Miss Prestwick's Crusade Read online

  “Stored?” Her tone indicated a suspicion of unnamed Philistine horrors visited upon priceless objets d'art.

  “Well, yes.” Now it was Edward's turn to go on the defensive. “We simply can't fit them all on the walls and tables and shelves. We have put quite a few paintings and sculptures and figurines and so on in storerooms.”

  “I am not so concerned with sculptures and figurines if they are well packed...”

  “Which they are.”

  “That's very good. But the paintings... You have not removed any from their frames?”

  “Well, yes—some, but...”

  “You haven't rolled them up!” This in a tone of dread.

  “Well, not me personally, but yes, I think some of them are rolled up.”

  “Good Lord!” Miss Prestwick rose agitatedly, her cambric skirts fairly crackling. “Come along, then. We must hope it is not too late.” Without looking to see if she was followed, she hurried from the room.

  With a brief aside to Turner to the effect that he would see him later to finish the work spread out on the desk, Edward loped after her. She had stopped in the corridor, not knowing which direction to take, with the result that Edward careened into her upon leaving the room. He flung his arms about her to prevent her from falling, and for a delicious moment, she clung to him, all those magnificent curves pressed against him. The brief contact was severed almost at once as Miss Prestwick pushed away from him with both hands. She said nothing but turned away abruptly. Not, however, before Edward observed with interest her naming cheeks. Dare he hope the intimate contact had induced the same effect on Miss Prestwick as it had on him? Well, probably not, for the wondrous impact had caused him to thrum from the top of his hair to the bottoms of his toes like a large tuning fork.

  Breathlessly, he adjusted his neckcloth and inasmuch as he was able, continued his journey down the corridor at her side, as though nothing untoward had just occurred.

  Forcing himself to his most businesslike demeanor, he conducted Miss Prestwick first to the manor's east wing, where he introduced her to a series of Italian landscapes, then to the central portion of the house to peruse shelf after shelf of marble figurines from France.

  Helen soon found herself overwhelmed by the riches surrounding her. It was apparent that the ninth Earl of Camberwell had possessed an innate appreciation of fine art. Most of the objects to which she was introduced were by unknown artists, but they were all of excellent quality.

  In a tiny storeroom, sandwiched between two bedchambers, Edward paused before a plain, wooden cupboard and flung open the door. Inside were crammed, helter-skelter, a melange of silver and pewter candelabra and other metal objets d'art. Helen glanced idly at the collection and suddenly caught her breath.

  “My goodness!” she exclaimed, picking up a goblet from the rear of the bottom shelf. She gasped a little. “My goodness!” she said again.

  “What is it?” asked Mr. Beresford.

  Helen bent to peer farther into the cupboard. “Is there not a mate to this?” she breathed, her voice hushed.

  The goblet was encrusted with at least thirty gems, and as Helen turned it over in her hand, the morning sunlight streaming through the room's tiny windows picked them out in points of Same.

  “My word!” exclaimed Mr. Beresford. “They are not real, are they?”

  “I don't know,” said Helen slowly. “I shall have to examine them more closely.” She was sure she knew the identity of the artist, but... “Is it not exquisite, though?”

  “If you say so. It looks rather gaudy to me.” Mr. Beresford rummaged through the cupboard's remaining contents with no success. “I have no idea if there is another. I suppose there must be. Odd, though that the two are not together. Ah well, you'll probably come across it eventually. There's probably a receipt somewhere.”

  Helen replaced the goblet, almost dizzy with the possibility that she had discovered a lost masterpiece. With difficulty, she tried to focus her attention as Mr. Beresford led her farther along yet another corridor to yet another consignment of objets d'art.

  Dutch still lifes were produced from several attic regions, Italian madonnas emerged from a distant wing, and French portraits spilled from a far-flung storeroom. By the time they reached the bowels of the west wing to peruse a selection of porcelain chinoiserie, Helen lifted a limp hand.

  “I give way to no one in my admiration of your grandfather's taste in art, but I must admit defeat at this moment. I simply cannot go another step. And I will freely admit that if one more piece of oriental art, porcelain or otherwise, is thrust under my nose, I may succumb to a fit of the vapors.”

  “Grandfather's efforts to corner the market on the world's art often has that effect on people. I can't tell you how many of his friends he bored into their graves with the stories of each and every purchase. I agree, you deserve a respite. Perhaps a cup of tea?”

  Helen nodded gratefully and accepted a hand in extricating herself from between two cabinets. In a few moments, they had returned to his study and settled over delicate cups and a silver pot. Helen eyed Edward narrowly. During the tour, she had determinedly corralled her thoughts away from their brief collision the corridor. It had taken her some minutes afterward, however, to return to her normal collected state of mind. Her reaction to the contact had appalled her. She was aware, of course, that his embrace was entirely accidental; yet, she had known the most mortifying urge to return it—to bury her face in his neck so that she could absorb his scent of shaving lotion, tobacco and his own indefinable essence.

  How absurd. It was not as though she was attracted to the man. Oh, well, all right. She had already admitted that he was not unattractive, in an angular sort of way. And she did enjoy his conversation and his dry, deprecating sense of humor. She was, however, more than seven, and she had known a great many men, some far more handsome, witty and elegant—many of whom had evinced a more than friendly interest in her. She had reciprocated that interest on more than one occasion—had even found herself on the verge of love once or twice. She had never fully succumbed, however. Nor did she expect to do so now, for heaven's sake. The idea was ludicrous, as was the embarrassing necessity to keep reminding herself that this man was her enemy, no matter how appealing his manner of easy friendship—and perhaps the hint that he would welcome something more. Lord, she had met the man only yesterday. What could she possibly be thinking?

  “Yes,” she replied to a question she had scarcely heard. “That is, no, I have never been to England before now. Travel has been so difficult with the war and all—and I have been closely occupied with my father's business.”

  “Ah. Do you mean, then, to continue with his gallery after he retires?”

  , She squirmed. “Yes. I believe I have created a reputation sufficient to keep our present clients in our fold.”

  “But is it not difficult for a female to handle such a— well, what sounds like an extensive business? No,” Edward added hastily, “I cast no aspersions on your ability. I just mean that, um, people do not do business—valuable paintings and other art work—with a, er . . .”

  “With a female.” Helen readied herself to deliver a stinging confutation, but at the expression of chagrin on Mr. Beresford's face, Helen was forced to smile. “I know what you mean, sir, and that has been, of course, a problem for me. Fortunately, my father has given me the utmost support. He not only introduced me to his clients long ago but made sure they were made aware of my growing expertise. With their knowledge, he often let me handle transactions from start to finish, including both the financial and the artistic aspects. At the risk of appearing odiously conceited, I think I may say that my father's clients now look upon me with the same respect they grant my father.”

  “I have not the slightest doubt that this is the case.” Mr. Beresford's smile was warm. “Still, it must have been difficult for you. When did you find time for the usual frivolities of just being a young woman?”

  Helen laughed. “I'm afraid I was nev
er a very frivolous young woman. I left that to Trix. She was frivolous enough for both of us. Not that she was a hoyden,” she added swiftly, “or anything of that sort.”

  “I'm sure she wasn't,” replied Mr. Beresford gravely.

  A silence fell then, surprisingly comfortable, until Helen roused herself to ask, “And what of you, Mr. Beresford? What sort of a young man were you? Definitely not the frivolous sort, according to Chris.”

  At the mention of Chris's name, Helen noted a marked change in Mr. Beresford's expression. Was that hostility she saw in his eyes? Without doubt, a certain coldness.

  “I have never thought of myself as being a sober youth. Indeed, though not what one could call hey-go-mad, I had my carefree moments.”

  “Which is a very good thing,” inserted Helen promptly. Chris had referred to his cousin as a “boring little stick.” Moreover, Helen had received the impression that Chris often teased him for his probity. Knowing Chris, she surmised that he was probably less than kind in his epithets. “Did you grow up here at the Abbey?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. My father was the vicar of a parish some thirty miles distant. It was a good living, with a comfortable vicarage surrounded by fruitful gardens.”

  "Was the vicar? He is no longer living?”

  “No, he passed away just last year. My mother preceded him in death by some fifteen years, so the last part of his life was somewhat lonely—even though he had friends and many hobbies to interest him.”

  Good Lord, thought Edward, I'm prattling like a country miss at her first town party.

  “You must have been a great comfort to him, as well. Were you still living in the vicarage?”

  Edward pursed his mouth. He was a private person, for God's sake, and he did not intend to reveal any more of himself to this lovely stranger, whose interest, if he was not mistaken, was not altogether casual. It was more likely she was an adherent of the philosophy “know thine enemy.” Though he wished she would not continue to view him in that light.

  “Oh, no. My uncle—Chris's father—deeded a property to me some years ago. Briarwood lies near Amesbury, some twenty-five miles distant, and has been my residence for more than fifteen years.”

  “And you were happy there?”

  “Oh yes.” Edward's mind flashed to long ranks of mullioned windows glinting in the sun. “Very happy. I miss it.”

  “Still—” Miss Prestwick's voice took on an unbecoming sharpness. “You must have been more than happy to leave it to take up residence at Whitehouse Abbey.”

  At this, Edward could contain himself no longer. “Miss Prestwick, ever since you arrived, you have conveyed your view of me as a greedy usurper, cast in alt by the news of my cousin's death. You seem to believe that my whole life has been given to coveting my cousin's title and now that it has fallen into my rapacious clutches, I will do anything, up to and including the removal of the rightful heir, by any means necessary, to keep it.”

  Helen simply gaped at him, as a tide of heat rose to her cheeks. Dear God, she had just done what she had told herself over and over she must avoid at all costs. She had allowed her feelings to surface and, in doing so, had alienated Mr. Beresford beyond tolerance. What would he do now? Would he turn William out of his house? And herself and Barney as well, of course? How could she have been so stupid? From somewhere deep inside her another voice chimed, “And so rude and unfair.” She blinked, but before she could examine this new thought, Mr. Beresford spoke again, this time in a gentler tone.

  “Is this really how you see me, Miss Prestwick? What have I done since you walked through the door of Whitehouse Abbey to cause you to think so badly of me?”

  “N-nothing,” Helen stammered, now crimson with embarrassment. “You have been all that is kind and courteous. It's just that—that . . .”

  “That what, Miss Prestwick? I think you owe me an explanation for your hostility.”

  “Well"—Helen felt as though she were floundering in a sea of treacle—"I just imagined that any man a commoner by birth would, er, relish the idea of being a lord.” She lifted her gaze from her clenched fingers to observe that Mr. Beresford's mien was still sober in the extreme. But— what was that in his eyes? Did she detect a gleam of amusement—albeit a very dim gleam?

  “And from this theory you crafted your theory of Edward Beresford, Wicked Usurper?”

  Helen squirmed. “I—I suppose so. And then, of course, there was Chris.”

  Another shift altered Mr. Beresford's demeanor. A certain grayness seemed to envelop him. “Ah, yes, Chris. Do tell me, Miss Prestwick, what my estimable cousin had to say about me.”

  Helen sighed. “Yes, perhaps I'd better do that.”

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  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  Helen paused to fortify herself with a sip of tea, although it bad gone quite cold by now and did nothing to restore her spirits. She was afraid that what she was about to say would mark a change in her relationship with Mr. Beresford, and she was not at all sure she was prepared for this turn of events. She cleared her throat.

  “To be honest, sir, Chris did not describe you in very flattering terms.”

  “To be equally honest. Miss Prestwick, this does not surprise me.”

  Helen lifted her brows, and Mr. Beresford continued. “I regret to say that Chris and I were at odds almost from birth.”

  “Yes. Well, that's rather the impression we received when Chris spoke of you—which, actually, was not that often.”

  “Mm. I suppose not. We did not figure large in each other's lives.”

  “From what he did say . . .” Once again Helen paused uncertainly. “We could only gather that you were a—a dull stick, mean-spirited and, from the time you were in short skirts, intensely jealous of his title and wealth,” she finished in a rush. She clenched the teacup, her heart pounding unpleasantly. What would be Mr. Beresford's response to this disagreeable assessment? To her surprise, he chuckled.

  “Yes, that's what I thought. He said the same thing to me often enough.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. Chris made no secret of his animosity and spared no occasion to make it known to me.”

  Helen hesitated, wondering how far she might push Mr. Beresford in his revelations. “And you?” she asked at last. “Was the animosity reciprocated?”

  At this, it was Mr. Beresford's turn to hesitate. He glanced at Trix's portrait of Chris in its ornate frame, placed carelessly on a shelf behind his desk.

  “I'm afraid so,” he replied after a moment. “I will have to say that he's quite right about my being a dull stick, but at the risk of sounding insufferably self-defensive, I will say that I don't believe I am mean-spirited, nor was I ever jealous of Chris's position in the world. I have never aspired to be anything more than I am, a bookish, reclusive sort of chap. I must admit that on occasion I envied my cousin's charm of manner, for it surely won him a great many friends.”

  “Well, it didn't win me,” Helen snapped without thinking. She immediately regretted her outburst, for Mr. Beresford's brows rose sharply.

  “You were not among his feminine admirers, Miss Prestwick?” When she did not reply, he continued. “Just what did you think of Chris? I would be most interested.”

  Helen bit her lip and silently cursed her too-ready tongue. She felt at a complete loss. She had apparently escaped antagonizing Mr. Beresford with her recital of Chris's maledictions, but what would be his view if she presented him with her opinion of Chris? She straightened her shoulders. She had not been completely open with Mr. Beresford so far, but surely she owed it to him to be as factual as she could when she could. She drew a deep breath.

  “Frankly, sir—no, I was not among his admirers. When I first met him, I thought him one of the handsomest men I'd ever met. His wit, his elegance and, as you say, his charm of manner could not help but please. It was only later—after he began courting Trixie in earnest—that I began to have my doubts. His habits seemed marked
ly spendthrift to me, and I noticed that he seemed extremely ambitious—not a bad trait in a gentleman, surely—but most of that ambition seemed to center on a need to be thought well of. He told many tales in which he was always the pivotal character, noble and brave. I—well, I sometimes suspected he varnished the truth.”

  Helen glanced at Mr. Beresford, trying to gauge his reaction. He said nothing, merely nodding, his expression inscrutable.

  “In addition,” she continued, “he appeared to me to be more than a little obsequious to his superior officers and, although he was very hail-fellow-well-met to his equals, he was harsh with those of lower rank than himself—and downright bullying and uncaring to those in his command. To tell you the truth, I was more than a bit apprehensive when he began trailing after Trixie. As I told you, she fell under his spell at once and would never hear a word against him. I was quite fearful when they married, but, to my surprise, Chris—in the short time they were together— proved an excellent husband, doting and faithful and a good provider. I was still uneasy, for I felt he was still in the first blush of his infatuation with her. I must say that I could never come to truly like him.”

  Mr. Beresford's expression was still unreadable, but he spoke quietly. “And yet, Miss Prestwick, you accepted his assessment of my character without question.”

  Helen flushed. He had certainly made a valid point. Somehow, her dislike of Chris had not prevented her from wholeheartedly accepting his vilification of his cousin's character.

  “Yes, I did.” Her voice sounded only a little above a whisper. “I suppose it never occurred to me that he might have a reason to lie about such a thing. You were related, for heaven's sake. And then, too . ..” She halted, not sure how to continue. “My experience with men of his class has not been pleasant. Almost to a man, I found upper class British military men to be not only overbearingly proud of their position but shallow, vain, ignorant and venal.”