Miss Prestwick's Crusade Page 11

  “Dear Frances is so anxious to show us what she has done to the music room,” burbled Lady Camberwell. “She says we simply won't recognize it.”

  “I doubt that, Aunt,” said Edward waspishly. “No matter what you hang on the windows and the walls or whatever, the piano is bound to remain, as well as the harp and the violins and the music case. They're a dead giveaway.”

  The dowager stared at him for a moment before retorting briskly. “You are being deliberately obtuse, Edward. One of your little jokes, I suppose. Of course, I merely meant that we shall be pleasantly surprised. I don't know why you must always take one up so.”

  Edward became aware that the carriage had passed through the iron gates of Gilford Park, and he turned his attention to the evening ahead. It was bound to be unpleasant—to say the least, he brooded. The air would be thick with expectancy, with both the viscount and his lady—and most likely Elspeth, as well—creating islands of seclusion for Elspeth and himself. His instinct was to paddle as fast as he could for more heavily populated shores.

  The Morwents were perfectly nice people, if one did not require any degree of intelligence in one friends. No, that was unfair. The viscount and his wife and offspring were not unintelligent, it was merely that their thoughts rarely rose above neighborhood affairs, the management of their home and estate and, most distressingly, whom they would snaffle as marriage partners for their offspring. He had pretty much resigned himself to marriage with Elspeth— yes, perhaps he might have taken the leap tonight—for he knew it was his responsibility to the title to do so. Now, however, with young William heaving to over the horizon, there was the strong possibility that Ned Beresford would be folding his tent and moving out of Whitehouse Abbey, as titleless as the day he'd been born. Even more—Lord, how could he possibly consider proposing to Elspeth, now that Helen Prestwick had plunged into his life like a comet?

  Hold on, there, laddie, he thought startled. Was he thinking . . . ? Good God, he hardly knew Helen Prestwick—if that was even her real name. How could he consider spending the rest of his life with her? She might be a conniving, skillful adventuress. Yet, this sudden, utterly intriguing idea of taking her back to Briarwood as his bride fairly took his breath away. On the other hand, even if she proved to be honest as a vicar, as he believed, and her claim proved valid, she was a diamond. Why would she consider marriage to a dull country squire? She was obviously accustomed to traveling in cosmopolitan circles. On yet another hand, she seemed to like him. She had put out a hand in friendship.

  Which she might have done to the village smithy.

  Still . . .

  The next moment, he made a decision, that seemed so right and forceful that it might have been inserted in his mind by a supernatural power. He by God was not going to propose to the Honorable Elspeth Morwent on this fine spring evening—or any other. He felt a little sorry for Elspeth. Surely the two families, though bordering on the medieval in their view of tradition, would not consider betrothing her to a four-month-old infant. Well, she would just have to find her peer elsewhere.

  He sighed as the carriage pulled under a porte cochere to disgorge its passengers. The little group was admitted by a jovial butler who greeted them with all the cordiality due to friends of the family. Edward suspected that the man was well aware that the daughter of said family was expecting a marriage, proposal from the head of the visiting family that very evening.

  Once inside the house, the butler led them directly to one of the salons bordering the Hall, where the viscount and his wife waited to greet them. Charles, Viscount Gil-ford, was a portly country gentleman of some fifty summers, bluff and hearty of manner. His wife, Frances, Lady Gil-ford, was a good inch taller than her spouse and slender— though some, less charitable, might call her thin to the point of emaciation. She bent a toothy smile on her guests, one which Edward could have sworn became positively predatory as she turned to him.

  “Dear Elspeth will be down momentarily,” she said, “but here is Tom, all ready and waiting to greet you.”

  Edward swung about to observe the Gilford heir and pride of the house, young Thomas. He was a fair, plump eighteen-year-old, pleasant, if somewhat vacuous of expression. He smiled dutifully and put out a pudgy hand to the males. On the females, he bestowed brief, moist kisses to their fingertips. On Artemis's hand, he planted an especially worshipful salute.

  Helen was introduced under the intent scrutiny of the viscount and his lady.

  “Oh, yes, we heard you were entertaining a guest, Camberwell.” Lord Gilford did not go so far as to peer at Helen through his quizzing glass, but his scrutiny could not have been more penetrating had he done so. Edward felt that, had Lady Gilford possessed a quizzing glass she would have had no hesitation in using it, for she subjected Helen to an equally minute examination. Her “So very pleased to meet you, Miss, ah, Prestwick” was patently false.

  Helen murmured an appropriate rejoinder but was immediately distracted by the entrance of a young woman. She appeared to be slightly younger than herself—five or six and twenty, Helen surmised. The young lady took after her mother, in that she was tall and very slender and possessed of a fine set of large white teeth. Her light blue eyes were slightly protuberant, lending her an air of pretty naivete. Her gaze flew at once to Edward, and she smiled tremulously as she moved directly toward him, like a pigeon homing to its nest, and put out a hand. Edward's back was to Helen, so she could not see his expression, but he bent to place a kiss on her fingertips.

  Helen stepped forward as Edward turned to introduce her to Miss Morwent, but she was stunned when that lady turned on her a stare of such unspoken virulence that she could almost feel it slicing through to her backbone. Good heavens, thought Helen, a little dazedly. What had she done to incur Miss Morwent's hostility?

  The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and now Miss Morwent was all smiles as she put out a hand to Helen. “Yes, we heard of your arrival, Miss, er, Prescott. From Portugal. How very unusual.”

  She turned her attention back to Edward, and it was as though “Miss Prescott” had ceased to exist.

  Helen was conscious of a spurt of irritation, not only at the girl's rudeness, but at Edward's poor choice of life mate. It was none of her concern, however, and she closed her mouth on the correction of her last name she had been about to utter.

  She turned back to converse with the dowager and the others, while Elspeth drew Edward to a corner of the room, ostensibly to show him a new piece of music arrived from London that day.

  “It's “The Lass with the Delicate Air,’ Edward.” Elspeth's slightly sibilant tones drifted across the chamber. “You said it was a favorite of yours. Perhaps after dinner . . .” Her voice lowered intimately as she smiled into Edward's eyes.

  The butler entered a moment later to announce that dinner was served, and in the dining chamber, Helen found herself seated between Mr. Welladay and young Thomas. Across the table, Elspeth took her place next to Edward. At first, the conversation was general. Helen could not help but wonder if, since the news of her arrival at Whitehouse Abbey had come to the Gilfords, perhaps her mission was known to them as well.

  Her question was answered in Edward's next words.

  He turned casually to Lord Gilford. “Perhaps you have heard, my lord, that Miss Prestwick has brought us a surprise.”

  The expressions on the faces of the Gilford family fell into an almost laughable unison. Apprehensive awareness might best describe it, Helen thought.

  “Yes,” continued Edward, toying with his pork cutlet. “We appear to have another claimant to the title of Earl of Camberwell. An infant, but six months old—the son of Chris and Miss Prestwick's sister, Beatrice.”

  Again, Helen was a recipient of a malevolent glare from Miss Morwent, and light at last dawned. She experienced a strong desire to laugh aloud. Elspeth had been on the verge of betrothal to Chris before Chris's fateful commitment to military glory. It was obvious that now, deprived of one earl, the young woman
felt herself entitled to another. If that were the case, it must have been an extremely unpleasant shock to hear of the imminent unseating of that peer to be replacement by yet another earl—one only six months old. She could hardly hope for one of those old-fashioned cradle betrothals, and the immediate neighborhood was in woefully short supply of comparable titles.

  And now, Elspeth had just been introduced to the person responsible for the new earl's appearance. No wonder she was furious! Miss Morwent's protuberant eyes had narrowed to slits, but she laughed, a high metallic sound that set Helen's teeth on edge. “But how absurd,” she said lightly, before turning again to Edward. She laid a hand on his sleeve, but at his expression, she withdrew it hastily, her eyes widening. After a moment, she spun about to face Helen once more, saying prettily, “Oh, dear, I suppose that sounded quite rude. I did not mean it so. I merely meant that somehow you have made a terrible mistake, and I think it's a shame to have come all this way for nothing. However, I do hope you enjoy your visit to Whitehouse Abbey. It's such a lovely place.”

  Her words were uttered with such a markedly proprietary air that Helen's glance flew without thought to Edward. His expression remained blank, but he said pointedly, “On the contrary, we believe there is merit to Miss Prestwick's claim. We are now pursuing a search for proof of this union. With the other evidence provided by Miss Prestwick, we feel this proof will shortly be forthcoming.”

  “Good God,” said Lord Gilford, waving his napkin distractedly. “You mean you are going to give up your title—just like that? You are not going to dispute this—this taradiddle?”

  He turned to Helen. “I do beg your pardon, ma'am. I mean no disrespect, but you must see that your claim—on the face of it—sounds quite preposterous!”

  “Preposterous hardly seems the word.” Mr. Welladay's sour voice sounded.

  The viscount looked at him oddly, but it was as though Miss Morwent had not heard him at all.

  “But my lord,” she blurted. "You are Lord Camberwell. It is monstrous to think of you as—as plain Edward Beresford!”

  Once again, Lady Gilford shot a glance of disapproval at her daughter, but it was followed immediately by one of appeal to her husband, who returned it with a grimace. There was a momentary silence, broken by Artemis, who with rare acumen appeared to feel the conversation in need of rescue.

  “When do you all plan to depart for London?” she asked, fluttering her lashes at an obviously besotted Thomas.

  “Three weeks from today,” replied Lady Gilford, grasping at the change of subject. “Although, I don't see how we shall get ourselves together in time for the journey. We have so much planning to do. And you?” She turned to Lady Camberwell.

  “Oh, I expect we shall be toddling down at the same time—or a little later,” replied the dowager with a careless wave of her hand. “We shall not be taking much with us, as Artemis wishes to purchase her wardrobe from Madame Phanie—as usual.”

  “Although,” put in Artemis, “we—that is, Helen and I— selected some very nice gowns from my fashion journals. Just to wear until Madame Phanie can accommodate me, you know. We went to the village today to put in an order with Mrs. Brinkson.”

  Miss Morwent turned a startled gaze on Artemis. “Miss Prestwick helped you choose ... ?” She stopped, as though unable to believe her ears.

  Helen, too, was startled, as she had observed a distinctly mischievous sparkle in Artemis's eyes.

  Artemis giggled. “Oh, yes. Helen has such excellent taste in clothes—as you can see.”

  Helen smiled modestly and lowered her gaze. “It was a pleasure to take part in the outfitting of a beautiful young lady,” she murmured.

  At his place across the table, Edward could fairly feel the unspoken messages flashing around the table. A new assessment of their daughter's marriage prospects was now in silent debate between the viscount and his lady. He smiled. He rather thought there would be no attempts on the part of Lady Gilford to maneuver her daughter and the possibly faux earl off to one of those islands of intimacy he'd envisioned earlier. Elspeth's anguish was apparent in the glances she sent to her mother, who returned them with pursed lips.

  Again, the talk returned to normal social give-and-take. Normal, at least, until Uncle Stamford raised his voice.

  “By the by, did you know that, in addition to bringing Chris's—son to the Abbey, Miss Prestwick has been assigned the task of cataloging the Camberwell art collection?”

  After a blank stare in unison, all eyes swung again to Helen, who lifted her chin slightly.

  “My gracious!” It was Lady Gilford who spoke, fluttering her napkin. “But I thought you had undertaken this task, Mr. Welladay! Th-that is,” she amended, quailing a bit under that gentleman's glare. “How did such a thing come to be?”

  “To our good fortune,” interposed Edward smoothly, “it seems Miss Prestwick is an acknowledged art expert. Her father has been engaged in art restoration for a number of years, in addition to owning a successful gallery. As you know, our so-called collection is mainly a jumble of unreferenced paintings and objets d'art, and it is my hope that Miss Prestwick will bring order from chaos.”

  “Indeed,” said Uncle Stamford silkily, “Miss Prestwick volunteered for this task, offering as well to appraise them all.” He swung to stare in Helen's direction. “Tell me, Miss Prestwick, which is the most valuable item you've encountered so far?”

  His tone dearly indicated that the young woman's sole purpose in busying herself with the collection was the ultimate theft of as many items as she could bundle into a trunk. Edward felt himself redden, but before he could open his mouth in Helen's defense, she spoke calmly.

  “I have had little time for any appraisals so far. My immediate goal is to sort the artwork into a semblance of order and to effect necessary repairs. However, I have come across one or two lovely pieces. Just this morning, in a storeroom not far from the kitchen, I found a small marble figurine by, I believe, Paolo Franco. It's a lovely little shepherdess—from the fifteenth century, I think. In addition, I have discovered a receipt for a Caravaggio! I am looking forward to finding it, for there has been an upsurge of interest in his work, and it must now be considered extremely valuable.”

  “A Cara—?” Uncle Stanford broke off in a coughing squeak. “Olive pit,” he explained. “What does this, er, Caraveggie look like?”

  Helen smiled. “Caravaggio. It's a still life with fruit and a bust of Homer.”

  “How big is it?” Uncle Stamford still spoke in a curious, husky voice.

  “Oh, it's rather small for a still life. Only about twelve by fifteen inches.”

  Uncle Stamford said nothing more, merely swallowing the contents of his wine glass in a single gulp.

  “How fascinating,” said Miss Morwent in a flat voice.

  “Dear me, yes,” added Lady Gilford, before once more turning the conversation to a more conventional vein.

  After dinner, perhaps due to the disparate ages of the gentlemen, time over the port was brief. As it turned out, when the gentlemen joined the ladies, there was no singing of “The Lass With the Delicate Air” by Miss Morwent. Instead, she settled at the pianoforte and made her way dutifully through two Haydn pieces and a Boccherini minuet. Artemis took her turn, then, and produced a spritely trio of Italian folk dances.

  “Will you play for us. Miss Prestwick?” asked Miss Morwent, as Artemis rose from the piano.

  “Oh, no.” Helen smiled coolly. “I play very indifferently.”

  “Surely you had lessons,” remarked Miss Morwent, her tone indicating the unlikelihood of such a circumstance.

  “Indeed, I did. However, I simply have no musical talent, and I convinced Papa that there was no use wasting money on lessons for me. Now, Beatrice, on the other hand was very musical. Chris used to love to listen to her play in the evening.” To her dismay, she felt tears spring to her eyes at the memory of her sister's adoring glances across the keys at her beloved.

  In the silence that ensu
ed. Lady Camberwell stood and briskly shook out her skirts. “It's been a lovely evening, Frances,” she said to the viscountess, “but I think it's time we took our leave.”

  Neither Lord Gilford nor his lady made any disagreement, and within a few moments, the Camberwell entourage was tucked away in their carriage, rattling down the long driveway.

  Absorbed in their own thoughts, they were silent for several miles. Helen felt that it would be hours before her head stopped spinning at the events of the evening. She felt physically bruised by the verbal darts thrown at her by the various members of the Gilford family during the course of the dinner party. She could only hope that in years to come, Miss Morwent would recover from her disappointment—at least to the point where they would not make life unpleasant for William.

  Next to her, Edward, sunk in his own musings, could not help a slight lifting of his spirits at the defection of his nearly intended. He felt sorry for Elspeth, but there were other earls in the world. Perhaps she would come to her senses and realize that it might be possible to find happiness with a plain mister.

  As the carriage turned between the Abbey gates. Aunt Emily at last broke the silence.

  “Well,” she said. “Well,” she repeated, then sighed. “An interesting evening, I think.”

  A sentiment that seemed shared by all as they silently entered the house and bade each other good night. Helen, however, after checking on a sleeping Barney and peeping in on William, found herself unable to compose herself for rest. Restlessly, she drifted through the Hall, and after a few moments of futile pacing, she moved to the front door and slipped outside. She shivered, for April was barely upon the countryside, and winter had not yet released its hold on Hampshire. The moon, shining in pale majesty through still bare trees, made lacy patterns on the manicured lawn.