, of course, I realize that, Stanford. However, there is no denying he is the picture of dear Christopher. Oh, dearest, would it not be wonderful if—?”
“No sense in weaving air dreams, Emily,” retorted Mr. Welladay sharply. “Edward will set an investigation in motion, and then we shall see what we shall see. In the meantime, may we dine?”
Reluctantly, the dowager handed William over to a hovering Finch and gestured to Artemis. She did not so much as glance toward Helen or Edward but maintained a voluble conversation with her daughter as she strode from the room, once again leaving their guests to bring up the rear.
“Well,” murmured Mr. Beresford, as they descended the staircase, “William has made a conquest.”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Helen gratefully. Try as she might, she could find no emotion displayed on the man's face other than the most benign interest. “It would seem that Lady Camberwell is convinced that, at the least, William is Christopher's son,”
“Ah.” Edward smiled. “The next skirmish in your crusade?”
Helen noted, to her surprise, that a smile completely transformed Mr. Beresford's rather harsh features, making him seem years younger. She could not help but grin in return. “Oh, no, Mr. Beresford. The next skirmish in my crusade is to convince you of my claim—or, rather, William's claim.”
A little abashed at her own words, she continued hastily. “Or, at least convince you of the possibility that William is the true earl.”
“Mm, yes,” replied Edward dryly. “Much better to begin with small steps, my dear.” Helen gasped at the unexpected endearment. He, too, seemed somewhat disconcerted, for he turned away abruptly to continue his journey down the staircase.
Helen followed but stopped to gaze at a painting positioned at shoulder height along the stairs.
“My goodness, is that a Grunewald?”
Edward turned again to stand next to Helen.
“A who?”
“A Grunewald—a German painter of the Renaissance.” She peered more closely at the work. “Why, yes, it is. However did you come by it? It's most unusual to find his work outside the Continent. His name is not so well known here yet.”
“Ah. It's one of my grandfather's acquisitions—the ninth earl, that is.” He grasped Helen's elbow to continue their progress. “He traveled extensively in Europe and was an avid collector of art works and objets d'art.”
“He had excellent taste,” observed Helen, twisting to catch another glance. “And—my word, I believe that's an Appiani over there.”
“Possibly,” murmured Edward. They had by now reached the dining chamber, to find his relatives already seated at table. Ushering Helen to a chair near the foot, he took his usual place at the head.
Over cold meat and salad, Lady Camberwell at last deigned to take note of Helen's presence.
“You live in Portugal, Miss Prescott?” she asked.
“Yes—but my name is Prestwick.” Helen once again began to describe her background, only to be interrupted by the dowager. “Yes, yes, Edward told us all that.” Apparently the details of the maternal antecedents of the possible heir had risen to the top of her mind. “But I want to know about your family. From where did they move to Portugal? Were they related to the Lancashire Prestwicks?”
“Not to my knowledge, ma'am. Both my mother and father were born in Sussex. My father's family were fanners; my mother's father was a barrister.”
At Lady Camberwell's expression of horror, Helen relented. “My father was the grandson of Viscount Haliwell. His seat was near Hasemere, and, my grandfather, the viscount's third son, was deeded a comfortable estate not far away. My mother was the former Henrietta Firmenty. Her father was a distant connection of the Duke of Brumford.”
She let the information drop casually and was ignobly gratified at Lady Camberwell's change of expression.
“But—but—your father! He was—well, he was in trade!”
Helen's fingers clenched around her fork. “By his own choice, ma'am. He was much devoted to art, but to his vast regret, possessed no talent for drawing or painting or any of the other forms of plastic art. So devoted, however, was his study of the masters, that he became extremely knowledgeable on art history, the lives and styles of various artists, techniques, different media of expression, and the appraisal of works of art. In short, ma'am, he became an expert. The field fascinated him, and he knew his expertise could earn him—and his new bride—a more than comfortable living.”
Helen paused, bending a brittle smile on the assemblage.
“Never heard of the feller.”
Helen swung about in surprise to gaze at Mr. Welladay.
“Know a little something about art, m'self,” he grunted. “Fancy I would have heard of a well-known English art expert in Portugal.”
“Ah,” responded Helen, momentarily disconcerted. “Well, I am acquainted with a number of dealers in London. I suppose—”
“Ever heard of Gerard?” snapped Mr. Welladay.
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact I have corresponded with Thomas Gerard off and on for some five years. I am rather looking forward to meeting him in person during my sojourn in England.”
Uncle Stamford muttered something unintelligible but said nothing further.
Helen, looked at him oddly but continued her discourse to the group at large.
“At any rate, as might be expected, neither his family nor that of my mother displayed the slightest enthusiasm for this program, and rather than embarrass them or cause any more friction, he moved his little family to the continent. He had friends there, influential in the art world, who promised him assistance in his budding career. He struggled for awhile, but in a surprisingly short time, he became highly successful as an art dealer, restorer and historian.
“Unfortunately, my mother passed away at Beatrice's birth. That was in ‘88. I was six at that time and became, perforce, the lady of the household. Our housekeeper was extremely able, and she took it upon herself to teach me the rudiments of the job. By the time I was fifteen, I was running our little establishment on my own.”
The response of the females around the table was a blank stare.
“How extraordinary,” murmured the dowager. “Had you no, er, female to provide counsel and advice as you grew to womanhood?”
Helen gestured toward her companion. “I had Barney,” she said simply. As Miss Barnstaple blushed under the scrutiny, Helen continued. “She was the daughter of a neighboring squire, and she came to Portugal with my mother to act as her companion. When Mama passed away, she took on the daunting task of instilling propriety in my sister and me as we grew. We owe her everything, and she is my best friend.” She smiled at Miss Barnstaple, who was by now in a silent paroxysm of embarrassment.
Helen paused. She had determined before entering Whitehouse Abbey that she would make no effort to hide her activities in Portugal—well, most of them at any rate. Now she had come to the sticking point. She drew a fortifying breath. “In fact,” she continued brightly, “during this same time, I became interested in Papa's profession. He took me tinder his wing and taught me all he knew about art, with the result that he gradually allowed me to help him. For the last ten years,” she concluded in a belligerent rush, “I have been an integral part of his business, assisting him in appraisals and restorations and dealing with customers—of whom, I might add, we list some of the most notable families in Europe.”
The time the silence that greeted her declaration roared in her ears. Fro
m his side of the table, Stanford Welladay harrumphed in what sounded like derision. At length, Mr. Beresford cleared his throat. “Your work sounds fascinating, Miss Prestwick.”
Edward cursed himself. Could he possibly have sounded more fatuous? “Um, you pointed out the, um, Brunwald that we passed on the stairway . . .”
“Grunewald. Yes.” Miss Prestwick smiled encouragingly. “And an Appiani, I believe. I should enjoy the opportunity to view all of your grandfather's collection.”
At this point, Uncle Stamford apparently swallowed a gulp of wine the wrong way, for he choked abruptly and spent the next several minutes in a violent coughing fit. When his sister had ministered to him at some length, assuring his continued presence among the living, Edward went on.
“Mm, I think that would be an excellent idea, although there may be some difficulty.”
Miss Prestwick raised delicate brows.
“You see, I'm not precisely sure which of our objets d'art are from his collection, because—well, actually, our artworks have never been cataloged.”
This time Miss Prestwick's brows flew into her hairline.
“Not cataloged? None of them? Never? But that—that's extraordinary!”
Edward grinned ruefully, enjoying the play of expression on her mobile features. “Well, I can't say that we don't know what any of them are, of course. We have bills of sale, going back centuries, and the identities of most of our paintings and sculptures have been known to us from the time of their purchase—much of it is included in the entailment documents, but as far as a systematized listing of the items and an approximate evaluation—particularly of the hundreds of pieces scooped in by my grandfather, I'm afraid my family has been extremely lax. In addition, some damage has occurred over the years. A few chips here and there, cracking, and so on.”
“I see.” Miss Prestwick bit her lip in what Edward perceived as a wholly delightful manner. “Perhaps you would like me to look them over while I'm here.”
