Free Miss Prestwick's Crusade by Anne Barbour Page B

possible Watteau or even a Frans Hals hove into view. The majority of the works appeared completely valueless, except for perhaps a sentimental attachment. Others she found exceptionally well executed, though she did not recognize the names of the artists. Oh, my, perhaps she would discover a new talent!
    As she and Barney moved through the rooms with Mr. Beresford, she took note as well of the layout of the house and its elegant furnishings. Mr. Beresford had spoken the truth. The place was huge and a veritable maze to navigate. Despite this orientation tour, she knew she would do well for the first week or so to provide herself with a supply of breadcrumbs every time she set foot outside her bedchamber.
    In these magnificent surroundings, Helen mused, Mr. Beresford had spent the last several months of his life. She supposed he lived the life of the stereotypical British peer—days spent in sport, nights in gambling and other excesses. Although a quick glance from under her lashes did not lend the impression that he was much given to that sort of thing. Despite his apparent cordiality, Helen told herself, nothing would convince her that he could bear to give all this up.
    Her thoughts drifted. How much of the year did he and the family spend here at Whitehouse Abbey? At luncheon, young Artemis had mentioned going to London for the Season. She would no doubt find a husband there. And what of the faux earl? It was surprising to find him unmarried. Surely, one of an earl's premier duties was to secure the line. She shot him another sidelong glance. She could see no reason why he had not been snapped up long ago. Even if he had only acceded recently to the title, he had always, according to Christopher, possessed deep pockets. He was certainly attractive, if one were partial to long, lean limbs and angular features—which, she discovered to her disconcerted surprise, she seemed to be.
    What nonsense. She turned hastily to peer at what appeared to be a Greuze, a small, pretty still life of no discernable artistic merit. “How nice,” she murmured.
    "Monsieur Greuze is not to your liking?” Mr. Beresford bent that peculiarly charming grin on her that she was already finding more than somewhat unsettling.
    "I beg your pardon? I didn't say—"
    ''My dear Miss Prestwick, I have learned in our short acquaintance that when you say ‘How nice’ in that particular tone, the artist may as well throw away his palette and paints to take up cucumber farming."
    She smiled into his eyes, and Edward's knees turned to soup. “I must admit to being somewhat judgmental. Greuze has always seemed rather mawkish for my taste. But this,” she continued, moving on to the work next to it, a softly lit landscape, “is marvelous, I think."
    She bent to examine it more closely. “I see no signature, but I think it very well might be by Agostino."
    "Yes, I like that one, too. But come with me. I'll show you my favorite piece of all.” Edward beckoned, and Helen gestured for Barney to precede her. Helen realized guiltily that she had all but forgotten the silent companion who formed part of the little procession. Mr. Beresford led the way back across the main hall to his study, where he lifted a wood carving from the mantelpiece. It was dark with age and polished by the touch of generations of hands. It was a bust of an old man and had obviously been crafted with love and care. Age lines framed a strong nose and a generous mouth. Long hair, growing sparse, drifted across a broad brow and over deep set eyes, whose eternal spirit had been expertly caught by the artist. Helen caught her breath.
    "It is exquisite,” she breathed.
    "Can you tell who created it?” asked Edward
    "No, I have no idea. It has some of the characteristics of carving that comes from the mountains of Italy, but I could not put a name to the creator. In any event he—or she—was a master."
    "She?"
    "You are surprised,” came the tart reply. “But, yes, while women are