Miss Prestwick's Crusade (2 page)

"Good God, Artemis, you have a whole cupboard full of ball gowns that you haven't worn since you returned from Town last summer."

Artemis gaped at him blankly. “Last summer! I vow, Edward! Surely you don't expect me to parade myself before the Beau Monde in last year's ball gowns.” She tightened her mouth mutinously at her cousin's unresponsive stare.

Changing her tactics abruptly, Artemis allowed her pretty mouth to quiver and her eyes to fill with tears. “If Chris were here . . .” she blurted, her voice catching.

Unmoved, Edward lifted an impatient hand. “If Chris were here, we would not be having this conversation,” he snapped.

An audible gasp sounded from the foot of the table. Edward sighed.

"I'm sorry. Aunt Emily. You know I did not mean . . ."

"Never mind, Edward,” the dowager replied heavily. “We all know how you felt about your cousin—dear Christopher. And he about you,” she added a trifle more stringently. “I suppose you could not help your, er, animosity toward each other."

"Animosity!” cried Artemis. “Oh, Mama, you know Edward was always jealous of Christopher. My poor brother was a slap up to the echo in all things, while Edward never lifted his nose beyond his books.” She twisted abruptly in her seat to face her cousin. “It's my belief you're pleased Christopher is dead! Now you have his title and his wealth and everything else you always coveted—only you'll
never
have his looks or his charm or his—"

Unable to complete her sentence she dashed angry tears from her eyes and bent once more to her meal. An appalled silence fell over the group until Stamford Welladay lifted a pudgy, placating hand.

"Now, now, m'dear. No need t'fly up into the boughs. Naturally, Ned's gratified at coming so unexpectedly into a grand title, but it ain't his fault Chris caught a ball at Oporto. I mean, it's not as though he arranged the whole thing personally. Not that he would, o'course. I only meant that when a man falls into a honey pot, he can't be blamed for taking some enjoyment in the situation."

His expansive chuckle died aborning as he caught his nephew's expression, and he hastily addressed himself to his ham and eggs.

Edward sighed again. These people had known him all his life. How could they so misread him? Enjoyment in the situation? He was a plain man, reclusive to a fault. Up to now, he'd considered his life satisfactory. He had his books and his experiments, the company of a few friends and a little good music now and then. Then had come the news of his cousin's death. The routine of his existence had shattered like a child's toy carelessly flung to the ground.

He supposed that William, the tenth Earl of Camberwell—and Christopher's father—could not be faulted for failing to provide a spare heir. Nor could Christopher be blamed for taking a commission in the army, even though his father had pleaded with him not to do so. Christopher had fancied himself in the dashing uniform of a Guards officer. No, the tragedy lay in the nature of war— the random slaughter that cut off some lives and devastated others.

Nor could he think ill of Chris's family for- resenting his presence here. He was certainly no substitute for the golden, laughing charmer who had been his cousin. He shook himself, aware that Lady Camberwell Was speaking once more.

"If you don't
wish
Artemis to have another Season,” she said plaintively, “I suppose there is no more to be said."

Edward forced a smile. “Aunt, of course Artemis shall have her Season. It would be a shame to deprive the
ton
of one of its loveliest ornaments. And we will make sure she strikes envy into every other female heart with the splendor of her ensembles."

Uncle Stamford harrumphed portentously. “I'm glad to hear it, for I have business in London as well. Been meaning to visit with Billings, the art dealer. I've selected one or two paintings on which I mean to confer with him. Have a notion they may be worth something."

Edward grimaced. For the past several years, Mr. Welladay, perhaps in an effort to justify his long residence at the Abbey, had taken it upon himself to catalog the sprawling, somewhat chaotic Camberwell art collection, gathered mostly by Henry, the fourth earl. As far as Edward could ascertain. Uncle Stamford's knowledge of objets d'art was nil, but he had acquired several weighty tomes on the subject and could be seen frequently prowling the corridors of the manor, magnifying glass in hand, peering at paintings, vases and figurines. The gentleman now fancied himself an expert on all matters artistic. He made copious notes but so far had not actually evaluated the collection or begun a serious catalog.

Edward sighed. “I shall send to Babcock this afternoon to ready Camberwell House."

Lord, he thought, running a hand through his hair, he was no good at this sort of thing. Still, he was rewarded by a lightening of the dowager's expression and a burst of triumphant laughter from Artemis.

He glanced surreptitiously at a portrait of Geoffrey, the first Earl of Camberwell, frowning down from above the fireplace. What, he wondered, would the earl say to him should he step down from his gilded frame. Nothing good, most likely. No doubt he would deplore the interloper in the breakfast room as a smudge on the purity of the line that had lain unbroken between himself and Chris, the eleventh earl. Geoffrey had been granted his title because of favors done for the eighth Henry, happily just after the Dissolution when Henry had plenty of favors to give. Not that Edward was actually guilty of interrupting that sacred connection. He was, after all, a Beresford, nephew of William, the tenth earl. But a nephew had never acceded to the title. There had always been plenty of male heirs in the direct line.

Until Chris, who had died unwed on the bloody field of Oporto.

Lady Camberwell spoke again.

"I understand,” she said carefully, picking delicately at her eggs, “that the Gilfords will also be in London for the Season."

A chill struck Edward, and his teeth clinked against his cup.

"Oh?” he responded colorlessly.

"Yes, indeed,” continued the dowager, warming to her subject. “And, of course dear Elspeth will be with them."

"Ump.” This, a little wildly.

"How lovely for you, Edward,” chimed in Artemis. “You will have someone to talk to at the parties. There will be no excuse for you to skulk in a corner as you always do."

Devoutly wishing for a convenient corner into which he could skulk right now, Edward tipped back the last of his coffee. He moved as though to push back his chair, but the dowager forestalled him.

"You have not forgotten, I hope, Edward, that we have been invited to dinner at Gilford Park on Tuesday next. Not a large party, Francis informs me, so you will have plenty of opportunity to, er, chat with Elspeth."

Edward felt large drops of perspiration form along his spine. He was well aware that his aunt was merely disguising an iron command that he hitch up his breeches and propose to Elspeth as he should have done shortly after his arrival at the Abbey.

He had brought himself to the realization that he would have to marry some day. It was simply one more of the obligations that had descended on him with his entry into the peerage. He had nothing against marriage as an institution and, indeed, had long ago cherished visions of a laughing, sweet tempered helpmeet, a comely woman of wit and intelligence, who would enter into his interests and talk with him of. poets and prodigies, dreamers and schemers and thinkers of great thoughts. However, he did not stand on tiptoe awaiting the appearance of this paragon, and when she failed to materialize, he eventually shrugged with admirable insouciance—if a little wistfully—and turned his attention elsewhere. He was forced to admit that, aside from a few lonely moments now and then, he was undoubtedly happier than the average man.

At least, he had been until Elspeth Morwent had plunged into his life like the neighbor's pig into one's garden. Well, no, that was a bit harsh. Elspeth was not the pushy sort; she merely appeared at inconvenient intervals wearing an air of expectancy. The daughter of the Viscount Gilford, she had been chosen by Chris's family to become his affianced bride before he marched off so gloriously to his doom. He had unaccountably failed to make his proposal at the time, but it had been expected that he would do so immediately on his return. Now, the viscount and his family—and Edward's as well—seemed to feel that, having been deprived of one Earl of Camberwell, Elspeth was entitled to another. Edward had nothing personal against Elspeth. However, he wished—

His dismal ruminations were cut short by the entrance of Stebbings, the butler, who strode into the room with an expression of consternation on his normally austere features. He paused as he approached the table, as though for dramatic effect, and, drawing in a deep breath, announced in clipped tones, “My lord, a young female has just arrived—with an infant whom she claims is the Earl of Camberwell."

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The chaos ensuing from Stebbings's announcement was all that any butler could wish. Assorted gasps, squeals and faint screams were heard all around. Lady Camberwell's reaction was the most pronounced, for she gasped, squealed and screamed almost simultaneously.

"A female!” she cried, when she had recovered her voice. “The Earl of Camberwell! What on earth . . . ?” She trailed off, waving her napkin distractedly.

"My word!” exclaimed Mr. Welladay in mild astonishment, mopping up the few drops of coffee he had spilled in his startlement. “A child? The earl? What nonsense! The woman must be mentally disturbed. I think it's best you send her away without seeing her, Ned."

"Yes! Or—no!” Artemis, not unexpectedly, had chosen the squeal as her preferred mode of expression. It was a sound she'd honed to perfection, and it had penetrated just now, true and shrill, into every corner of the chamber. Remarkably, she was not even short of breath as she continued. “She is obviously an imposter! I think you should call the constable!"

Edward, who of all the company had remained silent, contained his surprise behind his customary facade of austere calm.

"How very extraordinary,” he murmured.

"But who is she?” cried Artemis, wriggling in her chair.

"That is a very good question,” said Edward, turning to Stebbings. “Did she give her name?"

The butler nodded reprovingly. “I naturally ascertained this fact at once, my lord. The female says she is a Miss Helen Prestwick. She arrived in a carriage hired from the Pig and Whistle, and she bade the coachman to return there.” This in a tone of shocked disapproval. “In addition to the child, which I would estimate as somewhat under a year old, she is accompanied by another woman of— Stebbings cleared his throat delicately—"indeterminate age."

Edward began to rise from his chair, only to be halted by an explosive sound from his aunt.

"Surely you are not going to see the woman, Edward!” she exclaimed, her face flushed with indignation. “Dear Stamford is right. She is obviously disturbed in her mind. Or worse,” she continued ominously. “I quite think Artemis may be right as well. The female is up to no good."

"That may be. Aunt,” replied Edward mildly. “However, I believe it behooves me to at least meet with her so that I may form my own conclusions.” As he rose, the others at table also sprang to their feet. “No, no,” he added hastily. “I prefer to see her alone. I promise I shall be circumspect, and I shall give you a full report after I have seen her."

Pausing only to order tea to be sent to the Yellow Salon, where Stebbings had installed Miss—what was her name? Prestwick?—Edward made his way through the network of corridors that led to his destination. He mused somewhat distractedly on this astonishing turn of events. What an unthinkable situation—a female invading the hallowed precincts of Whitehouse Abbey with a preposterous claim. There was only one Earl of Camberwell, after all, and he was it. His relatives were no doubt right. The woman was either a charlatan or mentally unbalanced. He rather hoped she was the former, for a confidence trickster could be easily dispatched. A lunatic, however, was another matter. One could not be cruel to someone suffering from a delusion, and it might be difficult to get rid of her.

Edward sighed. In any event, he would handle the situation, just as he had managed the countless small crises he had encountered since he had ascended to the exalted title of Earl of Camberwell. Not, of course, that any of those contretemps compared to the situation now confronting him. He sighed again and reached for the door handle of the Yellow Salon. Upon entering, his gaze encountered a slender form, which swung about at his entrance.

Edward gasped. Standing before him was quite simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

High, prominent cheekbones gave her an exotic, almost Oriental aspect. Her nose was long and well-shaped, her mouth wide and generous and beautifully curved. At the moment, however, it was pressed into an uncompromising line. A glossy brown explosion of ringlets escaped in abundant profusion from under the rim of her bonnet to cluster around those remarkable cheekbones. Her most outstanding feature, however, was a pair of extraordinarily large, speaking gray eyes, the color, thought Edward dazedly, of moonlight on velvet. Above them, like banners, flew thick, straight, dark brows. Her gaze, as she surveyed him frankly, sparkled with what looked like indignation.

The bonnet, as well as the rest of her ensemble, was of a soft, untrimmed gray. She was in half mourning, perhaps? Edward was by no means an expert in female fashions, but her austere garb, despite its plainness and the inexpensive materials with which it was fashioned, appeared reasonably a la mode. The somber gown flowed elegantly over a nicely rounded bosom, a trim waist and slim, almost angular, hips.

She did not approach him but stood where she was, near an armchair on which reposed a small bundle of blankets. The child, he supposed. Next to the bundle rested a small portmanteau, which the woman had apparently carried in with her.

"You are—Edward Beresford?” the woman asked in a melodious if somewhat breathless voice.