by Anne Barbour
“Returned to London.” Lady Camberwell peered at Edward uncertainly. “He felt simply dreadful at being the cause of such turmoil in the family. He, ah, he thought it might be better if he took himself off again.” She attempted a weak laugh. “This time, I feel we can be assured that he won't bring any of the Belkers’ sort home with him. Goodness, what an unfortunate farrago!”
“Indeed.”
Edward could not bring himself to ask about Helen's whereabouts. He wondered, with a sinking feeling, if she were still on the premises. It would be more than understandable if she now felt unwelcome in Edward Beresford's home. If she had left—as he had almost expected—surely Aunt Emily would have told him as soon as he entered the house. Not that her departure would be a bad thing. He was quite aware that she did not have the funds to set up her own establishment, but surely she must know that as a family member she was entitled to his support.
But why would she think anything of the sort? he asked himself the next moment. What made him think she would expect any sort of kindness from him? It was all too apparent that, no matter his offers of friendship—and more—she still regarded him as a crass, greedy caricature of an upper-class English gentleman, else she wouldn't have assumed that he would not believe her innocent of the dreadful accusation against her. And, furthermore, that he would use her supposed iniquity as an excuse to throw her and William and their claim right out the front door of Whitehouse Abbey.
Edward set down his teacup and, pleading the press of paperwork awaiting him in his study, left the room. On reaching his study, however, he did not seat himself at his desk but moved past it to the doors that opened out onto the east lawn. The thoughts of a few moments before trickled through his mind like an icy rainshower seeping down the collar of his coat. Dear God, how could things have come to such a pass between Helen and him? Not that her departure would be such a bad thing. Did he really think that Helen's absence from the Abbey would drive her from his thoughts—from his soul?
He stepped through the doors onto the east lawn, reliving the moment just a few weeks ago when he had opened the doors to let Helen in from the chill night. The memory of their subsequent embrace and the shattering kiss they had shared swept through him, rendering him almost numb with grief.
The next instant he shook himself and returned to the study, shutting the doors firmly behind him. He had made a fool of himself over a gray-eyed sorceress who, for a brief moment, had shared his thoughts and his hopes and evenings full of talk and laughter before the fireplace. It was high time that he pulled himself together and got on with his life. He had duties to perform, after all, and obligations to his family.
With these worthy sentiments clutched firmly to his chest, he sat down at his desk and addressed himself to the drift of papers that had accumulated during his absence. He had scarcely begun when a scratch sounded at the door, followed by the entrance of one of the household's younger footmen.
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” he began diffidently, “but Miss Prestwick asks for a moment of your time.”
Edward's heart lurched uncomfortably into his throat. Helen was still here! She had not left him! Cursing himself for the inanity of this thought, he indicated to the footman that, yes, he believed he had a few minutes available for Miss Prestwick.
When Helen entered the room a few minutes later, he stared at her for moment. She was as beautiful as ever. The sun turned her hair to russet fire. But, she was—different. She wore a gown—um, it was becoming, but of a muted shade of gray. Had she decided to go back into mourning? To him, it seemed as though the color of her gown permeated her whole being—as though someone had reached inside her soul and turned off the lights.
Helen seated herself rigidly in the chair he indicated. She sent him a brief glance in which he could read only a distant courtesy. He thought he might cry out with the ache that stirred in him. Immediately, she dropped her gaze to her lap. .
“Welcome home, sir,” she began in a low voice. “I hope your journey was not difficult.”
“Thank you, no. My task was easily performed in a few days, and I was pleased to be able to return so soon. And you wished to see me about . . . ?” Edward kept his voice carefully cool and noncommittal.
“Yes, sir.” She cleared her throat. “I have been working on the art collection.” She looked at him again, and again he could not read her thoughts. “I hope that was all right.”
“What?” he asked, startled.
“I hope that is all right,” she repeated. “That is, I hope you. do not mind my continuing my work here.”
He stared at her blankly. “Why should I mind that? Have I not expressed my gratification at what you have accomplished already?”
As an endorsement of her endeavors, Helen felt this left a great deal to be desired. She swallowed. “I thought—that perhaps—since we—since you are—that is, I thought you might want me just to—leave the Camberwell possessions alone.”
Edward stiffened and looked down the considerable length of his nose. “Miss Prestwick, you seem to possess an unlimited ability to discern the state of my mind. Allow me to make clear to you that I am still most pleased to have the collection cataloged—by you. Now, was there anything else?”
At this, Helen underwent the most peculiar sensation. She had spent the entire week of Edward's absence moping about Whitehouse Abbey, wailing and moaning like the resident ghost. She had felt the anguish of a life shattered, and she bitterly repented the falsehood she had perpetrated on Edward, the man she loved.
Perhaps, she thought, gasping at the surprise of it, the human spirit can only take so much misery in an extended dose before something snaps. For now, suddenly, between heartbeats, all the pain, all the anguish and suffering turned to wrath. She rose from her chair and advanced toward Edward.
“Look—I do not blame you for being angry with me. I deceived you in a matter of great importance. I made an assumption about your character that was insulting, to say the least. Yes, I called myself your friend, and I know that friends do not behave in such a fashion. But please remember this; we do not know each other well. When I came here, I was sure you would do everything in your considerable power to destroy William's right to his title. No matter how much I came to like you—well, I've been mistaken in people before. I could not know if I would be making a dreadful mistake and doing William a grave disservice by confiding in you. Yes, I should have known better, and I am more than sorry to have mistaken your reaction so grievously. I—am—sorry! I did not seek to wound you. I know you better now, and I shan't make the same mistake again.”
Breathless, she sank back into her chair and gazed at him with eyes like a summer storm. Edward was a little breathless himself. Every atom in his body knew an urge to leap out from behind his desk, gather her in his arms and kiss her until she begged for mercy, all the while assuring her that he hadn't meant a word of what he'd said to her. That he loved her now, and he always would.
He could not do this, of course. She had hurt him more that he thought it was possible for one human being to hurt another. Was he being unreasonable? Should he now accept her impassioned, and seemingly sincere, words?
He opened his mouth, but the moment had passed. Helen drew herself up in her chair and spoke quietly. “You have offered me sanctuary in your home. I suppose I must be grateful for your magnanimity. However, please be assured that as soon as I can manage it—my father is not destitute, after all, and he will send money if I request it.”
Edward wondered if this was her pride talking. From her description of the events involved in the painting scandal, her father must have very little income. Perhaps he had become independently wealthy through investments, or land, or... ?
“Please, Miss Prestwick. Accept my apology for not mentioning this sooner. And you, as William's maternal aunt, are family—whether or not William's claim to the earldom proves genuine or not. We are all agreed that he is Chris's son and as such is a part of the Camberwell family. I s
hall be happy to provide you with funds to live anywhere you wish. It is my obligation, after all, to take care of my family.”
He could have bitten his tongue the moment he spoke. Her reaction was precisely what he might have envisioned. She half-rose in her chair, and he was sure the storm clouds in her gray eyes were spitting lightning now.
“Edward Beresford! Knowing how you feel about me, do you think I would actually accept your charity?”
“Please, Helen.” He spoke soothingly, unable to believe his ears. She had wronged him. How was it possible he was about to persuade her to accept his largesse? “You must not think of this as charity. As I said, you are family, and as such it is my duty to provide for you—no matter where you should desire to live.”
Could she not read behind his words and see his aching plea that she not leave him?
Apparently not. She rose.
“I do not wish to speak of this any more, Mr. Beresford. Good afternoon.”
She swept toward the door, only to halt abruptly with her hand on the latch. “Oh,” she said in a small voice. She turned to retrace her steps with obvious reluctance.
“I came in here for a reason.” She reseated herself, arranging her skirts with great precision. Edward fancied he could hear them crackle. “As I was saying, I proceeded with my work on the art collection after you left. And"— she drew a deep breath—"several items are missing.”
Helen sat back to gauge Edward's reaction to this statement. She had thought long and hard about coming to him with her discovery. He had supported her through every aspersion cast on her character since her arrival at the Abbey. He had assured her of his continuing support, if not his friendship. Yet, she could not help thinking, how long could this go on? How long would he consider the accusations against her as unfortunate and unfair and merely coincidental? At some point, would he simply give up and accept the outward logic of her venality?
This time she had wasted little time on such rationalizing. She knew she must tell him of her findings at the earliest opportunity.
For a long moment, Edward simply stared at her.
“Missing?” he asked. He felt a great weariness settle over him. Dear God, how long was this kind of thing going to continue? He trusted Helen Prestwick—at least, he trusted her basic honesty. She would not steal from him— at least, not his worldly goods. She had certainly plundered his heart and his soul at will, but he supposed that was not the same thing. Good God, she had been fearful of telling him of this latest disappearance from the Camberwell collection.
At least, he thought, with just the slightest lifting of his heart, she had come to him immediately with the news.
“Yes,” Helen continued. “In addition to the receipt for the two goblets, I have come upon receipts for six paintings, a tapestry, three oriental vases and several figurines. These were items I remembered seeing when you showed me the stored items. When I went back to find them so that I could notate them properly, I—I could not find them. It is possible, of course, that I merely forgot their correct location, or misplaced them myself, but,” she finished in a rush, “I thought I had best apprise you that at the moment they are—missing. And then there's the Caravaggio.”
“Carravagio?”
“Yes. Perhaps you do not remember, but I mentioned it when—oh, I think it was at dinner at Viscount Gilford's.” She blushed, remembering the kiss they had shared at the end of that evening. “I had found a receipt for its purchase—and I believe it to be the most valuable of all your grandfather's purchases. But I have not found the painting.”
“Ah. Well, I appreciate your telling me.” He leaned back in his chair. “Since Uncle Stanford is not on the premises, I think we can rule out any more evil plots on his part. I think we must assume the items have been misplaced. Perhaps one of the servants got in a cleaning frenzy and moved things around.”
Helen pursed her mouth dubiously. “Perhaps.”
An awkward silence fell between them, until at last Edward, with a great rustling of papers, asked, “Was there anything else. Miss Prestwick?”
Helen rose abruptly. She sent him a shuttered glance from eyes that now resembled a pool of icy rain and turned away. A moment later, she was gone. For a long moment, Edward stared after her, feeling that the room had suddenly taken on the chill of a winter midnight.
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Chapter Twenty-two
Trembling so badly she had to clutch the stair rail to steady herself, Helen made her way up to her workroom. There, she crumpled onto the little chair before the table. The paintings and objets d'art blurred before her eyes.
Edward Beresford had been courtesy personified just now—and she supposed she should be pleased. He now “knew all” and had not cast her into outer darkness. He had declared his intention of seeing William raised in Whitehouse Abbey. He had, moreover, offered her own unworthy self a home in the manor. Pleased? She should be ecstatic. All the concerns that had brought her to England had been addressed to her satisfaction. She was still sure that William's claim would be proven eventually—but even if it weren't, he would grow up as an English gentleman in this beautiful home.
She was far from ecstatic, however. The sound of Edward's words filled her mind like a dirge. "Was there anything else. Miss Prestwick?"
Tears dropped unheeded into her lap. No, she realized coldly, there really was nothing else, was there? Whatever had been between them—friendship, burgeoning love—had been destroyed. And no matter how she might rage that she had done nothing wrong and that Edward had no right to castigate her for being afraid for William, it all came down to the fact that through her own fault she had lost the love—the possible love—of the one man with whom she could imagine spending the rest of her life.
Well, she thought, with a wild burst of laughter, she might spend the rest of her life with him, anyway. Edward had offered her sanctuary, and at the moment, she had nowhere else to go. Unless . . . She rose from the table and began to pace the floor. Perhaps she should take him up on his offer to provide for her no matter where she wished to live. She would not accept his charity, of course— and no matter how he prated on about his duty to a family member, that's what it was. But she could accept a loan.
Yes, she could take enough money from Edward to set her up in London for a long enough period to get on her feet. She was acquainted with several highly reputable art dealers in London. She was on friendly terms with one or two of them, and she might have a reasonable expectation of their help. She could not be sure how they would view the story of her part in the Woman at the Window scandal, but, hopefully, the fact that the Earl of Camberwell (while he was still the earl, that is) had hired her to catalog the Camberwell collection would stand her in good stead.
Perhaps she was foolish to think of leaving the Abbey in the near future. The cataloging at best would take months. She would, of course, conduct herself during that time as would any hired professional. She would keep to her own quarters and not seek out the lord of the house except when necessary to the performance of her task.
There. She had her immediate future in order—even though that future could only be vaguely perceived through a chill fog of pain and regret.
With an effort, she bent over the painting that lay on the table before her. When the luncheon gong sounded faintly from below, she ignored it.
Edward, on the other hand, lifted his head at the sound of the gong. He had never felt less like sitting down at the family board. The thought of food left him faintly nauseated. He had determined, however, to get on with his life, and he might as well start now.
He had spent the hours since Helen had departed from his. study pondering the words she had flung at him. She had told him she was sorry—again. But this time she did not sound all that repentant. She had presented a side to her story that he had not considered before; It was true: they did not know each other well—they had met only a few short days before. If their situations were rev
ersed—if his future, or that of someone he loved, depended on her good graces, would he not take every precaution to stay well under the protection of those graces?
He very well might do so. The thing was, he thought Helen and he in that astonishingly short time had got beyond the status of recent acquaintances. There had been that sense of connection—as though they had known each other since childhood.
Tchah! He Hung down his pen and rose from his desk. He was being a fool. He had completely distorted his relationship with the beauteous Helen. He had fabricated a union of spirit that did not exist. She liked him, but she considered him as no more than the caricature she had pictured before she set out from Portugal. She had, however, gone to some pains to assure him of her genuine friendship—which turned out to be as false as the painting that had caused her such grief. Or perhaps she simply did not know what it meant to call someone a friend.
Good God, he chastised himself. He could drive himself mad with these fruitless maunderings. Allowing himself no further reflection, he strode from the room.
Luncheon was every bit as unpleasant as he had envisioned. To Aunt Emily, he gave a more detailed account of his visit to Windhollow. He inquired of Artemis her progress in preparing for the journey to London. He listened with patience to her description of the gowns planned for the new Season. He asked Barney, who was her usual silent shadow, how William was doing.
“Very well,” she responded. “He is thriving on English soil. He will be crawling soon and seems most interested in his new domain. That is,” she amended, flustered, “his new home.” She glanced around. “But where is Helen? She said she planned to visit the nursery directly after luncheon.”
“I saw Miss Prestwick an hour or so ago,” Edward stated through stiff lips. “I believe she planned to return to her workroom. Perhaps she did not hear the gong.”
Miss Barnstaple stared at him intently for a moment, then clipped her head over her chicken salad. The rest of the meal droned on in increments, each lasting an eternity, and Edward returned gratefully to his study when it was over.
