Miss Prestwick's Crusade Read online

Edward rose and held out his arms for William, who had been contentedly dismantling a clockwork dog resting on the floor near Helen's worktable.

  “Here, young-fellow-me-lad. Allow me to convey you downstairs.”

  He experienced a moment's difficulty in separating William from his fascinating new plaything, but in a moment the little group left the attic room, reassembling a few moments later—sans child—downstairs.

  “Now then,” began Edward, reaching for the shelf on which rested the portrait and the box containing the other items. He placed them, one by one, on his desk. “Let us see what we have here.”

  Unfortunately, what they had there proved no more helpful than they had on previous inspections, and at the end of a half hour or so. Barney, Helen and Edward stared at each other in growing dismay. Edward picked up the wedding band.

  “This seems to be the most concrete evidence at hand. The inscription is quite convincing that a wedding did take place between B.P. and C.B. on November 16,1808. Convincing, that is, to the casual observer. Legally, however, it doesn't prove a thing.”

  “No,” replied Helen, in the voice of one who had come to that conclusion long ago.

  Idly, Edward picked up the portrait, studying the regular features, dashing uniform and bright curls of the subject. He wondered idly why Chris had not selected a more talented artist for the Grafting of a painting that he planned to present to his bride. Perhaps it had been done before Chris and Trix had met.

  “I wonder when this was painted. The background does not seem familiar to me.”

  “Oh, no,” replied Helen. “I'm quite sure he had it painted in Evora. I think it was done especially for Trix.” She pointed to a ragged battlement sprawled along the far distance. “That looks like the Roman ruin just outside town.”

  “Mmm.” Edward ran long fingers over the frame. “It's odd, don't you think,” he mused, “to place such a small work in such a large, ornate frame?”

  “Well, that's what I always thought,” said Barney. “Trixie had the frame crafted to her specifications. She was always a little disappointed, I think, that the portrait was so small, and she thought a fancy frame would somehow make it look more important. Which it didn't,” she added dryly.

  Idly, Edward turned portrait and frame over. He stiffened. “And the backing is quite thick, too.” He turned abruptly to face Helen, his eyes wide with excitement. He rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a letter opener.

  “I wonder,” he muttered, as he began prying at the edge of the picture backing.

  Helen put out a hand.

  “No, no. I've already done that.” At Edward's expression of surprise, she continued. “I wondered, too, if Trix might have concealed the certificate in the back of the portrait, and I removed it from its frame.” She shrugged her shoulders ruefully. “It wasn't there.” She picked up the little wooden box that held the jewelry. “I even wondered about this.” She pointed to the box's velvet lining. “I removed it only to meet failure again.” She sighed. “I've been through every article of Trix's clothing—every possession, every piece of furniture in her bedchamber at home. I found nothing.”

  “I even dug holes outside around the house,” added Barney rather sheepishly, “until our whole back garden looked like a slice of Swiss cheese, with the same results.”

  Edward glanced at Helen, and on observing her expression of despair, smiled. “Well, it has to be somewhere. Your sister certainly would not have destroyed it. In addition, we shall no doubt soon track down the elusive Reverend Mr. Binwick and the issue will be settled.”

  Helen essayed a weak smile. “Well, it does seem unlikely that both the marriage certificate and the minister who performed the ceremony could both have vanished into thin air. I just hope—”

  Her words were cut short by the sound of a disturbance coming from downstairs. Barney hurried to the door and stepped into the corridor. The commotion was muted by the distance from the front to the rear of the house, but in a moment Barney swung about, her eyes hard.

  “It appears Mr. Welladay has returned from London.”

  As the little group hurried toward the hall, Barney exclaimed, “Goodness, what a ruckus! It sounds to me as though there are more people down there than just Mr. Welladay and the family.”

  Helen's eyes widened. “I wonder if he brought someone home with him.”

  “I hope not,” said Edward, his voice hard. “I have no desire to entertain the sort of persons Uncle Stanford associates with on his little sojourns in London.”

  On reaching the Hall, it could be seen that several persons were gathered in the great chamber. It was soon ascertained that most of these were servants, the actual visitors being a tall, thin gentleman of about forty and a voluptuous female with hair of a suspiciously bright gold. The woman swung about at the appearance of Edward and the ladies. Her gaze went immediately to Helen.

  “Why, there she is!” cried the woman in a high, shrill voice. She bent a smile on Helen that might have been one of delight but to a casual observer—such as Edward— seemed oddly triumphant.

  Helen, on first beholding the woman, gasped audibly. She blinked, unable to believe the nightmare that had just appeared before her eyes. Her breath seemed to whoosh from her body and she felt her insides knot into rocks.

  She had never swooned in her life, but now, as darkness rushed in on her, she felt her knees give way.

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  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Edward had noted the demeanor of Uncle Stanford's guest as she approached Helen, and now he felt Helen sag against him. Glancing down, he observed with concern her ghastly pallor. Good God, he thought, placing his arm around her shoulders, who was this stranger? At first sight, Edward bad pegged her as being little more than an expensively attired slut. He could not imagine how she and Helen could have previously met. He led Helen toward a chair, but she resisted. Turning to him, she gestured an assurance and, straightening, exchanged a glance with Barney, who also wore an expression of dismay.

  By now, the gentleman was also approaching, and once more Edward felt Helen shrink against him. The next moment, however, she was smiling, albeit rigidly, and she extended a hand to the woman.

  “Adeline!” Her voice was clear and steady, though by no means welcoming. “Adeline Belker! What on earth are you doing here?”

  The woman giggled. “I knew you'd be surprised. ‘Milo,’ I said, ‘little Helen will be purely flummoxed to see us.’ “

  “Yes, indeed,” Helen murmured after a moment, “but what—?” Her gaze fell on the thin gentleman and she nodded distractedly. “Mr. Belker.”

  Helen still felt as though she might slide to the floor at any moment, for her knees remained at the consistency of a badly set jelly. She exchanged an appalled glance with Barney, whose cheeks were white as paper. She was profoundly grateful for the support of Edward at her side, although she knew with an anguished wrench that before the end of the day, that support would be lost to her.

  Uncle Stanford stepped forth, his face creased in a malicious grin.

  “Miss Prestwick, see what a nice gift I have brought you. Two old friends!”

  Helen thought she might vomit.

  “Yes, indeed,” Uncle Stamford continued expansively. “I met Mr. and Mrs. Belker not two nights after I arrived in London. We were all staying at the same hotel, and—” He paused to glance a little uncertainly at Edward. “But, I am being remiss. Ned, my boy, allow me to present my new friends, Mr. and Mrs. Milo Belker, lately of Portugal. I was able to prevail upon them to join me on my journey home and to stay with us for—ah—a spell.” He turned as Lady Camberwell and Artemis entered the hall.

  “Ah, m'dear.” He returned Lady Camberwell's embrace and expressions of welcome. As the dowager's gaze traveled over Mrs. Belker's voluptuous form, he repeated his introductions. Lady Camberwell's welcome to her brother's “new friends” was less than enthusiastic, and she presented Artemis with a protective air. Follo
wing this, she directed the party into the Drawing Room for tea.

  Helen followed the family and their guests from the Hall on leaden feet. How could she have assumed, with such fatal carelessness, that she would have a few more weeks’ grace before the axe fell.

  Edward fell into step beside her. “Do you really know these people?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice a whispered rasp. She hesitated, but Uncle Stamford, looking over his shoulder, called to Edward, “Come along, Ned. Your guests are waiting.” He shot Helen a look of malevolent pleasure.

  What the devil . . . ? Edward felt completely at a loss. The air in the drawing room seemed thick and fairly writhing with undercurrents. Uncle Stamford looked like a toad that had just captured a particularly succulent grasshopper. His friends were, unless Edward was much mistaken, nothing more than a pair of high-stepping sharpers, and Helen looked as though she was staring into a vision of hell. A glance at Barney indicated that she was in much the same state. He seated himself next to her, watching Helen carefully.

  “Well,” began Adeline Belker, once the tea had been summoned and dispensed. Dropping several lumps of sugar into her cup, she continued. “It was the most famous thing, Helen! Milo and I left our hotel chambers one morning and started downstairs for breakfast when we bumped into Mr. Welladay proceeding in the same direction. We struck up a conversation and ended up eating together.”

  “Yes,” interposed Uncle Stanford with an oily chuckle. “I can't recall when I ever hit it off so well with a pair of strangers.”

  Mr. Belker spoke for the first time, smiling broadly. “Indeed, we were not strangers for very long. By the time we had wiped the last crumbs of toast from our lips, we were fast friends.” Helen, with a depressing sense of familiarity, watched the tip of his long nose quiver as he spoke.

  “We were practically inseparable for the rest of dear Stamford's stay in London. We had plans to leave soon to visit our friends Lord and Lady Beeson at their seat in Gloucestershire, but dear Stanford insisted we accompany him for a visit to his place here. Or, rather,” she amended, “the Earl of Camberwell's place.” She shot a glance of coquettish apology at Edward.

  Helen looked quickly at Edward, waiting for a comment on the ownership of Whitehouse Abbey, but he seemed sunk in a fit of distraction, his gaze traveling curiously between Milo Belker and his overblown wife. She was grateful when he declined to speak, for then, surely, Adeline would take the opportunity to explode her bombshell. Instead, the dowager spoke again.

  “But you seem to be acquainted with Helen,” she asked, her voice lifting in question.

  “Why, yes, we're old friends of her family,” replied Mrs. Belker with a shrill laugh. Helen clenched her fists, bracing herself. However, Mrs. Belker contented herself with a brief “We spent quite a few years in Portugal, you see, and our home was near that of John Prestwick and his little family.”

  “I see,” murmured Edward, and he thought he did—to some degree, at least. From his first conversation with Helen, he had sensed that she was not telling him everything about either herself or William's claim. She had nearly toppled to the floor at sight of the Belkers, with whom she was apparently well acquainted. It was reasonable to assume that they were privy to whatever it was that Helen wished kept a secret.

  He experienced a certain feeling of dread at this realization. He did not want to think about the possibility of something dreadful in Helen's past. And if there was something, he wished she might have brought herself to disclose it to him. Unless, of course, it was something that would put William's claim in jeopardy. Which would mean Helen had lied to him all along. He sank deeper into his depression as Mrs. Belker shook her glittering curls in his direction.

  “Oh, yes,” she was saying, with a simper Edward was already beginning to dislike. “We love our little village in Portugal. Evora is ever so picturesque, you know. It has such old walls and a square with a fountain and even a Roman temple atop a hill.”

  “But how did you happen to be living in Portugal?” This from Artemis.

  Mrs. Belker shot a glance at her husband, who returned it with a minuscule frown.

  “Ah, well, then.” Adeline's pretty laugh was high and metallic. “About ten years ago Milo decided to expand his investments. You know, with the war and all, it was a rather precarious time—wasn't it, Precious?”

  Mr. Belker cleared his throat and continued portentously. “Indeed. Things were going well enough here, but as Wellington's army advanced into Portugal, I says to myself, ‘Milo B., it's time you looked abroad.'”

  “Which he did,” finished Adeline with a giggle. “But he wanted to look the place over first, so he says to me, ‘Addie, me love, we're going to Portugal.’ And that's what we did—and fell in love with the whole country. We bought a little villa in Evora and after awhile, having made so many lovely friends there besides the Prestwicks, especially Colonel Foster and some of the military men, we began to think of it as home. We travel back to England every now and then, but we always return to our land of sunshine and roses.” The piercing laugh tinkled again.

  Mm, mused Edward silently. It had taken him only a moment to size up Milo Belker's type and now, he thought, translation—the gentleman had outrun his creditors by a ship's length and now found a stay in England for more than a few weeks at a time a serious hazard to his health.

  Across the room, Helen thought she must be going insane. She had always loathed Adeline Belker, a mushroom of the worst sort, who had been among the most gleeful of her acquaintances at her downfall. The woman had lost no time in spreading the most sensational version of the scandal among her friends in the community. Leaving Adeline behind was, Helen had considered, perhaps the only blessing resulting from her abrupt departure from her home. Yet, here she was, actually taking tea in the Drawing Room of Whitehouse Abbey and blithering on about the beauties of Portugal! By now, Adeline could have been expected to blurt out every last morsel of her knowledge of Helen Prestwick's scandal.

  Helen could only watch in numb horror, waiting for the words that would surely spell her doom. She observed Adeline's repeated glances toward Uncle Stanford, and the reason for the woman's odd reticence struck her. Uncle Stanford was observing the scene in patent enjoyment, his own glance flickering to herself every few seconds. His eyes were narrowed into slits by the smirk pushing up his plump cheeks. Dear God, the wretch was relishing the scene! It was he who was behind every word Adeline was uttering. He must have already heard Helen's story from the Belkers, and he intended to prolong Helen's agony for as long as possible.

  She knew an icy rage, combined with the urge to raise her head to the ceiling and wail her anguish. The next moment, a thought struck her. If Uncle Stamford intended to delay Adeline's revelation, perhaps she might be able to draw Edward aside—just for a few minutes—just long enough to give him her own version of events as they had transpired. It might not make the situation any better, but it would be better than Adeline spewing her venom unexpurgated.

  She rose and moved toward Edward, but at her action, Uncle Stamford straightened in his chair. He nodded almost imperceptibly at Adeline.

  Adeline drew a long breath, expanding her already remarkable bosom. “But I must tell you, Helen dear, your father did not look at all well when we saw him last week at church.”

  Helen made no response, merely gazing back at the woman, refusing to allow her eyes to plead for her.

  “But, then, I suppose it's to be expected with all that's happened recently . . .” She trailed off and looked about her expectantly.

  “And what would that be, Mrs., er, Belker?” asked Lady Camberwell on cue.

  Adeline's eyes widened. “Well, the fact that his daughter was nearly prosecuted for selling a forged painting, of course. But did not dear Helen tell you?” she asked innocently. She smiled demurely, although such an expression sat oddly on her knowing features. “But, then, I suppose she wouldn't.

  “There was an—an incident
, you see,” Adeline continued. But now she paused abruptly and placed dainty fingers over her lips. “Oh, my—am I speaking out of turn?” she asked artlessly. “Oh, dear, Helen, you know I would not say anything to upset you for the world. I just thought you would wish to know about the sad straits your father is in.”

  A surge of pure fury swept through Helen. She stood abruptly and faced Edward and drew a long, shaking breath.

  “Yes, there was an incident,” she grated harshly.

  Her gaze fastened on Edward's face.

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  * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  Helen spoke as though the chamber was empty save for Edward.

  “I should have told you about—the incident—when I first arrived,” she began in a clear, albeit shaking voice, “but I foolishly deemed it inappropriate at the time. Later, it became more difficult, although—please believe me, Edward—I fully intended to tell you as soon as I could.”

  At this. Uncle Stamford snorted, and Helen whirled to transfix him with a glare of such angry contempt that he fell silent and drew back a little in his chair. She turned back to face Edward. She fended she could already note a look of disdain on his features, but he said merely, “If your, er, tale has a bearing on your presence here, surely you cannot wish to reveal it to the others—at least at this point. Perhaps we should adjourn to a more private place.”

  Helen would have given all she possessed to avoid exposing her shame before the Camber-well family, in addition to Stamford Welladay, but she shook her head.

  “No. Everyone here will have to hear my story eventually.” She looked straight at Edward. “About a year ago, my father went to Lisbon in response to a message from a dealer there. Papa and Senhor Albondandez had been friends for years, and he was in the habit of apprising Papa when an interesting work of art came his way. Papa returned home in great excitement, bearing a painting purported to be by Zurbaran—Francisco de Zurbaran, an early but very influential painter from the Entremadura.