Miss Prestwick's Crusade Read online

  “I am going for a turn in the garden before luncheon,” said Artemis brightly. “Would you like to come with me?”

  “I should like that very much, but I want to visit with William for a few minutes.”

  “Oh, that sounds much more enjoyable! I shall come with you.”

  Helen suppressed a sigh, for she felt that, despite her wish to gain the goodwill of William's family, she had had quite enough of Artemis's company for one day. “That would be very nice,” she said cordially, and the two ladies progressed arm in arm up the stairs.

  Later, at luncheon, the atmosphere was markedly more cordial than on Helen's previous encounters with the family. Lady Camberwell kept up a steady stream of innocuous chatter, the main theme of which was William and his maternal background. She seemed determined to discover the history of every Prestwick born in the British Isles since the Conquest.

  “It seems to me I went to school with a Mirabelle Prestwick. She was quite a bit older than I, so I don't remember her well, but I think she lived in Northumbria or some such godforsaken place. Would she be—?”

  “I don't think so,” replied Helen, repeating her response to the last fourteen or fifteen queries. “As I told you, my father's people were from Sussex, and I believe they had resided there for some time.”

  “And your mother. You say her maiden name was Firmenty? I don't recall ever knowing anyone of that name. Was her family from Sussex, as well?”

  “Yes, and as far as I know, her family were also residents of that county for generations.”

  “Mph. Well, where does the duke come in?”

  Helen stared in puzzlement. “The duke?”

  “Yes. Didn't you say your mother was a connection of the Duke of Brumford?”

  Helen choked on her cold beef. “Yes, that's true. I did say it was a distant connection. Her grandmother was the duke's third daughter.”

  “Hmm.” The dowager frowned consideringly, and Helen was sure she was mentally rearranging these facts for the best presentation to her friends. “But you are the great-granddaughter of Viscount Haliwell.”

  Helen sighed. “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Well,” declared the dowager fretfully. “I can't say as I've ever heard of him, either, but I suppose he will have to do.”

  Helen suppressed an indignant retort. In the next moment, a chuckle rose in her throat. How absurd the countess was. Lifting her head, she caught a responsive spark in Edward's eye. How strange, yet how warming to have a friend who entered so wholly into one's thoughts. It was hard to believe she had known him for such a short time.

  From his seat at the dowager's right, Mr. Welladay harrumphed. “I understand you have been poking about in our art collection.”

  Helen sent another glance, this one of startlement, to Edward.

  “Yes,” Edward replied smoothly. “I took Helen on a tour this morning of some of Grandfather's loot.”

  Lady Camberwell stiffened at this use of Helen's first name, an expression of affronted surprise crossing her features. She said nothing, however.

  “And did you find them of, er, interest, Miss Prestwick?” Mr. Welladay placed a peculiar emphasis on Helen's last name, as though he suspected it of being false.

  Doing her best to ignore the man's naked hostility, Helen replied brightly, “Why, yes. I saw some wonderful works of art. Lord Camberwell was possessed of excellent taste.”

  “And I suppose you found many of them requiring your, ah, skills?”

  Helen flushed. What was he insinuating? “Actually, for having been neglected so long, the paintings are in remarkably good condition, but many need a good cleaning. Some are in need of repair, and a few"—she turned to Edward— “in the rooms above the laundry have acquired touches of mildew that must be removed at once.”

  “Well, I hope you know what you're doing,” Mr. Welladay grumbled portentously. “I have put in a great deal of time and effort evaluating and sorting through the collection, and I would hate to see mice feet made of my efforts. In addition"—he twisted around to face Edward—"I am not one to talk out of turn, Ned, but I must say, I am much opposed to allowing a female dabbler—one of questionable motives, if I may make so bold—to muck about in our treasures.”

  Helen observed a reddening of Edward's neck just above his collar. “Uncle!” he began in a thunderous tone, but Helen intervened hastily.

  “No, no, it is quite all right,” she said soothingly. It was nothing like all right, of course, and she would like to have skewered Uncle Stamford where he sat, but, resolutely, she put purpose above preference. “I understand your concern, Mr. Welladay, but I assure you I am quite competent for this undertaking. I hesitate to puff my own consequence, but I have repaired paintings for the Condes de la Verances and the Mercandores, as well as assorted grandees and other exalted personages. They were all highly gratified at what I accomplished for them and asked for my services on several more occasions.”

  Mr. Welladay looked as though he might reply, but Lady Camberwell said abruptly, “You worked for your father, you say?”

  At Helen's nod, the dowager continued. “What in the world possessed him to allow you come to England alone— or just as good as?” She threw a dismissive glance at Barney. “Or to come here at all? Why was it not he who made the journey to present William's claim?”

  Helen's pulse jumped, but she answered calmly. “Edward asked the same question, and my response is the same. My father intended to come, but he is much occupied with the press of business. It was only with a great deal of difficulty that I convinced him that I could represent William's cause—perhaps not as well as he, but with truth on our side, effectively enough.”

  She studiously avoided Barney's gaze during this somewhat pompous and wholly inaccurate speech but in the process made the error of encountering Edward's. His expression was one of puzzlement, mixed with that *spark of amusement that she found so unsettling. She went almost weak with relief when Artemis burst into the conversation.

  “Mama, we must go into the village this afternoon. I have an order that must go to Mrs. Brinkson immediately.”

  The dowager lifted her bead questioningly.

  “Yes, Helen helped me select several gowns that I wish made up before we start for London.”

  For a moment, the dowager stared at Helen, as though trying to decide whether or not to be offended. Her gaze reviewed Helen's gown.

  “How very nice,” she said at last. “Now, Helen,” she continued, “I wish to know more about your mother's Brumford connection. You say her grandmother was the duke's third daughter. Whom did she marry?”

  The rest of the luncheon conversation was devoted to an exhaustive discussion of the Prestwick and Firmenty family trees. It was deemed a pity Helen was not more knowledgeable about her own forebears, and the dowager announced that she would conduct her own search, relying on her own not inconsiderable resources.

  As the group rose after their meal, Lady Camberwell spoke once more. “Oh, Edward, do not forget our dinner engagement on Tuesday. That's less than a week.” At Edward's blank stare, she sighed. “At the Gilfords'. I told you about it several days ago and reminded you again yesterday.” Her next remark was directed at Helen. “The Viscount Gilford and his family are our near neighbors and dear friends. Edward is betrothed to their daughter Elspeth.” At Edward's strangled gasp, she amended her words. “Well, all but. I expect they shall make it a formal arrangement at dinner on Tuesday.”

  Edward looked as though he was about to leap over the table to silence his aunt, but before he could vocalize a protest. Lady Camberwell had made another of her majestic exits, rather like a hurricane, unmindful of the chaos left in her wake.

  Helen felt as though she had just been drenched in an ice-cold draft. It certainly made no difference to her if the faux Lord Camberwell was planning to marry; it was just that she had not considered that her arrival might have an impact on another life beyond that of the present incumbent. Edward caught up to her just as she made
her exit from the chamber.

  “Helen,” he began. Helen spun around and fixed him with the most brilliant smile at her disposal.

  “Edward! You did not tell me you are to marry soon. Please accept my felicitations—and I look forward to meeting your fiancee.”

  Then, in an admirable imitation of Lady Camberwell, she swept away, leaving Edward to grind his teeth in frustration.

  Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helen dropped into a small tambour chair. Good heavens, what was the matter with her? At the news of Edward's impending betrothal, spurious or otherwise, she had all but gasped like a maiden in a bad play. She barely knew Edward, for heaven's sake. She liked Edward. She enjoyed Edward's company. And that's as far as it went. She had no interest in his nuptial plans. She had merely been startled at a piece of information that might well have a bearing on William's future. What that bearing might be, she had not fathomed yet. But one never knew, did one?

  A few minutes later, after splashing a few drops of water on her heated cheeks, she made her way downstairs to the storeroom above the laundry area. With her she carried a sheet of paper and a pencil. While it behooved her to make a complete catalog of all the works of art in the house—a daunting task in itself—she felt it necessary to deal first with the imminent damage threatened by the steamy heat coming from below. Reaching her destination, she crouched over the paintings, moving them from their stacks against the wall. She sorted them by those the most, then the least, damaged.

  She had been engaged thus for a half an hour or so when she became aware of another presence in the room. Startled, she looked up to behold Stanford Welladay standing in the doorway, his arms folded, his face a thundercloud of disapproval.

  “Busy, are you?” he sneered, observing her surprise. “I just thought I'd drop in to see how you're progressing.”

  “Why, I've barely started.” Helen stirred under his glare. “But, as you say, I am quite busy and shall probably be so for some time to come.”

  There was a moment's silence while Mr. Welladay advanced into the room and stood above her.

  “Don't think I don't know what you're up to, Missy,” he growled at length.

  Helen sat back on her heels. She had been made well aware that the dowager's brother was not one of her supporters, but his blatant attack came as a shock. With some effort, she maintained her composure.

  “And what would that be, Mr. Welladay?” she replied calmly.

  “Why, you're trying to foist a bastard brat on Edward— on all of us—as the ‘true heir’ to the Camberwell title!”

  “I'm not trying to foist anyone on anybody. William is Christopher's son, and—”

  “Ho! I'm sure he is—Chris's by-blow!”

  “Chris married my sister in a legal, British ceremony. You—”

  “Now, that I don't believe for a minute, and I'm not going to let you pull the wool over Edward's eyes. He may be a spineless fish, easily swayed by feminine wiles, but he has me here to stand beef for him.”

  “Oh, for Heaven's sake, Mr. Welladay. I am sorry if you view me as interfering in your own work on the collection, but surely we can accomplish the rest of the task together.”

  Mr. Welladay's only reaction was a malevolent growl. Helen sighed.

  “Why do you find it so hard to believe that Chris might have married my sister?”

  “Because I knew the young whelp. I can easily picture him tossing up your sister's skirts round her ears, but marriage?”

  After a moment of stunned silence, Helen rose to face her adversary. “Mr. Welladay,” she grated, “you are speaking of my sister, and I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  An expression of surprise crossed his plump features and he stepped back. “Um. Well, perhaps I spoke too harshly, but surely you cannot blame me for my suspicions. You must admit your story is as full of holes as an old stable blanket.”

  Helen drew up every bit of cool authority at her disposal.

  “All I am prepared to say to you is that I am telling the truth. Chris and Trix were married, and William is their legally begotten son. I am sure proof will be forthcoming soon. All that is lacking, after all, are the marriage lines, and they are recorded somewhere. We merely have to wait until Edward's people have completed their investigation, when it will be shown that William is the twelfth Earl of Camberwell.”

  Apparently, Helen's attempt was neither as cool nor as authoritative as she had hoped, for Mr. Welladay merely raised an eyebrow.

  “Edward, is it? How cozy. Which brings me to another point. With regard to our working together—that is my plan exactly. You have hoodwinked my nephew, but you haven't pulled the wool over my eyes regarding your designs on our treasures. I mean to keep a weather eye on you while you catalog and mend and whatever else you're up to. And I believe I'll set my own investigation into motion. I would be most interested to learn your history, Miss Prestwick, and more about this alleged business you've been conducting with your father. Yes, indeed. Miss Prestwick, or whatever your name is, you have a pretty face, but, as they say, pretty is as pretty does.”

  At these words, Helen reeled back as though from a mortal blow. The room spun around her, but with a monumental effort, she drew herself up into a position of icy outrage. “You're being ludicrous, Mr. Welladay. Now, if you are through spouting cliches, I have work to do. If you will excuse me.”

  She turned her back and bent once more to her task. A few moments later, footsteps tramped away from her, and the door slammed.

  Helen slumped to the floor in a trembling puddle. Dear God, now she was for it! What was she to do? Lord, it would take approximately five minutes’ worth of investigation on Mr. Welladay's part to discover the true state of her father's business and why it had come to such a shambles.

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  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  The next few days passed in relative harmony. The Camberwell ladies treated Helen with wary cordiality. Even Uncle Stamford seemed to have pulled in his horns. Helen concluded her inspection and repair of the paintings stored above the laundry room.

  Edward fell into the habit of inviting Helen to his study for an hour or so every evening for a briefing on her progress that day. Helen realized with some dismay that she was beginning to look forward to these secluded, lamplit interludes.

  “You've been spending quite a bit of time with Mr. Beresford.”

  Helen started and gaped at Barney, who had stopped by for a visit with William to Helen's little attic workroom. William crawled about on the floor, playing with a new rattle, a gift from Lady Camberwell.

  “Um, well, it is necessary to consult with him fairly-frequently on my progress.”

  “Of course.”

  Helen bridled defensively at the skepticism in the older woman's tone. “Oh, for heaven's sake. Barney, it is not as though we are engaged in clandestine assignations.”

  Barney said nothing for a moment, then remarked quietly. “That would certainly be unwise.”

  Helen gasped. “What in the world has got into you? Have I ever been the sort of female who engages in dalliance with gentlemen?”

  “No, but—my dear, he is not just any gentleman, is he? That is, it is not too difficult to discern that you have become very, er, fond of him in a short time.”

  Helen colored. “It's true that I like him a great deal more than I thought I would, but—well, really, Barney. I scarcely know him. Believe me, I have learned to my sorrow that those one counts as friends may prove as the bent willow. I shan't make that mistake again. In fact"—she hesitated—"I don't think I mentioned this to you, but I learned some disturbing facts the other day.” She related the tales told her by Artemis on the day they had chosen her come-out gowns.

  “Hmm.” Oddly, Barney did not seem discomposed. Pausing to scoop William away from an oily cleaning rag that had attracted his attention, she pursed her lips. “I can set your mind at ease there. I heard the same tales—from Mrs. Hobart. She and
I have become great cronies, you know. The occurrences took place just as you said—only Artemis had the handle at the wrong end. It was Chris who locked Edward in the closet and Chris who killed Edward's puppy.”

  At Helen's gasp, she continued. “I didn't want to tell you. Speaking ill of the dead and all that.” She pleated her crisp, black muslin skirt with her fingers. “Actually, while young Christopher always possessed the ability to make others love him and do his bidding—Mrs. Hobart says he could talk a dog down from a meat wagon—in many ways it sounds as if he was a most unpleasant child.”

  “Oh, my,” Helen breathed. She felt sickened as she contemplated what life might have been for her sister with this golden-haired charmer. At the same time, she was swept with a wave of relief, as though a burden had been lifted from her soul. She shook herself. Just because Edward was innocent of harassing his cousin or torturing puppies did not mean she could let her guard down with him. She must still view him warily. She sighed. It was surely becoming harder and harder to do so.

  Helen picked William up and settled him in her lap. He had’ somehow acquired a large smudge across his nose and one cheek, and she and Barney laughed as they bent themselves to the task of repairing the damage.

  On Tuesday next, as scheduled, the Camberwell entourage set off under a cloudless sky for the residence of the Viscount Gilford. While chatter was as voluble as ever among the females of the group, Edward felt he was drowning in his own discomfort. Good God, he would rather be hung by his ankles over a pit of crocodiles than spend an evening with the Morwent family—particularly with Elspeth Morwent. And even more particularly in company with Helen Prestwick. Who was looking particularly fetching this evening, he noted. He was no expert on ladies’ fashion, but he felt that her gown—of some sort of silky material the color of forest leaves—set off her beauty in spectacular, yet respectably modest, fashion. Had she taken special care tonight? he wondered. Did she view the dinner party at Gilford Park as yet another gauntlet to be endured? Her support, Miss Barnstaple, was absent, having been temporarily felled by a migraine. To his left, Uncle Stamford sat silently, disapproval writ large on his normally placid features.