Miss Prestwick's Crusade Read online

  “Oh, Edward. It was I who lied when I prattled all that nonsense about being respectable—well, I am respectable, of course, although I must say I don't feel so right now, because—you see—oh, Edward, I love you—and I know respectable ladies don't say things like that. Oh, dear God, I'm babbling. Can you not help me out here? We have not known each other a long time, but I am more sure of that than I have ever been of anything in my life.”

  She halted, breathless, as Edward swept her into yet another embrace.

  “But I have loved you from the first moment I saw you.” His voice was little more than a harsh rasp, and Helen chuckled, sizzles of happiness skyrocketing through her.

  “I was a laggard. For it was several days before I realized you were not the devil incarnate, and a good two weeks after that before I knew you were the most wonderful man in the western hemisphere.”

  For a long moment there was no further need for words. Nothing was heard in the vicinity of the stone bench for some time except the rustling of leaves and the humming of night insects and the murmuring of lovers in the eternal retracing of the steps that had led to this magical instant in time.

  At last, Edward spoke. “I very much fear that if we do not return to the house, my virtue will be utterly compromised.”

  “In which case,” replied Helen throatily, “I shall, I suppose, be forced to marry you.”

  She gasped at her own boldness. Barney had advised being honest with Edward, but, really—for a respectable female, she was fairly leaping beyond the pale. She was rewarded, however, by a fire in Edward's eyes, clearly visible in the moonlight.

  “I was afraid it might be too soon to mention marriage,” he said, all the blaze of a hearth in midwinter in his voice. “But, since you bring it up—”

  “Which I should not have done,” Helen completed with an effort at severity. “It is indeed too soon to think of marriage, but—oh, Edward, what are you doing?”

  “Trying to convince you that a wedding had better take place in short order, or it is very possible we shall have no need of one.”

  “That will do, my good man. You take liberties.”

  Edward sighed. “Yes, I do—and I intend to take a great many more—but you are right.” He rose, and grasping her hands, brought Helen to her feet.

  They made their way, very slowly and with a great many pauses, to Edward's study. It was not until they had nearly reached the French windows that Helen halted abruptly.

  “Whatever is going on?”

  At this, Edward, too, looked into the room. It was impossible to see very far into the interior of the study, but a shadow flickering grotesquely in front of the candle Edward had left burning indicated the presence of someone in the chamber. Silently, they approached the window.

  “Good God!” whispered Edward. “It's Stanford!”

  “Mr. Welladay! But what is he doing here? Isn't he in London?”

  “He's supposed to be. More to the point, what the devil is he doing in my study?'

  Immobilized by surprise, they watched for a few seconds as Uncle Stanford, having apparently just finished searching Edward's desk, glanced elsewhere around the room. He moved at once to the shelf behind the desk, where he scooped up the little box containing Chris's portrait and Trix's other mementos.

  Galvanized into action, Edward flung open the windows and bolted into the room, followed closely by Helen. Uncle Stamford whirled about and, at sight of Edward, his eyes bulged in horrified astonishment.

  “Urk!” he exclaimed before he pulled himself together to allow a sickly grin to spread across his features. It could now be seen that, in addition to the box, Uncle Stamford carried a small pouch. “Ned,” he said in a calmer tone, “I did not expect—that is, I did not think you would still be up. I arrived home just a little while ago and—bethought me of Chris's portrait. I—I never did get a good look at it and decided to have a peek.”

  During this ingenious speech he sidled closer to the door, the little box tucked tightly under his arm and the pouch clutched in one hand.

  “I'll be seeking my bed now. I—I'll return these items to the shelf in the morning.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Welladay!” roared Edward. “Stay where you are! What the devil are you about? You just happened to arrive home? Do you generally travel in the dead of night? You just happened to think of Chris's portrait? Good God, Welladay, you were stealing the thing—just as you have stolen a number of other items from Whitehouse Abbey!”

  Mr. Welladay's jaw dropped open in injured bewilderment. “Stealing?—Stealing? Ned, I am appalled that you would think such a thing. What would lead you to . . . ?”

  He did not finish his sentence, but instead, throwing a chair to the floor as an impediment, he bolted through the study door, slamming it after him. By the time Edward was able to make his way out of the room, only Mr. Welladay's coattails could be seen founding the corner at the far end of the corridor.

  He was soon seen to possess a startling agility for one of such sedentary habits and burdened physique, but, still he was easily overtaken. Edward caught up with him in the Hall.

  By this time, Uncle Stamford's face was quite empurpled and his breath came in wheezing gasps. Edward, exercising, he thought, great restraint, did not knock him to the floor but contented himself with retrieving the little wooden box.

  This proved difficult, for the older man had engulfed the container in a sort of death grip, clutching it to his plump bosom. After a moment, Edward, while not releasing his grasp, paused in his efforts.

  “What the devil? Welladay, why are you—? What can Chris's portrait possibly mean to you that you would creep into the Abbey at this hour of the night to steal it?”

  “I told you,” panted Mr. Welladay, wrapping himself ever more tightly about the box, and clutching the pouch more tightly in his fingers. “I wasn't—”

  “What on earth is going on?” The high-pitched shriek came from above, and both combatants turned to observe the dowager countess in a voluminous wrapper, gazing down on the fracas from the head of the staircase. “Edward, what on earth are you doing to dear Stamford?”

  “We just caught dear Stamford,” replied Edward through gritted teeth, “trying to purloin a few trifles from my study.”

  "What? Why my brother would never—” She broke off, observing the box hugged so closely to Stanford's breast. “What on earth—?” she said again, this time in a muted quaver.

  Mr. Welladay made no response to his sister's cry. Possibly sensing a weakening of Edward's grip, he gave one final tug on the little box. He met with more success than he had anticipated, for Edward did indeed let loose not only of the box but the pouch as well. Hey flew out of both men's grasp and soared high into the air. The wooden box careened into a marble statue of a Roman gladiator and, before the stunned gaze of the beholders, shattered into several pieces. The air was instantly filled with pearls, the ring, the portrait and the other keepsakes that Helen had so painstakingly collected for transport to William's homestead. The pouch opened, and out rolled the remaining golden Poggini cup, its jewels winking in the light of the few candles still alight in the Hall.

  Stanford Welladay seemed to collapse in on himself. He staggered and would have fallen to the floor had not Edward assisted him somewhat roughly into a nearby chair. Helen flew to recover the scattered treasures. Aunt Emily, who maintained her post at the head of the stairs, shrieked once more but said nothing.

  “Now.” In contrast to the older man, Edward was neither flushed nor breathing heavily, but he spoke in a voice of steel. “We will have a round tale, if you please. There is no denying you have been pilfering the family treasures, more frequently, I think, in the last few months. But what about the portrait?”

  Mr. Welladay glanced briefly up the stairs to where the dowager stood, then he looked into Edward's face, as though seeking a weakness he might exploit. Finding none, he closed his eyes momentarily, then spoke in a flat voice.

  “All r
ight. I did take a few—items from the collection.” He ignored a wail from the top of the stairs, enhanced by a squeal from Artemis, who had joined her mother.

  “You must know, Ned"—Mr. Welladay cleared his throat—"I have never been what one might call plump in the pocket. I have lived for years on your family's sufferance, which,” he continued in an injured tone, “is very difficult for a man of my pride. In addition, the Abbey, situated as it is in a virtual wilderness, hardly provides the scope necessary to a man of my, er capabilities.”

  “But what about Chris's portrait?”

  “I told you, I merely—urk!” Mr. Welladay's words were cut short as Edward grasped his neckcloth. “No! I—”

  “Edward!” It was Helen who spoke, in a whispered voice filled with wonder. “Look at this.”

  In her hand she held the pearl necklace and Trix's wedding ring—and a square piece of parchment. At this point, Lady Camberwell and Artemis descended in some haste and hurried to Helen's side.

  “I found it among the shards of the wooden box.” Helen's eyes were wide. “There must have been a false compartment—incredibly slim and compact.”

  Ignoring the dowager and her daughter, she handed the parchment to Edward, whose brows lifted questioningly as he took it from her. His eyes, too, grew round as he read. “ “This certifies the marriage between Beatrice Eleanor Prestwick, daughter of John Henry Prestwick and Elizabeth Mary Prestwick, to Christopher John Beresford, Earl of Camberwell on this sixteenth day of November, Eighteen Hundred and Eight in the Year of Our Lord.'” Edward stared unbelievingly at Helen. “My God. It is! It's the marriage certificate!”

  Once more, the strophe and antistrophe shriek and squeal, chimed in. “The certificate?” queried Aunt Emily. “The proof you've been searching for?”

  “Ooh.” Artemis was in prime form, and her squeal resonated in the rafters of the hall. “Chris and Helen's sister really were married? And William is the earl and not Edward!”

  “Succinctly put, Artemis,” said Edward, laughing. He turned to Helen. “Will you mind terribly, my love, being married to plain Edward Beresford rather than the Earl of Camberwell?”

  This statement brought on a renewed chorus of squeals and shrieks.

  "Married?" Aunt Emily's face was suffused with astonishment.

  “You two?” added Artemis. “To each other?”

  Edward laughed again. He drew Helen to him and kissed her on the cheek.

  Helen leaned into him and answered huskily, “My dearest, to tell the truth, being Mrs. Edward Beresford will suit me much better than being the Countess of Camberwell.” She raised her cheek for another kiss.

  “My gracious,” chimed in another voice. “I cannot leave you two alone for a minute, can I?”

  “Barney!” cried Helen. “Oh, my dear friend. No—that is, yes, we have wonderful news.” She lifted the parchment in her hand. “And not just about Edward and me. Barney—we have found the certificate!”

  Barney hurried forward, and the next few moments were spent in a discussion over this dramatic turn of events.

  “I shall send to Ffulkes first thing in the morning. I think we should continue to look for the Reverend Mr. Binwick, for it would be a good thing to have a copy of the marriage lines, but—oy!”

  The assembled company whirled about to follow Edward's gaze, directed at Mr. Welladay, who had picked up the portrait of Chris and was now sliding quietly toward the fallen goblet.

  Edward sprinted the few steps it took to retrieve him and pushed the older gentleman into the chair he had recently vacated. The dowager, her attention returned to her brother, moaned softly.

  “Stanford, dearest. Is it true? Did you really take things from the Abbey that—that did not belong to you?”

  Stamford shuffled his feet where he sat, but he spoke in an effort at bravado. “Well, yes, Enuny—technically, yes. I would have recompensed the estate—eventually. All I needed was a few good hands at the card table.”

  “But what about Chris's portrait?” Edward asked yet again, his irritation having increased in direct proportion to the number of times he had been forced to ask the question.

  “Ah.” Stanford's toes were by now digging a hole in the carpet before him. “It's as I told you, Ned—” His gaze lifted in piteous innocence. “You know, I was as devoted to Chris as any member of this family. I—”

  Edward sighed. “Please, Welladay. Let us have no more of that. You're virtually convicted of theft—just tell us the whole of it.”

  But Mr. Welladay sat, stubbornly mute. Edward opened his mouth once more, but Helen interrupted.

  “You know, I might have the answer. Edward, have you a pen knife?”

  Surprised, Edward tucked into his waistcoat pocket, producing the desired item. Taking it from him, Helen began scratching at the lower right-hand corner of the portrait. After a few moments thus occupied, she gave a low cry.

  “There! It is just as I thought.”

  The little group gazed at the painting in blank incomprehension.

  “It is the Caravaggio! See? Here is the artist's signature, and just above it, you can see a corner of the table—on which rests a bowl of fruit.” She swung to Mr. Welladay, who had sagged back in his chair, his face gray. “But how did you know it was under the portrait? And, for Heaven's sake, how did Chris happen to have his portrait painted over it?”

  Mr. Welladay said nothing, merely passing a shaking hand over his forehead.

  “I think perhaps I can hazard a guess,” said Edward slowly. “Like you, Uncle, Chris was possessed of expensive tastes but lacked the wherewithal to indulge in them. Did it occur to you both at the same time that an art collection of obvious but uncatalogued value was just what you needed to augment your incomes?”

  Mr. Welladay sighed. “It was Chris who thought of it first. I came upon him one day removing a Chinese statue— a dragon, I think it was—from a cupboard in the east wing. I had begun studying volumes on art some time before, pursuant to my self-imposed cataloging project. Thus, I had more knowledge of the value of the works than Chris did. We never—appropriated—very many,” he added defensively.

  “Perhaps you will be so good as to provide us with a list of those items no longer in our possession,” said Edward dryly. “But do continue,” he added, “about the Caravaggio.”

  Mr. Welladay shifted uncomfortably. “Ah. Well, I had studied enough to know it was probably the most valuable work in the house. When Chris knew he would be travelling to Portugal, be wished to take something to tide him over for the duration of his stay there. The Caravaggio is small, so Chris just slipped it into his baggage.”

  “And then,” interposed Helen sharply, “he met Trix, whose father and sister were art experts. He must have been most concerned that one of us would somehow find the painting in his possession, so he had his portrait painted over it. He must have acted in some haste, for he did not take the time to find a competent artist.”

  “Yes, no doubt. But,” Mr. Welladay added eagerly, “it is not permanently damaged, as you can see, so there is no harm done. Is there?” He glanced hopefully at Edward. In the background. Aunt Emily sobbed softly.

  “We will discuss that later,” Edward replied flatly. “Right now, I suggest we all seek our beds. Tomorrow will be a busy day.” He fixed a stare on Mr. Welladay. “Uncle, do I have your word you won't hare off before we have a chance to straighten this matter out?”

  Mr. Welladay nodded shamefacedly and rose from his chair—after a tentative glance at Edward to assure himself the he need not fear, at least for the moment, any further onslaught.

  Lady Camberwell lugubriously climbed the stairs at her brother's side, with Artemis trailing behind. That young lady was still obviously full of excited questions, but at a glance from the dowager, she contented herself with a few sibilant questions on the way to the first floor.

  After a brief, joyful discussion with Helen, Barney bestowed congratulatory kisses on the cheeks of the betrothed couple.
r />   “So what are you going to do about the Wicked Uncle?” Barney asked with a chuckle. “Will you see him tossed in jail for what he did? He certainly deserves it.”

  Edward groaned. “He certainly does. But he is Aunt Emily's brother. I could not serve her such a turn.” He ran his fingers through already disheveled locks. “I haven't decided yet. I do not even know if I am in a position of authority here anymore. I rather think, though, if Stamford and Aunt Emily agree, that, following time-honored tradition concerning wayward relatives, I shall ship Stamford off at the earliest opportunity to the family plantations in Antigua for an extended stay.”

  “Sounds too good for the old miscreant, but I suppose it would be the best thing.” Barney stretched luxuriously. “Well, I'm for bed, as well.” She glanced at Edward and Helen. “Don't be too long,” she said, grinning at Helen. She lifted a hand as she climbed the stairs.

  It was quiet in the hall. Edward grasped Helen's hand, and she leaned into him, her head on his shoulder.

  “Who would have thought,” Helen murmured, “that when I blew out my candles in the attic and started downstairs just a few hours ago, that the evening would end in the fulfillment of everything I most desired in the world.”

  “It is always a pleasant thing when one achieves one's goal.” Edward pressed a soft kiss on her brow. “My love, you are fairly glowing.”

  Helen lifted her face, so that Edward's next kiss landed markedly lower. After some moments, she continued. “I believe it is required that recently betrothed young ladies produce a, um, glow.” Her voice broke. “Oh, Edward, I don't feel deserving of such happiness.”

  Not unnaturally, Edward felt obliged to deposit another kiss on his intended's brow, then another on her lips, and a few more after that on cheek and throat. “You are being absurd, my love,” he said tenderly. “It is I who have been granted my heart's desire.”

  Helen drew a long, shaking breath. “I had better go. Barney did leave us to our own devices, but I know she is up there waiting for a full report.”