Miss Prestwick's Crusade Read online

  Helen gazed across the little table at her adversary, clutching her fragile teacup in fingers that trembled despite her best effort. She hoped that none of her inner turmoil was visible to the earl—or no, to Mr. Beresford. Dear God, she had come so far—she must not fail in her purpose. So much depended on the outcome of this interview. She eyed him assessingly. He was not the picture of evil she had expected. Indeed, the gentleman looked to be just that—a gentleman, calm of demeanor and mild of expression. He appeared to be in his late thirties. His dark hair was thick as thatch and cropped neatly, but with little thought to fashion. His face was long and narrow and his features angular, and he was possessed of black, deep-set eyes that looked out at the world with a quizzical air. Deep creases ran from either side of his nose to bracket a mouth that was presently twisted into what she could only call a suspicious half-smile.

  Well, who could blame him for that? On the other band, it was not required of a bad man that he look the part. What was that quote? “A man may smile and smile and be a villain.” Still, she found Mr. Beresford's attitude of forbearance encouraging, skeptical though it might be. She smiled and was rewarded by an answering glimmer from her host.

  “You say you have been living in Portugal,” he prompted, glancing at the baby, who had begun to stir in his nest of blankets. Miss Barnstaple rose to gather him to her scant bosom.

  “Yes,” replied Helen. “I must take you back a number of years, I'm afraid. My mother and father moved to Portugal shortly after they were married. A relative of my mother's had offered Papa a position in his art gallery. Papa, you see,” she added, “is an authority on art.”

  “And he still lives in Portugal?”

  “Yes,” Helen replied, puzzled at the question.

  “Then, if I may ask, why is it not he who has come to claim his grandson's birthright?”

  Helen stiffened. Lord, she'd been afraid he would ask this. “My father,” she replied carefully, “is occupied right now with the press of business. He has owned his own gallery—a highly successful enterprise—for a number of years. During this time, he has acquired a wide reputation on the Continent as an expert in many art media, as well as a restorer of artworks. He has been quite active in our little community, having acquired many friends among the English living there—as well, of course, as with many of the officers quartered from time to time in Evora.”

  Helen exhaled in a gust. At least she had not been forced to lie. Everything she had said was true—up to a point. She continued hurriedly.

  “Among Father's friends was Colonel Foster, your cousin's commander, and it was at a dinner party at the colonel's home that Beatrice met Christopher. It was a case of—”

  “—love at first sight.” Mr. Beresford finished the sentence with a flip of his hand. “You need say no more, Miss Prestwick. My cousin affected most women in that fashion, and I assume your sister was a beauty.”

  “Yes, she was.” Well. So it was true that Edward Beresford was jealous of his handsome cousin. “In addition, she was sweet and loving and giving.” She felt her eyes misting and she continued briskly. “At any rate, they were acquainted for only a few months before they became betrothed.”

  She frowned. “By that time, unfortunately, a disagreement had sprung up between my father and Colonel Foster. Such was the acrimony of their feelings for one another that Christopher hesitated to tell his commander of his plans to marry John Prestwick's daughter. I don't suppose the colonel could have forbidden the match, but he could have made life extremely unpleasant for the newlyweds— to say nothing of destroying Christopher's career.”

  “So they were married in secret.”

  “Yes,” she answered firmly, hating him for the skeptical curl of his lip.

  “And Chris was so fearful of discovery that he could not even tell his family of his nuptials?”

  This time disbelief and—Good God, was that amusement?— radiated from his every feature.

  Helen's fingers curled inside her gloves and she cleared her throat. “As to that, I—I'm not sure. He said that he wished to tell his mother personally, but I think—um, I think there might have been—some private reason that he did not confide in you.”

  At this, Edward almost burst into laughter. Some private reason, indeed! Chris had never dealt well with confrontation. The idea of informing his family that, instead of marrying the eminently eligible Elspeth Morwent, he had plunged into wedlock with an unknown female of dubious parentage would have filled him with horror. Much better, he would have concluded, to wait until he arrived at Whitehouse Abbey, with his bride in tow, the marriage a fait accompli. Or more likely, at the last possible moment before he was to come home, he would have written someone—the vicar, perhaps—instructing him to tell his family, so that the news would already have been delivered and the first shock abated by the time of his arrival.

  So far, Edward concluded ruefully, Miss Prestwick's explanation was improbable—but certainly not impossible.

  “Chris and Trix were married at the home of the Reverend Harold Binwick. As I said, Barney and I were the only witnesses. I believe Chris did not even tell his closest friends of his marriage.”

  Edward's eyes glinted. “Let me see if I have this straight. My cousin and your sister were married in deepest, darkest secrecy by a minister who was subsequently—I forget— spirited away by fairies?”

  “Reverend Mr. Binwick returned to England,” retorted Miss Prestwick icily. “He was, I gather, somewhat of a recluse. He did not confide his plans to any friends or neighbors, and no one knows in what city he now resides.”

  “Why does this not surprise me?” Edward murmured.

  Miss Prestwick picked up the teapot; and for a moment, he very much feared she meant to throw it at him. However, she merely poured a second cup of tea for Miss Barnstaple. Somewhat shamed, he continued.

  “But when your sister became, er, enceinte? Surely then—”

  “Christopher's brigade left Evora shortly after they were married. He was not there on a permanent status, you see, but was quartered there often on a temporary basis. The mail service was practically nonexistent, and Chris was killed at Oporto before she could apprise him of her condition.” Miss Prestwick's voice was sharp and brittle.

  “And,” Edward continued sharply, “at her death, you took it upon yourself to mount a crusade on behalf of the result of their union.”

  “Crusade?” Miss Prestwick appeared startled. “I had not thought of it in that light, but, yes, I suppose you might call it that. You see,” she concluded quietly, “William had no one else to speak up for him.”

  At this, Edward rose from his chair, now very much ashamed. He cleared his throat.

  “You must admit, Miss Prestwick, your story is well nigh unbelievable.” He lifted a hand to forestall the contradiction he saw rising in her eyes. “If the infant is indeed the son of Christopher Beresford, the eleventh Earl of Camberwell and his lawfully wedded wife, he is indeed the twelfth earl. If this is the case, be assured I shall, of course, step aside and do all that is necessary to see that young, er, Willliam is installed at Whitehouse Abbey with all due ceremony.” He lifted his brows at the muffled snort that issued from Miss Prestwick's beautifully curved lips.

  “My dear young woman,” Edward declared in some dudgeon, “I am receiving the distinct impression here that you believe my reaction to your—story—to be that of a less than honorable man.”

  Miss Prestwick flushed to the roots of her hair, but she maintained her composure. “I am truly grieved to have given that impression, Mr. Beresford; however, you must admit that the news of William's existence must come as an unpleasant shock.”

  “Ah,” replied Edward silkily, “you perceive me to be the sort of blackguard so greedy for a title and wealth that I would bar my own nephew from his rightful inheritance.”

  Helen gasped. This was, of course, precisely what she believed of him, but she had not intended to be so transparent in her speech.

 
“No!” she blurted hastily. “That is—no, of course not.”

  Mr. Beresford lifted skeptical brows but did not pursue the subject further. He moved to the silent Miss Barnstaple. “May I?” he asked, extending his arms for the infant, who had once again fallen asleep.

  Glancing at Miss Prestwick, the older woman, with an incoherent murmur, relinquished the baby. Settling the child into a comfortable position, Edward drew aside the blanket and subjecting the tiny form to an intense scrutiny. Could this really be Chris's son? Edward's first instinct was to dismiss the whole situation as a tissue of lies from start to finish.

  Still, what if it had happened as Miss Prestwick had described? What if this insignificant little scrap of humanity was the legitimate son of the eleventh Earl of Camberwell and his countess? Edward drew a finger along the incredibly soft perfection of the child's cheek. The rosebud mouth opened suddenly and turned toward the intrusion before sinking once more into an apparently dreamless slumber. Carefully, Edward returned William to Miss Barnstaple's care, then turned to Miss Prestwick.

  “Well, dear lady, you have accomplished your purpose. No, no,” he continued hastily as her velvet eyes widened. “I have by no means accepted your improbable tale. However, I cannot in all conscience simply turn you and the child out. I shall look into the matter.” He steepled his fingers in what he hoped was an authoritative, judicious gesture. “I shall contact the family solicitor and instruct him to hire investigators. If there is a shred of evidence to support your claim, we will discover it. Conversely, if your tale proves fraudulent, as I must admit seems the case to me as of this moment, you will be subject to whatever punishment the law metes out for such transgressions.” He drew a long breath. “In the meantime, allow me to welcome you into my home—or, at least"—he smiled thinly— “into the home of the Earl of Camberwell, whoever he might be.”

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  Chapter Four

  Helen sank back in her chair, quivering with relief. She had done it! She had stormed the citadel of the evil usurper and emerged victorious! Well, perhaps not victorious—not yet, at any rate. She knew she was being absurdly melodramatic, but she had been so very fearful that Mr. Beresford would simply drive her from his home with a fiery sword, threatening unnamed but unpleasant retribution should she ever darken his door again.

  From his position across the room, Edward gazed at her, nonplussed. Had he done the right thing? Perhaps he should have turned Miss Prestwick away, agreeing to look into the matter. He could have told her he would contact her later if he found any facts to substantiate her claim. He could have set a few inquiries into motion which, in all probability, would come to nothing, and he might never hear from her again.

  Oddly, this thought created a hollow feeling that spiraled down to his toes. He refused to examine this sensation. After all, he was not a spotty-faced adolescent slavering over an attractive woman. But she wasn't just attractive, was she? Her eyes were exceptionally compelling, and her form more than usually graceful and, er, well crafted. However, he reflected dizzily, it was not just her physical attributes—outstanding as they were in every respect—that drew him like a compass needle to true north. Somehow, he felt like a man who, after wandering in a frozen, very lonely wilderness for a very long time, had just been offered shelter by a warm fire. It was, he supposed, the expression in those clear gray eyes. It spoke of warmth and wit and intelligence and ... a quality he could not define. He only knew he wanted more of it. He'd always scoffed at the idea of love at first sight, but something in him—perhaps a boyish dream he had not entirely put aside—had responded to something in Miss Prestwick. A voice within told him as clearly as if the words had been spoken aloud that he must not let this woman slip away from him. Not before he had a chance to investigate the possibilities of ... what might be.

  And then, of course, there was William. There was no question he owed it to his family—and, he supposed, to Chris—to discover the true facts regarding William's birth and the legitimacy of his claim.

  Lord! His family! What would their reaction be to Miss, Prestwick? Their immediate instinct, he was sure, would be to band together to eject her and her preposterous assertion, to say nothing of young William, from the sacred precincts of Whitehouse Abbey. On the other hand . . .

  He tapped his chin for several seconds, sure the sound of his furiously churning brain must be evident to the woman gazing at him so relievedly.

  He moved to the bell pull, tugging decisively before turning back to his guest.

  “I think our first step,” he said, smiling, “is to get young Will settled in the nursery. After that, I shall introduce you to my—mine and Christopher's—family.”

  When Stebbings arrived, Edward directed him to summon Mrs. Hobart, the housekeeper. That lady arrived in a few moments, the keys at her belt fairly vibrating with curiosity. Briefly, Edward put her in possession of the bare facts of the situation, namely that Miss Prestwick and Miss Barnstaple, with their small charge, would be guests at the Abbey for an indefinite stay. He instructed her to commandeer one of the maids to act as nursemaid.

  “And please show the ladies to their chambers,” he concluded, mentally crossing his fingers that suitable chambers were ready and presentable.

  “Of course, my lord,” responded Mrs. Hobart austerely. His lordship was well aware that a sufficient number of bedchambers was always kept in readiness for unexpected guests.

  “I know you will make all right, Mrs. Hobart.”

  Edward turned once again to his guest. “And when you are settled in, Miss Prestwick, I would like to introduce you to the family. One of the servants will show you the way down to my study.”

  This matter taken care of, Mrs. Hobart, her curiosity obviously unsated but her demeanor all that was discreet, departed from the salon with Miss Prestwick, carrying William. Miss Barnstaple, still silent, brought up the rear.

  Edward gazed after them abstractedly for some moments before he turned on his heel and exited the Yellow Salon.

  Climbing the stairs, Mrs. Hobart issued a steady stream of information. “It's been many a year since the nursery was in use. Occasionally, of course, we entertain visitors accompanied by little ones—and, naturally, the cradles and cots and toys and all are still in place from when Lord Camberwell—Mister Christopher, that is—and Lady Artemis were children—and who knows who else before them.”

  Having reached the second floor and quite out of breath, the housekeeper strode down a long, dim corridor before pausing at a sturdy oak door, its panels scarred by generations of small hands and feet. She opened the door with a flourish and ushered the ladies into a large room, from which led other, smaller chambers. The room was spacious and sunny, and as she progressed, Mrs. Hobart flung off Holland covers to reveal that one of the smaller chambers was furnished with two infant cots, three small beds, and a cradle.

  The housekeeper gestured to the latter, and Helen proceeded with William to a waist-high table nearby, its purpose evident.

  “I think,” she said, smiling, “I'd best change him before we put him down for a nap. Although,” she said, her forehead wrinkling, “I should imagine he'll be demanding his dinner soon. Have you—?”

  “Of course, Miss.” Mrs. Hobart spoke authoritatively. “We have fresh milk and a plentiful supply of bottles and nipples. As for changing the baby, young Finch will be here momentarily. She can take care of that chore as well as all the other nursing duties for the young gentleman. That is, his lordship intimated that you will be here for some time.” Her voice lifted questioningly.

  “Yes, I expect we will, Mrs. Hobart,” replied Helen easily. She began to remove his clothing, ignoring the infant's vociferous protest at this invasion of his person. “Oh, dear, he's soaked all the way up to his eyebrows.” She wrinkled her nose. “And not just that. I fear he's going to require a complete sluicing to make him anywhere near socially acceptable.”

  At this moment, a young woman r
ushed into the room. She was garbed in a plain, dark round gown covered with a crisp white apron. On a tightly bound mop of naming red hair perched a demure cap. She bobbed a curtsy first to Mrs. Hobart, then to Helen, and, as she noticed Miss Barnstaple, added one more for good measure.

  “You wanted me, ma'am?” she asked Mrs. Hobart.

  The housekeeper nodded before turning to Helen. “This is Finch, Miss. She is quite reliable and the eldest of a large family. I'm sure she will do for the young gentleman.”

  Helen informed Finch of William's current unsavory situation, which, she admitted ruefully, under the circumstances was scarcely necessary. The young master had by now worked himself up to a fit of screaming outrage, and Finch hastened to remove him from Helen's arms. This accomplished, Mrs. Hobart beckoned to Helen and Miss Barnstaple.

  “I'll show you to your chambers now. Miss.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Helen, putting up a hand in protest. “I would rather stay here. That is, surely there are beds here . . .”

  Mrs. Hobart's not inconsiderable brows lifted in surprise. “Well, yes, of course there are, Miss, but they are for the accommodation of the nurse and her staff. Surely—”

  “Come along, Helen,” said Miss Barnstaple abruptly. “You didn't sleep in William's room at home, and I do not believe you are required to do so here. I'm quite confident that, er, Finch, here, will look after the little tyke admirably.”

  “Oh, yes, mum,” breathed the little maid fervently.

  “You see?” said Miss Barnstaple with a smile. She added in a gentle aside, “You have nothing to fear.”

  “No, of course not,” Helen replied hastily, aware that she did indeed fear for William. How could she leave him unattended to face the far-from-tender mercies of the man who must consider him a threat of the first order? On the other hand, it would present a decidedly odd appearance if she were to insist on continually hovering over the child. She certainly did not wish to betray her extreme distrust of Lord Cam—that is, Mr. Beresford. She feared she had already raised his suspicions.