by Anne Barbour
Mr. Beresford burst into laughter. “Whew! A blanket indictment if ever I heard one. In truth, I suppose, your reading is just—in the main. But I must assure you that officers who are peers are not all blackguards. I number some of them among my good friends.”
“I am willing to admit I made a sweeping judgment. However, I was led only by my own experience. I was perfectly able to believe all Chris's calumnies.”
“Ah.” Mr. Beresford's expression at long last lightened. “You believe now that they were calumnies?”
Almost against her will, Helen nodded. Lord, was she making a mistake here? Since the moment they had met, she had experienced a great deal of difficulty in maintaining her image of Mr. Beresford as her enemy. Now, at the point of releasing her preconceptions, she felt as though she was casting off a burden. But was this wise? Was she merely giving way to an attraction that was blatantly ludicrous? She shook herself. If such was the case, she had crossed some sort of Rubicon in the last few minutes. In her heart she had begun to trust the man seated before her, perhaps making a monumental—not to say ruinous— error in judgement.
Lord, she was still nodding, like some sort of stick toy at a fair. Mr. Beresford was waiting for a reply to his question. She pressed her hands against her skirt. Well, if she was blundering—so be it. She had trusted her instincts all her life, and so far they had not led her astray. She smiled. “Yes, I do, sir. I find that I can no longer rely on the information provided by Chris. You are, after all, far from being a dull stick. Why should I believe the rest of what he said about you?”
From his chair on the other side of the tea tray, Edward simply stared. She did not think him a dull stick! He almost crowed aloud. The next moment, he upbraided himself. For God's sake, that was not precisely an encomium and did not remotely suggest she found him attractive. Still, he felt a grin curve his lips. She had at least apparently dropped her hostility, and for this he was profoundly grateful.
“In that case,” he said, his voice almost failing him, “perhaps you would consider changing ‘Mr. Beresford’ to Edward. There seems to be a high probability that you're family now, and that's what the rest of my relatives call me—as they have all my life. So far, none of them has been able to refer to me as ‘Camberwell.’ “ He shot her a sidelong glance. “Perhaps that's just as well, considering my present circumstances.”
For a moment, his guest said nothing, then, once more flushing becomingly, said, “May I take that as an indication that you believe my claim on William's behalf—Edward?”
Edward's heart thundered. Was he betraying his responsibility to the Camberwell title in assuring Miss Prestwick of his trust? He was sure she had told him nothing but the truth—although a niggling voice whispered that he was also fairly sure she was holding something back. However, it was not his place to take her word on trust. Well, he reasoned, he wasn't doing that, was he? He had set an investigation in motion and in the unlikely event that she was proved a charlatan, he would, of course, turn her over to the law as promised. The idea sent a pang through him so sharp he was rendered breathless. He reached to take her hand in his.
“Yes, I do, Miss Prestwick.”
She turned as pale as she had previously blushed. A tremulous smile lit her eyes and she returned the pressure of his fingers on hers. “Thank you—Edward. And—my family calls me Helen.”
Edward thought he might burst with exultation, and his hand felt oddly empty when she slipped hers away to pick up her cup once more.
“But what if your investigators find no evidence one way or another?”
Edward frowned. “I have considered that and have come to the conclusion that in that event I could not, despite my own inclination, declare William the true heir. As a matter of fact, I do not believe the court would allow that. We must just hope that something turns up.”
“I suppose that's only fair,” Helen said slowly. She lifted her head. “It truly would not distress you to give up the title and all this?” She waved a hand at her elegant surroundings.
Again Edward laughed, and again Helen was dismayingly struck by how much she liked the sound of its rich warmth. Declaring a tentative friendship with the man was one thing. Admitting to a strong attraction to him was something else altogether.
“No, it would not distress me. I shall admit that there are aspects of the position that I enjoy, but by and large I would not be saddened to return to my old life. I am not a wealthy man, but I live comfortably at Briarwood. It's a lovely old place and over the years I have made it my home. By the way, as I said, it is not far from here. Perhaps you will allow me to show it to you some time.”
“I'd like that very much.”
Helen rose. “And now, I must let you get back to your duties.” She indicated the papers strewn over his desk. She dimpled mischievously, and Edward felt his heart lurch. “After all, it is imperative that William's interests continue to be served.”
Edward bowed solemnly. “It is the sole aim of my existence, ma'am.”
Helen drew a long, shaking breath, unable for a moment to respond. Dear heaven, who would have thought that just a day after her arrival—with her intent to storm Castle Camberwell—she would be on a friendly, first name basis with the arch enemy? Things were not going at all as she had envisioned, and she could only hope that this new course held more promise than her plan of overpowering the Beresfords with the force of her character.
Edward moved around his desk to escort her from the room, offering his arm. She was annoyingly conscious of the splendid set of muscles coiled beneath her fingertips. She was also unsettled by the man's patent masculinity in such close proximity. Goodness, for such an ordinary gentleman, he certainly seemed abundantly possessed of that quality the Spanish called machismo, an unmistakable virility combined with quiet authority.
Helen jumped as their journey to the door was interrupted by a soft knock, followed by the entrance of Barney. The little woman glanced from one to the other and said, “I hope I am not interrupting you in something important, Helen, but you asked to be told when William rose from his nap. He's up and dressed now, and Finch is about to take him for an outing.”
“Oh. Yes.” Helen felt unaccountably flustered. “Do come in. Mr.—that is, Edward—has been telling me a little about the estate.”
Barney's brows lifted, and Helen, who knew her so well, could fairly hear the “Oh, it's Edward now, is it?” that simmered unspoken between them. All she said, however, was, “That's very nice.” She entered the room but did not sit down. After a moment, apparently grasping her courage in both hands, she said. “I suppose it's too early to have heard anything about the search for Trix and Chris's marriage certificate.” She turned to Edward and added with a little gasp at her own temerity, “That is, I assume you have already set an investigation in motion?”
“Barney!” exclaimed Helen. “What a thing to—that is, I'm sure Mr. Beresford is doing everything that is proper.”
Edward laughed. “Bravo, Miss Barnstaple. Strike while the iron is hot. Yes, I have sent a man down Doctors’ Commons. I thought the offices of the Church a good place to start, but it will be a complicated procedure, and I imagine it will be some days before we hear anything.”
Helen, while deploring Barney's forthrightness, could not help but be pleased to have the matter brought up.
“I was wondering, in fact,” continued Edward to Helen, “if you are sure you have not other documents to offer in proof of the marriage between my cousin and your sister.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you made a thorough search for the certificate after your sister's death? And, while I'm at it, why did she hide it so thoroughly?”
Helen paused a moment before answering, and Barney plunged in before her. “Because Beatrice was a featherheaded little nitwit, that's why. Well, she was,” she replied to Helen's indignant gasp. “She was a lovely girl, as good and kind and loving as ever breathed, but sometimes she didn't have the sense of a cocker spaniel.”
Helen ope
ned her mouth but, after a moment, closed it again with a nod of reluctant agreement.
“Chris told her the marriage must be kept secret, and if Chris said a thing, it must be so. Even after he died and there was no longer any worry about his precious military career, Trix kept buckle and thong to his ridiculous precepts. Even Chris didn't squirrel the thing away so that it could never be found. He did not want to keep it in his quarters, so he simply left it in a drawer at his wife's house.”
“Yes,” agreed Helen unwillingly. “It was only after he died that the certificate disappeared. I thought nothing of it for quite awhile, but then one day I asked Trix to see it—I needed to ascertain something, I forget what. She hesitated for several moments, then left the room. When I made as though to accompany her, she shook her head and said she would simply run and get it. She returned in a very little while with the certificate in her hand. I asked her why she was being so secretive, and she replied that Chris had told her that the fact of their marriage must not be revealed to anyone.”
“But was she not with child?” asked Edward awkwardly. “Surely, it must have been apparent by then—”
“Yes, it was, but Trix solved that problem by simply never going out. I very much took her to task over this, but the more I told her she was being ridiculous, the more stubborn she became.”
“Yes,” Barney chimed in. “She just kept repeating that Chris had made her promise to keep their secret, and she'd given her sacred oath, and all that nonsense. Couldn't see that neither the promise nor the reason for giving it was valid any longer.”
“But when she knew she was dying? Surely she must have been concerned with William's future.”
Helen sighed. “Well, that was just it. She didn't know she was dying. She—she grew weaker by the day but was convinced she was going to get better.” Helen's throat constricted. “The only thing she said—just at the end—was that I should be sure to take care of William. I told her I already loved her son as my own and gave her my promise that I would do all that was necessary for him. She also told me I should keep Chris's picture displayed in a prominent place—that's the one I showed you, signed by him to his ‘beloved wife.'”
“Yes. And that was all? Aside from the ring and the, ah, pearl necklace, I believe it was?”
Helen twisted her fingers in her lap. “I'm afraid so. On the other hand"—her head lifted—"both Barney and I were witnesses to the ceremony. Would not our testimony to that fact hold weight?”
“Ordinarily I would say yes, but the fact that you are her sister"—he turned to Barney—"and a good friend of the family, with what might be called vested interests in the outcome—would surely weaken the impact of your testimony.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Helen dully.
“Well,” declared Edward, with a briskness no doubt meant to encourage, “we shall just have to hope for the best. Surely the Reverend Mr. Binwick should be fairly easy to track down, and surely he must have kept records.”
“Yes,” Helen replied, with a creditable assumption of certainty. She touched Barney's arm and turned again. “Again, I shall bid you good day, sir.”
In the corridor, she swung to Barney. “I do think that sounds encouraging, don't you? Now that the investigation is underway, I'm sure it will be no time at all before the certificate will surface.”
“Mm,” was Barney's dubious reply.
“In the meantime, will you return to the nursery with me?”
“Oh, no. I have promised myself to Mrs. Hobart.” She chuckled at Helen's expression of surprise. “I was speaking to her a little while ago, and the conversation turned to receipts and remedies. Mrs. H. is quite proud of her collection of nostrums, all prepared in the Abbey's stillroom, of course, and I promised to come look at them sometime before luncheon.”
She lifted a hand and hurried off with a muttered, “If I can find the blasted stillroom, that is.”
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Chapter Eleven
Helen made her way toward the stairway but was halted in her progress by young Artemis hurrying down with several large magazines clasped to her bosom. Such was her abstraction that she noticed Helen only at the point of running into her. In her effort to avoid this misfortune, she dropped most of the magazines. Helen bent to help retrieve them.
“You are planning an addition to your wardrobe?” she asked, in an attempt to establish friendly relations. She might not have warmed to the Camberwell menage, but they were William's family, and she must at least try to get on an amiable footing with them.
“Yes,” replied Artemis shortly. “Quite a few additions, actually. Although ...” She halted, eyeing Helen narrowly. “Where do you purchase your gowns?”
Helen stepped back, startled. “Why, everything I own was made in Portugal.” She smiled. “Like you, my sister and I relied heavily on the Ladies Magazine and La Belle Assemblee, but we used a local seamstress for most of our needs.”
“Still,” said Artemis thoughtfully, “you look reasonably well put together.”
Laughter bubbled in Helen's throat. “Why, thank you.”
Artemis flushed. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean—that is—well, coming from a place like Portugal, after all...”
Helen relented. “You are quite right. Evora was hardly a center of fashion, and I used to lend Senhora Marquez a hand, just to make sure the finished product would be wearable.”
Artemis's blue eyes widened. “You mean you did some of the sewing yourself?”
“A little. And I usually made some minor changes in the patterns to make them more becoming.”
“Really? Well, that accounts for"—Artemis stopped short, her golden curls quivering—"Mama and I were just saying last night that while the gown you wore yesterday was not precisely a la mode, it was obviously well designed and well tailored—and quite elegant.”
“Why, thank you,” Helen said again, .this time with more sincerity.
Artemis shifted her burden thoughtfully. “I wonder . . . I must select three or four gowns for our journey to London in a few weeks. I must have something to travel in, as well as an ensemble or two to tide me over until I can get something made up by Madame Phanie, our modiste in Town. Would you consider looking over these with me? Mama would help me, of course, but her taste is so—so deedy, if you see what I mean.”
“Yes, of course I do, “ replied Helen gravely. “Mothers have so little comprehension of what it means to be le dernier cri."
Artemis giggled. “Yes, that is it, precisely.”
A few moments later, the two stood over a table in the Library, its surface littered with fashion publications. Conversation was lively, featuring the merits of merino trim over more severe braiding and the efficacy of beading in concealing certain faults in one's figure.
“Not that you have any problem there,” concluded Helen admiringly. “Your figure must be the envy of all your acquaintances and certainly needs no enhancement.”
Not surprisingly, Artemis took this compliment with graceful condescension. By the time the ladies had made several choices, she was obviously far more ready to accept Helen as, if not a family member, at least a guest to be accepted with courtesy. Helen made several suggestions concerning adjustments that might be made to each gown, with the result that, at the end of the session, Artemis was in high good humor. She gathered the magazines into a pile.
“Now, if only Edward doesn't make a fuss,” she remarked as they left the room.
Helen could almost feel her ears lift. “Does Edward dispute your purchases?” she asked casually. She watched for a response to her use of Mr. Beresford's first name, but Artemis was apparently oblivious.
She snorted. “Dispute is not the word. He usually refuses flatly every time I go to him with the tiniest request. He rants on for hours about how he is trying to redeem the family fortune from the ghastly mess Father and Chris made of things. It's my belief he simply likes to see everyone around him as miserable as he
is.”
“Really? Miserable? He does not strike me as being unhappy.”
“Well, perhaps not precisely miserable. I mean, how could he be, having achieved his life's dream? He simply never appears to have any fun. He hates parties and balls, never goes to hunts, or to Bath or Cheltenham to take the waters. All he does for enjoyment is read books. He's such a—stick.” Helen smiled but returned to the first of Artemis's statements, which had immediately gripped her interest.
“His life's dream?” Goodness, she wished she could elicit information without repeating Artemis's words like a demented parrot.
Artemis nodded so vigorously that her curls once more flew around her cheeks. “Of course. He's been jealous of Chris since they were boys. He's always resented everything about Chris—his charm, his good looks, but mostly the title, I guess.”
Helen's heart sank. “You have heard him say this?”
“Oh, no. Well, he wouldn't, would he? Actually, he and his father came to visit fairly frequently when Edward was younger. I was still in the nursery then. Later, I never saw much of him—until he came to take over here. He fairly swaggered in the door and began issuing orders almost immediately. I do know that he treated Chris dreadfully when he visited here as a youth. Why, once he locked Chris in a cupboard and he had to stay in there for hours. Oh!” she exclaimed, remembering suddenly. “And he killed Chris's puppy!”
Helen gasped in horror. “He what? You saw him?”
“Mm, no. That happened before I was born—but Chris told me.”
“I see.” Helen felt engulfed by an almost physical chill. Was it possible this man with the laughing eyes could have behaved so cruelly as a child—or was this one of Chris's calumnies? And Artemis had said he behaved harshly to his new family. She was not altogether sure the spoiled young miss was a reliable source, but her words filled Helen with dismay. Who was she to believe?
She wished she didn't feel the need to discern Edward's true character. She must be prepared to protect William, of course, if the man turned out to be a villain, but she was acutely aware that it was not wholly on William's behalf that she so earnestly wished Artemis to be proven a false witness.
