Free Miss Prestwick's Crusade by Anne Barbour

the room was, however, prevented by the approach of Mr. Welladay. He was breathing rather heavily. “Ned,” he said curtly. “Might I have a word with you before you set off on your travels? In your study,” he added as Edward made as though to step away from the ladies.
    Sensing the subject of his uncle's perturbation, he sighed. To Miss Prestwick, he said, “Would you mind waiting for me? I shan't be a moment. While you're in the room, perhaps you would like to examine our collection of Roman coins—in this case over here. They were turned up some years ago in a secluded area of the estate."
    In his study, Edward turned to face his uncle but did not so much as have a chance to initiate a question.
    "My God, Ned! Have you completely parted company with your mind?"
    "I beg your pardon?"
    "First of all, to invite that—that cockatrice into our— your—home.” Edward felt a fire build beneath his collar, but he forced himself to remain calm. Stanford continued, his hands nailing the air. “And then to invite her to run tame among the family treasures! Why don't you just pack up the valuables and hand them to her? Include the silver as well! Good God!” he said again. “You have been completely bamboozled by a fairly attractive face—"
    Fairly attractive? thought Edward in some astonishment.
    "—and a winsome smile. I suppose you're going to hand over the title of the Earl of Camberwell to an infant who is no more Christopher's legal heir than I am."
    For a long moment, Edward simply stared. He knew a brief impulse to knock the man down for his calumny against the lady with the winsome smile, but a moment's reflection produced a bewildered startlement. What had happened to Stamford Welladay's usual jovial indolence? Lord, he could not remember ever seeing him in such a taking. Was he really so proud of his supposed art expertise that he would begrudge having a real expert take over his task? He fixed the older man with an icy stare.
    "Miss Prestwick is a guest in our house, Uncle. As such I expect her to be treated and spoken of with respect."
    Stamford deflated suddenly. “Well—of course, I didn't . . . That is—I just meant it would not be prudent to allow a stranger such access—"
    "I know what you meant, Uncle, and I appreciate your concern. However, even if Miss Prestwick's motives are less than pure, I hardly think she is likely to stuff her portmanteau with paintings and figurines and steal off into the night. In addition, I assure you I intend to launch a most thorough investigation into her background and that of the child. I know you will agree that if William is the genuine article, it is our duty to see him installed as the twelfth earl with all due pomp and ceremony."
    "Well, yes, of course,” blustered Stamford. “I merely meant—urn—you know I have only your interests at heart, my boy."
    "Thank you. Uncle,” replied Edward dryly. “And now if you will excuse me . . .” Turning on his heel, he exited the room. On his return journey to the luncheon salon, he mused unpleasantly on Welladay's words. Although he referred to this gentleman as his uncle, Edward was profoundly grateful that there was no actual blood relationship between them. As much as he might deplore Stamford's sentiments, however, Edward was forced to admit a certain logic to them. But he was also forced to admit that in his heart, if not in his head, he believed Helen's tale. as improbable as it seemed. In this, he was being undeniably foolish. Still, he kept returning to those wide, gray eyes and her forthright expression. The trinkets she had spoken of—the wedding ring, the portrait—merely served as a reinforcement for this surety.
    "Ah, ladies!” The two women were bent over the coin case. To his surprise, the glass door had been opened and Helen was huddled over a specimen held in her hand. At his entrance, she whirled about, guilt written large on her face.
    "Oh, dear!” She exclaimed ruefully, “I'm afraid I