Free Miss Prestwick's Crusade by Anne Barbour Page A

succumbed to temptation and took one or two coins out to examine them. Ancient Roman history is rather a hobby of mine, and my fingers fairly itched to look at both the reverse and obverse sides. I'm afraid I know relatively little about the Roman occupation of Britain. I see these bear the portrait of the Emperor Trajan. They must date from the first century, then."
    Helen knew she was babbling. Good Heavens, she had not committed such a terrible solecism. It was perhaps a bit coming of her to open the display case and actually remove one of these coins, but surely she could not be blamed for an appreciation of the collection. Then, she was appalled to note, for the merest instant an expression of suspicion crossed Mr. Beresford's features. Dear God, did he think she'd purloined one or more of the coins? She felt the blood drain from her face.
    She drew herself up to her full height and sent him a frigid glare. “You may count the coins, if you wish, Mr. Beresford. They are all there.” She halted, the blood rushing back to her cheeks. Her wretched tongue! No matter her indignation, she must concede a certain justice in his misgiving. Finding a stranger—particularly one who was trying to unseat him from his title—rifling through his possessions was certainly cause for suspicion. Lord, she had become too accustomed to being on the receiving end of that emotion of late. She opened her mouth to issue an apology but was forestalled as Barney strode forward to face Edward.
    "Of course, they are all there,” she snapped. “And if you think Helen Prestwick would so much as consider touching someone else's property, you have another think coming. Helen is as honest as—"
    "Please, Barney,” Helen interrupted. She turned to note that Mr. Beresford's jaw had fallen open in astonishment. “I'm sure Mr. Beresford did not intend—that is—I'm sorry,” she finished lamely. “I did not mean . . ."
    "Well, of course you did,” returned Mr. Beresford, with a smile that took much of the sting from his words. “And while I am not still not altogether sure of your motives, I am sure you were not pilfering my valuables just now. And may I commend Miss Barnstaple on her spirited defense of her friend? Now, if we are all in concert with one another, may we move on?"
    Really, he was most infuriatingly disarming. He made it tediously difficult to maintain her own degree of mistrust toward him—and it was crucial she not let down her guard. She nodded awkwardly and pushed Barney ahead of her as they followed his gesture toward the door. “Yes, indeed,” she murmured. “I—we—are looking forward to the tour."
    "Most of grandfather's collection,” began Edward, “is located in the ground floor rooms, so we may as well begin in the Library.” He led the way to a chamber near the front of the house. The furnishings, mostly of leather, seemed steeped in age and tradition, and the tables, scattered in convenient locations, were of heavy mahogany. Helen moved immediately to a small case set between two long, mullioned windows that looked out over the drive.
    "Goodness, wherever did your grandfather come by these unusual Persian daggers?"
    "Persian? Really? How can you tell that? My grandfather did not even know. He purchased them in a bazaar in Rome and was rather under the impression they were Turkish."
    Helen laughed. “Well, I cannot be sure, of course. They may well be Turkish, but I was going by the sharpness of the carved edges. And, too, the Persian work is usually richer in design than the Turkish. These are exquisite."
    "I am most impressed, Miss Prestwick."
    As the tour continued throughout the lower regions of the house, Helen found herself marveling over Murano glass, Meissen figurines and, most of all, an eclectic assortment of paintings. A Menuni hung beside a de Hooch and Chinese water colors jostled cheek by jowl with medieval tapestries. She was unsure of many of the artists but knew fizzles of excitement as a