Read Online Miss Prestwick's Crusade by Anne Barbour - Free Book Online

the job. By the time I was fifteen, I was running our little establishment on my own."
    The response of the females around the table was a blank stare.
    "How extraordinary,” murmured the dowager. “Had you no, er, female to provide counsel and advice as you grew to womanhood?"
    Helen gestured toward her companion. “I had Barney,” she said simply. As Miss Barnstaple blushed under the scrutiny, Helen continued. “She was the daughter of a neighboring squire, and she came to Portugal with my mother to act as her companion. When Mama passed away, she took on the daunting task of instilling propriety in my sister and me as we grew. We owe her everything, and she is my best friend.” She smiled at Miss Barnstaple, who was by now in a silent paroxysm of embarrassment.
    Helen paused. She had determined before entering Whitehouse Abbey that she would make no effort to hide her activities in Portugal—well, most of them at any rate. Now she had come to the sticking point. She drew a fortifying breath. “In fact,” she continued brightly, “during this same time, I became interested in Papa's profession. He took me tinder his wing and taught me all he knew about art, with the result that he gradually allowed me to help him. For the last ten years,” she concluded in a belligerent rush, “I have been an integral part of his business, assisting him in appraisals and restorations and dealing with customers—of whom, I might add, we list some of the most notable families in Europe."
    The time the silence that greeted her declaration roared in her ears. From his side of the table, Stanford Welladay harrumphed in what sounded like derision. At length, Mr. Beresford cleared his throat. “Your work sounds fascinating, Miss Prestwick."
    Edward cursed himself. Could he possibly have sounded more fatuous? “Um, you pointed out the, um, Brunwald that we passed on the stairway . . ."
    "Grunewald. Yes.” Miss Prestwick smiled encouragingly. “And an Appiani, I believe. I should enjoy the opportunity to view all of your grandfather's collection."
    At this point, Uncle Stamford apparently swallowed a gulp of wine the wrong way, for he choked abruptly and spent the next several minutes in a violent coughing fit. When his sister had ministered to him at some length, assuring his continued presence among the living, Edward went on.
    "Mm, I think that would be an excellent idea, although there may be some difficulty."
    Miss Prestwick raised delicate brows.
    "You see, I'm not precisely sure which of our objets d'art are from his collection, because—well, actually, our artworks have never been cataloged."
    This time Miss Prestwick's brows flew into her hairline.
    "Not cataloged? None of them? Never? But that—that's extraordinary!"
    Edward grinned ruefully, enjoying the play of expression on her mobile features. “Well, I can't say that we don't know what any of them are, of course. We have bills of sale, going back centuries, and the identities of most of our paintings and sculptures have been known to us from the time of their purchase—much of it is included in the entailment documents, but as far as a systematized listing of the items and an approximate evaluation—particularly of the hundreds of pieces scooped in by my grandfather, I'm afraid my family has been extremely lax. In addition, some damage has occurred over the years. A few chips here and there, cracking, and so on."
    "I see.” Miss Prestwick bit her lip in what Edward perceived as a wholly delightful manner. “Perhaps you would like me to look them over while I'm here."
    Ignoring the muffled sound that once more emanated from his uncle, Edward knew a surge of excitement. He grinned widely. “Yes, indeed, Miss Prestwick, if you would be so kind, I would be delighted if you would look at everything in the place. Evaluate everything in sight. Take all the time you wish—years, if necessary. You will, of course, be properly remunerated.” He knew he was babbling,