Miss Prestwick's Crusade

by Anne Barbour

  Edward felt a red haze pass over his eyes. Repressing his rage with more effort than he knew he possessed, Edward drew a long breath. “Uncle Stanford, I do not like you. I am infinitely grateful that you and I are not blood relations. If it were not for Aunt Emily, you would have been tossed out into the snow a day or two after I moved in. At this moment, your position is tenuous at best. If you go through with this ludicrous scheme of yours, you may be sure that, Aunt Emily or no, by tonight you will be packing your bags.”

  Edward watched as Stamford absorbed the failure of a scheme he had no doubt hatched with high anticipation. His face grew pasty and his eyes seemed to pull in on themselves until they looked like raisins in a bowl of oatmeal.

  “I'll tell you what I think we should do. Uncle,” Edward said calmly. “I think you should go upstairs now. I shall remove the ladies to the, ah. Yellow Salon. In a few minutes you will join us there to inform Aunt Emily that you decided to conduct your own search of her chambers and that you found the pearls fallen behind her dressing table. Do you think you can manage that?”

  To Edward's relief, for he did not see how he was to maintain his facade of cool menace when he wanted nothing more than to thrash this sad, evil old man, Stamford stepped aside. His lips clamped together. “You malign me, my dear boy. I shall leave you now, and I will indeed search Emmy's room. I hope you will not rue this day, nephew,” he continued, his smile sagging noticeably. “Mark my words, your infatuation with that—” Noting Edward's expression, he huffed. “That female will bring tragedy to us all.”

  So saying, he swiveled about and strode stiffly down the corridor.

  Edward found that his hands were shaking as he turned to reenter Aunt Emily's chambers. What a wretched clot was Stamford Welladay—willing to destroy a young woman's life merely because he had taken a dislike to her. He paused. And that was an odd thing. Uncle Stamford was ordinarily the most phlegmatic of men. He had almost made amiability an art form, for his livelihood depended on it. Edward had never known the man to get so worked up over anything. It was hard to imagine him in such a taking merely over what might seem to him a slur on his artistic expertise. Nor could he see Welladay truly concerned about a dispute over the title of Earl of Camberwell. It wasn't as though he had any stake in the matter himself.

  Shaking his head, Edward let himself into the chamber. His gaze flew to Helen, who still stood at Aunt Emily's side with Artemis, soothing the dowager with word and gesture. Helen was still pale, and her returning glance was stricken. Suppressing an urge to hasten to her side and draw her to him in a consoling embrace, he satisfied himself with a reassuring smile. Then, he bent himself to the task of shepherding the ladies from the chamber.

  “Trust me, please,” he murmured to Helen on the way out of the door. “This is all going to turn out all right.”

  There was neither time nor opportunity for the myriad questions Helen would have liked to pour over him, but his smile did much to dispel her perturbation. The little group was still in the Yellow Salon some fifteen minutes later when Mr. Welladay sauntered in to join them.

  “Well, Emmy,” he said jovially. “See what I have brought you.” Reaching into his pocket he proffered a gleaming strand of pearls. His sister gasped.

  “Stamford! My pearls! Where on earth did you find them?” She flung herself on him.

  “You silly chit,” he said with a beaming expression of fondness. “I took it upon myself to conduct my own search of your chamber. I looked behind your dressing table, and there was the necklace. You must have brushed it off the last time you took it off before, er, what's-her-name had a chance to put them away.”

  “But I don't understand.” Lady Camberwell's face wrinkled in bewilderment. “Severs and I both looked behind there, and I would have sworn it wasn't there.”

  “Ah. You just didn't pull it out far enough. Anyway, m'dear, all's well that ends well.” He cast an expansive smirk about the room, studiously avoiding Edward's eye. He led his sister from the room, and Artemis followed, expressing herself in muted squeals.

  Alone in the salon, Edward moved to Helen. Taking her hand in his, he gazed at her searchingly.

  “Are you all right?”

  Helen smiled painfully. “I am now. Good heavens, Edward, was Mr. Welladay actually about to accuse me of theft?”

  Edward's returning smile was also rather grim. “I'm afraid so. I'm still trying to fathom what his motive was, but we're fortunate that he's such an unskillful weaver of plots. Please don't be concerned. Lord,” he expostulated, “what a stupid thing to say. One cannot help but be concerned at the evidence of enmity on the part of another.”

  He secured her other hand. “All I'm saying is that you need not worry about any further such action on Uncle Stamford's part. I think we can consider him more or less a spent force.” He tried out another smile. “I can only express to you my heartfelt apology for the whole episode, concluding with the even more heartfelt wish that Aunt Emily had been born an only child.”

  At this, Edward was rewarded by Helen's wry chuckle. “I suppose I am fortunate that he didn't simply push me into the ornamental pond. In truth, I am sorry to have created such a mistrust in him, but I suppose you. must think yourself fortunate that your relatives are so protective of your interests.”

  “Stanford Welladay is not my relative. I should sooner be related to Cesare Borgia, except that Mr. Borgia was clever.”

  Helen laughed outright at this sally but sobered immediately. After a slight pause, she said, “Edward, I must thank you.”

  “Thank me? For housing the rascal that, if I am not much mistaken, nearly caused you tears?”

  She looked at him straightly. “Thank you for supporting me—for believing in me. For all you know I may be a charlatan of the worst sort, here to rob you of your birthright. I expected to have to fight you tooth and nail for an opportunity to place William in his rightful position, but you have been all that is kind and decent.”

  Edward stepped back from her a pace or two. “Well, now you've come to the nub, haven't you? You're right, I have no way to know what is in your heart. I have known you such a short time. However, I feel I'm a reasonably good judge of character—and if you're a charlatan, I'm sure you're one of the better sort.

  “Helen,” he continued in a more serious vein, “I can only go by my instincts, which tell me that you, as well, are kind and decent—and honest. I plan to operate on that assumption.”

  “Until proven otherwise?”

  Edward sighed deeply. “I'd be lying if I disputed that. I know I would be doing my family a disservice if I acted solely on my instinct.” He almost added “and my heart” but was saved by the last remnant of his inbred caution and objectivity.

  Her lovely gray eyes were shadowed, and he wondered if his words had caused her pain. Had she thought his promise of support would translate into unquestioning faith? On an acquaintance of less than three weeks? Even the most hopelessly smitten schoolboy would retain a certain degree of common sense—would he not?

  Her next words brought him some ease.

  “Of course you must behave with circumspection. I would expect nothing less from you. I am simply grateful that you have chosen to examine with care a story that, as you said, is well nigh unbelievable.”

  Her silvery gaze, pure as a crystal mountain stream, reached into his, and he felt the by-now-familiar stirring deep within him. He recaptured her hands and drew her close to him.

  “Now you've done it,” he said, his voice catching.

  “I beg your pardon?” Her eyes widened, and she seemed to be having trouble with her own breathing.

  “When you look at me like that. . . The thing is, I very much fear I'm going to have to kiss you again.”

  “Oh, dear.” She splayed her fingers against his lapel as though she would push him away, but he felt no such pressure. Instead, he could have sworn she leaned into his embrace. The next moment his arms were full of supple, warm, fragrant female whose essenc
e filled his senses. He pressed his lips to hers and was at once lost in the womanly mystery of her. She tasted of flowers and cinnamon and a hundred other delectable things, and he wanted to pull her into himself, to make her one with the spirit that raged to possess her.

  From a gentle salute, the kiss ignited at once into something much more. His mouth ground into hers, and when she pressed against him and made a soft, mewling sound in the back of her throat, a spiral of wanting surged within him that he thought might drive him over the edge of sanity.

  Her lips opened beneath his, and he savored the moist, warm sweetness within. Dear God, he had searched all his life for this woman, without even knowing that he was so in need of her. His hands moved along her bade, skimming over the delicate curve of her waist.

  The kiss lasted an eternity but ended much too soon. It was ultimately satisfying, yet left him flaming with a desire for more. When she drew back and laid her head for a moment against his shoulder, he fancied he could hear the thundering of her heart mingling with the tumultuous beat of his own.

  And at that moment, he knew with heart-stopping certainty that he loved Helen Prestwick and would continue loving her until the day he died.

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  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  Helen pulled away, drawing a long, shaking breath. Throwing her head back, she allowed a glint of laughter to show between narrowed eyes.

  “My dear Edward,” she murmured raggedly, “we must stop this.”

  “Of course,” he replied, then— “Why?”

  “Because you are a proper English gentleman and I am a female of unimpeachable respectability.”

  Even as she spoke these words, her expression grew grave and she drew back even further.

  “Helen?”

  She gave him no answer but moved to face a window giving out to the park outside. In a moment, she turned back to him. Her eyes were the color of gunmetal. “Edward. I have become very fond of you in a very short time, but—”

  “But isn't that a good thing?” Why did he feel this sense of desperation creeping over him. He continued in a light, brittle tone. “Because I am very fond of you, too. In fact, ‘fond’ is a sad understatement. Don't you think—?”

  Helen raised her hand. “As you said, you know nothing about me.”

  “But I thought we agreed—”

  “In addition, we are of different worlds. You are closely related to the Earl of Camberwell. My father is in trade— as am I.”

  Edward took a step toward her. Something was going terribly awry here. It was as though the portrait of a loved one had suddenly become warped and unrecognizable. “Helen, if that is not the most ridiculous— Beside, what about the duke?”

  “The duke?” She stared blankly.

  “The one several branches up in your family tree.”

  Helen laughed tightly. “Well, that's the point. He's several branches up—more than several. I daresay many people in England can list a duke or two somewhere in the upper reaches of their past, but at some point, you will agree, the connection no longer possesses any cachet. I don't know why I mentioned the old fellow to your aunt at all, except that she seemed to want one so.”

  She turned away. “I will leave you now, sir. These alarums and excursions have kept me from my work long enough. No.” Moving stiffly, she lifted her hand to forestall Edward's continuing arguments. “We must leave it at this, Edward. I cannot deny that the embraces we shared were—pleasant.”

  Pleasant? Edward could only gape at her in numb disbelief. He was having difficulty understanding her words, as though she spoke in a foreign language. He stared at her blankly but looked into the eyes of a stranger. He had not known those misty gray eyes could take on the aspect of a winter stream.

  She moved swiftly toward the door. “However, there can be nothing between us. And that,” she added, in a low, flat voice, “is as I prefer it.”

  She slipped through the door, keeping her face averted so that he could not see her expression. The door clicked closed behind her with the finality of death.

  Pleasant? The word sounded again in the empty air, reverberating in Edward's skull like a tolling bell. Those kisses that he had thought shattering had been merely a diversion for her? Dear God—it was over! His grand dream of romance had crumbled to ashes before it had begun to flame. His callow vision of a soul mate to live with him and be his love lay in ruins.

  He sank into a chair and passed a shaking hand over his eyes.. Lord, how could he have been such a fool? Weaving air dreams like a smitten adolescent. Good God, he had contemplated marriage! He snorted. Her pretty declaration of social unworthiness had obviously been a sop to his ego.

  He could not even fault Helen on her behavior. She had done nothing—really—to encourage him in his ludicrous fantasies. It could be considered improper to reciprocate the kisses of a man who was obviously besotted. He had attempted no further liberties, which she might have rejected.

  What was he to do now? Helen Prestwick was destined to remain a guest in his house for the foreseeable future. If, as appeared probable, young William was declared the rightful heir to the Camberwell tide, he, Edward, would be packing his bags shortly thereafter and be on his way. He would return to Briarwood. Alone.

  Had she really meant what she said? Those words tossed so carelessly, as one would to a well-liked butler who had got above himself? Try as he might, he could find no trace of regret in her speech, nothing that spoke of a glimpse of heaven refused on misguided principle. She had as much as admitted she liked him—found him attractive, even. But love, apparently, did not enter into her picture of their relationship.

  For what seemed like hours, he sat motionless in the stilted elegance of the Yellow Salon. Servants whisking into the room from time to time took one look at the master's visage and scurried out again. Patterns of light from the windows slid across the walls. The luncheon gong sounded, unheard.

  At last, he rose to his feet He felt stiff and sore as an old man. He had been miserably unsuccessful in his effort to impute some other meaning to her words—to create some other possible reason she could have had for saying them. Blindly, he walked from the room back to his study, where he spent a profitless afternoon, shuffling through without seeing them the papers waiting for him.

  Upstairs, Helen crouched in one of the pretty armchairs set around her sitting room. She, too, had sat in a miserable state of immobility for much of the day. What had she done? The words droned endlessly in her mind. She had not intended to speak so to Edward. She had turned her face away as soon as she had done so but not in time to avoid his stricken gaze.

  Perhaps it was all for the best. She nearly cried aloud at the inanity of the sentiment.

  She had made a firm decision not to share another embrace with Edward, knowing at the time it would be a hard resolve to keep. Just how hard, however, she had not realized until he had drawn her to him this morning. She'd been stunningly grateful at his support in the matter of the necklace. There was little doubt in her mind that the pearls would have turned up in her bedchamber, courtesy of Stanford Welladay. But Edward had not allowed Welladay's scheme to hatch. He had apparently not so much as considered the possibility that she had stolen them, his suspicions directed at once to his uncle. She preferred not to dwell on what he might have thought if Artemis had not reported seeing Welladay enter her bedchamber. Would he still have cast around for another explanation for the presence of the necklace tucked under her pillow or in her dressing table drawer?

  In any event, it certainly had not been gratitude that made her knees weaken at his touch. She had put her hands up to thrust him away but instead had turned into a molten heap of acquiescence. It was all she could do not to throw herself to the ground and pull him on top of her.

  There was no use in denying that she loved Edward Beresford. Why, she wondered dismally, of all the nice men in the world she had met, should she have fallen in love with the one man she could no
t have? For, surely, once she told him about her “great sin,” as her father had called it, he would turn away from her. If she could have explained it all in the beginning, before the attraction between them had begun to spark, perhaps she could have convinced him of her innocence. But now, if she allowed herself to admit her love for him, he would surely find the inevitable revelation of the blot on her past reason to believe those protestations of love completely false. In any event, she had at least made the point that she was not of his station, and . . . She closed her eyes wearily, unable to bring her jumbled thoughts to a rational conclusion.

  All she knew was that in uttering those hurtful words, she had no doubt squelched any affection he might have for her. She knew she had hurt him badly—possibly causing him almost as much pain as she had caused herself—and there would be no more tender embraces or fiery kisses between them.

  At last, she rose to her feet and made her way to the attic where she had begun work so many fateful hours ago. Approaching her worktable, she began on the painting before her, without really focusing on the task at hand.

  As the time drew near to dress for dinner, Helen knew a craven urge to have something sent to her room. Although, having missed luncheon, she felt quite hollow, she did not think she could force down a bite of food. But how was she to face Edward? What would be his reaction when they met in the drawing room before going in to eat?

  She need not have worried. She had timed her entrance to the drawing room, carefully making sure that the other members of the family were there ahead of her—including Edward. He turned at her entrance, nodding and addressing her as courteously as always. The warmth had fled from his gaze, however, leaving his eyes the color of withered leaves.

  After a moment's light chatter with the ladies—Lady Camberwell, Artemis and Barney, whom she had not seen all day—Helen looked about her. “But Mr. Welladay does not join us this evening?” she asked casually.