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but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Down the table, he observed Stamford's continued expressions of consternation. He smiled inwardly. He could almost see the gentleman's nose swinging out of joint. Still—Well, yes, perhaps it was unwise of him to make this woman—this possible adventuress—a virtual gift of his home, and he knew he should ignore the bond that had seemed to leap between them at their first meeting. He had looked into those crystalline eyes, and now a clarion bellow within him insisted that Helen Prestwick was as true as the day is long. No charlatan she! But he was beyond rational thought at the moment. The best he could come up with was a whisper of probability that William was Chris's son in fact. If Chris had married the child's mother, well, surely it was understandable Helen would try to assure the child's place in the world.
    He shook himself but was entirely unsuccessful in emerging from this fit of rationalization. All he knew was that the prospect of installing this enchanting stranger in his house for an indefinite period of time in a position that would require close consultation with her at odd moments of the day and night filled him with an aching delight.
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    Chapter Seven
    For a long moment, Helen could only stare at Mr. Beresford. What was the matter with the man? He appeared to have fallen into a most peculiar distraction. Was he actually offering her the opportunity to catalog the treasures of this stately home? Her heart fairly skipped in anticipation—before lurching in apprehension. Why was he doing this? He had even spoken of remuneration. What could his motive possibly be? For he must certainly have one—an ulterior one, that is. It was perfectly understandable that he would wish to have his collection cataloged, but it would be a monumental task. Why entrust it to a total stranger—of whose expertise he knew nothing? A stranger, moreover, who posed a threat to his position? Did he see some way in all this to control her somehow? He already had the upper hand in this situation. With an effort, she snatched up the rambling threads of her perturbation. She would take his request at face value—for the moment.
    "That would be wonderful! That is,” she concluded primly, “I would be most pleased to conduct an appraisal and a cataloging as well—at no charge, of course. I am your guest, my lo—Mr. Beresford.” It wrenched her heart to spurn a lucrative commission at this time when she badly needed money. However, she thought, brightening, her work at Whitehouse Abbey might well lead to a series of equally profitable assignments. In addition, working with such a large number of artworks would keep her busy while she waited for Mr. Beresford to finish his investigation of William's claim. Perhaps, she added to herself, that gentleman would not be in such a hurry to make a slapdash hugger-mugger job of it with herself in situ for months, even though he must, she reminded herself, be longing to be rid of her and her bothersome demand.
    "Good!” exclaimed Mr. Beresford in evident delight. “As for remuneration, I must insist—however, we can discuss that later."
    He turned to beam on the rest of the family. “Is this not a wonderful thing? I have been wishing to get the matter of grandfather's artworks sorted out ever since my arrival here but have been at a loss as to how to go about it."
    Helen's gaze swept around the table. Hm. The members of Mr. Beresford's family were having little difficulty in containing their gratification at this turn of events. Mr.— what was his name? Welladay?—in particular, looked as though he had just swallowed something large and sour.
    "But, I say!” he exploded after a series of gurgled splutterings. “What about me? What about my own efforts in that direction?"
    "Oh, Lord!” Edward castigated himself. He had forgotten all about Uncle Stanford's abortive attempts to sort out the Camberwell collection. No