by Anne Barbour
Ignoring the muffled sound that once more emanated from his uncle, Edward knew a surge of excitement. He grinned widely. “Yes, indeed, Miss Prestwick, if you would be so kind, I would be delighted if you would look at everything in the place. Evaluate everything in sight. Take all the time you wish—years, if necessary. You will, of course, be properly remunerated.” He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Down the table, he observed Stamford's continued expressions of consternation. He smiled inwardly. He could almost see the gentleman's nose swinging out of joint. Still—Well, yes, perhaps it was unwise of him to make this woman—this possible adventuress—a virtual gift of his home, and he knew he should ignore the bond that had seemed to leap between them at their first meeting. He had looked into those crystalline eyes, and now a clarion bellow within him insisted that Helen Prestwick was as true as the day is long. No charlatan she! But he was beyond rational thought at the moment. The best he could come up with was a whisper of probability that William was Chris's son in fact. If Chris had married the child's mother, well, surely it was understandable Helen would try to assure the child's place in the world.
He shook himself but was entirely unsuccessful in emerging from this fit of rationalization. All he knew was that the prospect of installing this enchanting stranger in his house for an indefinite period of time in a position that would require close consultation with her at odd moments of the day and night filled him with an aching delight.
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Chapter Seven
For a long moment, Helen could only stare at Mr. Beresford. What was the matter with the man? He appeared to have fallen into a most peculiar distraction. Was he actually offering her the opportunity to catalog the treasures of this stately home? Her heart fairly skipped in anticipation—before lurching in apprehension. Why was he doing this? He had even spoken of remuneration. What could his motive possibly be? For he must certainly have one—an ulterior one, that is. It was perfectly understandable that he would wish to have his collection cataloged, but it would be a monumental task. Why entrust it to a total stranger—of whose expertise he knew nothing? A stranger, moreover, who posed a threat to his position? Did he see some way in all this to control her somehow? He already had the upper hand in this situation. With an effort, she snatched up the rambling threads of her perturbation. She would take his request at face value—for the moment.
“That would be wonderful! That is,” she concluded primly, “I would be most pleased to conduct an appraisal and a cataloging as well—at no charge, of course. I am your guest, my lo—Mr. Beresford.” It wrenched her heart to spurn a lucrative commission at this time when she badly needed money. However, she thought, brightening, her work at Whitehouse Abbey might well lead to a series of equally profitable assignments. In addition, working with such a large number of artworks would keep her busy while she waited for Mr. Beresford to finish his investigation of William's claim. Perhaps, she added to herself, that gentleman would not be in such a hurry to make a slapdash hugger-mugger job of it with herself in situ for months, even though he must, she reminded herself, be longing to be rid of her and her bothersome demand.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Beresford in evident delight. “As for remuneration, I must insist—however, we can discuss that later.”
He turned to beam on the rest of the family. “Is this not a wonderful thing? I have been wishing to get the matter of grandfather's artworks sorted out ever since my arrival here but have been at a loss as to how to go about it.”
Helen's gaze swept around the table. Hm. The members of Mr. Beresford's family were having little difficulty in containing their gratification at this turn of events. Mr.— what was his name? Welladay?—in particular, looked as though he had just swallowed something large and sour.
“But, I say!” he exploded after a series of gurgled splutterings. “What about me? What about my own efforts in that direction?”
“Oh, Lord!” Edward castigated himself. He had forgotten all about Uncle Stanford's abortive attempts to sort out the Camberwell collection. No wonder he was spitting nails. Well—too bad. Stamford's amour propre was the last of Edward's concerns at the moment.
He smiled at Helen.
“My uncle has been working on the pieces for some time, and I'm sure he is making excellent progress—but he is merely a, ah, gifted amateur. We have needed an expert on the premises for some time.”
Helen cast a glance at the by now almost apoplectic gentleman and sent a look of apology. Dear heaven, would she be making a dreadful mistake in alienating the senior-most member of the Camberwell family?
“I would welcome your assistance, Mr. Welladay,” she concluded mendaciously. The last thing she wanted was the interference of a well-meaning but inexpert dabbler. However, this was a time for conciliation. She bestowed on him her most brilliant smile before turning back to Mr. Beresford.
“I have brought my equipment with me, but I shall have to send to London for supplies—a bleaching solution, perhaps, for damage.”
“It shall be done, my d—Miss Prestwick. Just give me a list.”
Silence fell on the table then, as each of the family mulled over this new turn of events. Mr. Welladay appeared ready to explode, and it was evident that neither Lady Camberwell nor her daughter was pleased, but they could think of no good reason to dispute Mr. Beresford's decision.
“Does William have any teeth?” Artemis asked abruptly. “I couldn't tell when we were upstairs.”
Helen laughed, relieved at the change of topic. “Yes, he has four now, and another two ready to sprout.”
The dowager returned to the subject she had been pursuing earlier. “Lady Castlering had occasion to visit Portugal a few years ago, shortly after Wellington had secured the country. She reported meeting Christopher's commanding officer, Colonel Foster, I believe his name was. You say that your father and the colonel were friends at one time?” She bent a dubious stare on Helen.
Helen's heart drummed unpleasantly, but she replied calmly. “Oh, yes. I recall Lady Castlering quite well. She dined with us a few times.” Helen noted with some satisfaction Lady Camberwell's expression of surprise. “And yes, the colonel and my father were very good friends, until— oh, about two years ago—they quarreled and have not spoken since.” She twisted abruptly in her chair. “Oh, my, is that a Constable? I am pleased at the opportunity to view his work, for I have had little opportunity to do so on the Continent. Do—?”
“What was the quarrel about?” asked Lady Camberwell, undeterred.
Helen curled fingers into her damp palms. “They—they disagreed about a painting in the colonel's possession.”
Across the table, Edward glanced at Miss Prestwick in some curiosity. To be sure, the disagreement between her father and an old friend must have been painful for her, but her distress seemed out of proportion to Aunt Emily's question. He felt unexpectedly protective toward her and knew an immediate urge to dissipate her unhappiness.
Really, he admonished himself the next moment. He must stop behaving like a fatuous schoolboy with a crush on the vicar's wife. Miss Prestwick was a lovely, eminently desirable woman, with an open, intelligent countenance. That did not necessarily mean she was being truthful in her dealings with him, no matter how much he wished to believe so. Still ...
He spooned up the last of his lemon curd and, seeing that the others had finished their meal as well, rose from his chair. He turned to Miss Prestwick. “Perhaps this would be a good time for a tour of the house. It's rather large and sprawling. If you are not to get lost every time you set out from your bedchamber, you must be provided with an orientation.”
“Oh! I had planned to return to William's chambers. But—yes, I would enjoy seeing the house. As would Barney, I'm sure.” She gestured to Miss Barnstaple, who nodded silently.
“Yes, of course.” Edward felt himself flushing. “I meant Miss Barnstaple, too—of course.”
Their exit
from the room was, however, prevented by the approach of Mr. Welladay. He was breathing rather heavily. “Ned,” he said curtly. “Might I have a word with you before you set off on your travels? In your study,” he added as Edward made as though to step away from the ladies.
Sensing the subject of his uncle's perturbation, he sighed. To Miss Prestwick, he said, “Would you mind waiting for me? I shan't be a moment. While you're in the room, perhaps you would like to examine our collection of Roman coins—in this case over here. They were turned up some years ago in a secluded area of the estate.”
In his study, Edward turned to face his uncle but did not so much as have a chance to initiate a question.
“My God, Ned! Have you completely parted company with your mind?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“First of all, to invite that—that cockatrice into our— your—home.” Edward felt a fire build beneath his collar, but he forced himself to remain calm. Stanford continued, his hands nailing the air. “And then to invite her to run tame among the family treasures! Why don't you just pack up the valuables and hand them to her? Include the silver as well! Good God!” he said again. “You have been completely bamboozled by a fairly attractive face—”
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.”
