Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance)

by Diane Scott Lewis

  * * * *

  The early spring dampness clung to the landscape, but the fresh smell of foliage struggling to grow gave the air a pleasant tang. “This keep is from Norman times.” Camborne pointed to a half ruined tower as they walked through a stone arch toward the jagged cliffs north of Sidwell. The two horses and pony snorted and cropped at the scrubby grass.

  “The Norman French. We have invaded before.” Bettina held onto her chip hat in the wind. Maddie had fussed at her for requesting a Saturday off, but she didn’t care.

  “Indeed you have,” Camborne chuckled, and she liked the sound.

  Frederick ran and poked his head and hands into whatever cranny in the crumbling stone he could manage. He then bolted down a precipitous stone stairway that led to the sea.

  “Careful there, young man, mind your footing!” Camborne called to the child as the boy disappeared into the Tamarisk willows at the water’s edge. The man stood beside Bettina, closer than they’d ever been, the heat of his body palpable. They looked out an opening in the stonewall, high above the churning sea. “The excise men mounted a cannon here several years ago, to try and discourage the smuggling along this coast. But nothing deters that for long. Privateering in Cornwall is like breathing.”

  Bettina swept down her billowing hair, which refused to be tamed by pins. “I have heard Maddie’s inn was once a headquarters for smuggling and scavenging.”

  “Yes, quite notorious. That is when the customs took a close interest in our area. But since Miss Tregons took proprietorship, such activity has quieted down.”

  “She is a formidable woman.” Bettina watched the set of his shoulders, which betrayed his lingering caution. If privateering spurred on the Cornish, this man revived that breathless sensation in her. “Frederick says your horse’s name is Onyx. That is an unusual name. What does it mean?”

  “It’s for the black onyx gemstone.” Camborne stared down toward the shore, keeping his nephew in sight. “Frederick, you should come back up now.”

  “My horse is named Shevall. Kerra didn’t understand I referred to the French word for horse, and christened him with it.” After a nervous laugh, to keep his attention, Bettina explained the mishap on the coach when she met Kerra. “Though I was not happy about it at the time.”

  Camborne looked at her and shook his head, another smile on his lips. “I have lately had suspicions of your being a rather unique young woman. Now dangerous too, I see?”

  They both laughed. Frederick stormed back up the stairs, interrupting Bettina’s absorption of this praise. She was relieved that Camborne was capable of easy laughter, an emotion that brightened his eyes and softened his mouth.

  “Don’t run off like that again, Frederick.” Camborne clasped the boy’s shoulder, hugging him against him.

  “Let’s show Mademoiselle King Arthur’s castle.” Frederick hurried to his pony. They mounted and rode farther north up the coast road. “We’ve been there before.”

  At Tintagel, the crest of a valley to the right, the land sloped in front of them to the cliffs, which faced a stark island separated from the mainland by a ditch of water. The sea and wind slapped the rocks with brutal force. After dismounting, Bettina hugged her cloak around her.

  They spread their picnic items in a sheltered spot behind an embankment.

  “That’s part of his castle. King Arthur, who had the round table with all the knights.” The boy pointed to a walled ruin perched on the edge of a sheer cliff. The blond curls under his cap rustled about his cheeks.

  “This was reported to be the castle of the legendary King Arthur by Geoffrey of Monmouth, in his History of the Kings of Britain,” Camborne said. “But there’s always dispute that since this castle may only date from the thirteenth century, Arthur couldn’t have lived here. Of course, some say the man never existed at all. But we know that’s incorrect, don’t we, Frederick?”

  At this indulgent pandering to his nephew, Bettina saw more of the bond between them and felt happy to be a part of it. She nibbled on fresh bread and slices of yellow cheese, and a succulent beef and turnip pie made by Mrs. Pollard. Frederick munched down a gooseberry tart, eating the rest of his uncle’s as well. After eating, they walked among struggling grass and Camborne pointed across the chasm to the island where several steps led to a parapet and another fortress ruin.

  “There’s a cavern underneath the castle where visiting boats sailed directly up. But over the centuries ruins tumbled in blocking the way. It’s believed there must have been a drawbridge connecting these two structures in ancient times.”

  As Camborne gave a little of the local history, she listened in fascination. Bettina loved to hear him talk with his cultured resonance, now that he cast off his indifference toward her.

  “Cornwall has always been steeped in superstition,” he said with quiet pride.

  “Tell Mademoiselle about the giants,” Frederick said.

  “The first ruler of ancient Britain was Brutus, a Trojan. He had to rid the island of Giants, so the tale goes. His fiercest warrior was Corineus, who defeated the last Giant in this region and threw him over a cliff in Plymouth. Thus Corineus became king of this county, calling its inhabitants Corineus’ men, or Cornishmen. A few Giants are reported to still lurk in the caves and mountains around here.” Camborne winked at Bettina.

  “I’d like to see those giants. When can we go to the caves?” Frederick picked up a stone and lobbed it over the grass.

  “I would as well, vraiment.” Bettina glanced back at Frederick who seemed to be throwing rocks at an even greater force, his face in a frown, almost spooking the horses. When he turned toward them, his smile returned and he scampered up.

  They remounted, and Frederick kicked his pony to ride ahead.

  Bettina rode abreast of Camborne, their horses in an easy walk. She grew sad, certain she would never explore any caves with these two because she’d soon be on her way to London.

  They rode over fields, the scent earthy, past an isolated Norman church with a granite tower. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something, someone, near the church. It disappeared around to the back. She turned to look, the wind moaning about the structure in an area bereft of trees. Her first thought was Stephen. But this object appeared much larger.

  * * * *

  A crown and three shillings, the equivalent of eight shillings, waited on the desk, instead of the usual four, when Bettina walked into Bronnmargh’s library.

  “Is that a lot of money?” Frederick asked.

  “It is, mais oui.” She fingered each coin as if they were diamonds, thinking of what she could buy … perhaps freedom sooner than she expected. “I must thank your uncle.”

  After the session, she walked with the boy to the dining room. Camborne stood in his shirtsleeves at the long oak table, papers scattered before him. Mr. Slate waited close by, looking like a dried biscuit in a black suit.

  “Am I interrupting your work? I can talk to you another time.” Her skin prickled in this austere chamber with its musty smell, as if a cruelty happened here and the anguished ghosts still lingered. How strange that a woman once presided here, but any feminine touches had been swept away.

  “No, no, please sit down. I did wish to speak to you about something.” He put on the frock coat Slate handed him before clearing a spot across from him. Frederick said good evening and sprinted up a red-carpeted staircase to the right. The old butler also left the room.

  “I wish to ask about my raise in salary.” She sat in the chair.

  “I thought you could put the money to good use. You are very important to us.” He shuffled already stacked papers. “After seeing the accommodations you have, and knowing your background … I don't wish to insult you.”

  Did she make him nervous? “My accommodations are small, but adequate. I can put the money to use for a post-chaise to London. I plan also to have my own business, a shop of some type. It is difficult for a woman to manage such an enterprise on her own, I am aware,
but I intend to try. And involve my mother, as soon as I find her.”

  “That’s what I wanted to discuss. I’m not certain when I’ll be in London next, but I had an interesting letter from an old friend of mine, Mrs. Hopper, who lives in Exeter.” Camborne rubbed his chin. “She mentions that an elderly man, an émigré, has come to work for her at her chinaware shop. A minor aristocrat it seems, he used to be involved in the Sevres factory in France, and wanted to dabble in it again.” He drummed a hand on the table. “Since Mrs. Hopper does run a shop, she could offer advice on that level, too. Perhaps … you’d like to travel to Exeter to meet this man? And discuss shop business?”

  “I would like that. Merci beaucoup.” Bettina’s pulse quickened; she was delighted that Camborne showed an interest in her expectations. “Perhaps he knows of societies in England to aid refugees.”

  “Precisely my thoughts. Can you request Saturday off? I’ve been planning to visit Ellen for some time. This will take all day, I’m afraid. Exeter is several hours from here.” He spoke fast, but she sensed his underlying anticipation. She filled with a hot rush at the thought she’d spend a day away from Sidwell with him.

  * * * *

  Maddie glared at her. “Another Saturday off? You know it’s my busiest evening. I’ll have to cut your pay, but take it if you must. I just hope you ain’t be getting in over your head.”

  “She ain’t comin’ back. Strangled in a ditch. You’ll have to hire a new wench.” Ann plucked a duck at the kitchen table, bony fingers flying. Pinpricks of blood seeped up on the carcass. “A God-fearin’ one this time.”

  “You do not need to worry, Maddie.” Bettina could afford to lose a day’s wages if Camborne paid her double. She vowed to buy another dress with this increase, something lighter for the season. She tugged at her gown, the plum wool snug across her chest, shoulders and waist. She hadn’t grown fatter, just taller, more mature in her figure. “May I borrow a needle and thread? My skirt needs mending on the seam. This gown has grown too tight.”

  “I’ll show you how to let it out, to salvage it.” Maddie pulled down a basket from atop the kitchen cupboard. “I won’t be lying to you, child. Your going off with Mr. Camborne don’t sit well. What do you really know ’bout him?”

  “I know he is not the person everyone thinks he must be.” She took the basket and didn’t meet Maddie’s eyes. “If you saw him with his nephew, you would see how kind he is.”

  “You trust him to be kind to you?” Maddie turned to inspect the barrels of beer just delivered—the entire kitchen reeked of fermented hops—then put her sharp gaze back on Bettina. “Has he told you ’bout his wife’s whereabouts?”

  “I have not asked. But I … a person must not be condemned without evidence.” Bettina rooted for a needle in the basket and pricked her finger.

  “Look in the cellar, no less. That snooty harlot be—”

  “Ann! Quit yappin’.” Maddie put her hands on her hips, glaring at Bettina again. She listed forward in what Bettina termed her ‘Mother Hen’ stance. “That’s the first thing you need to find out.”

  “You cannot simply ‘ask’ that. It is a nice day today, but did you murder your wife?” Bettina hated to say it, even to Maddie. She sucked on her finger and frowned at the copper taste of blood.

  “Don’t be fooled by fancy words. An’ men who might still have wives alive somewhere. There’s no future in it.” Maddie’s voice wavered an instant, as if she spoke from experience. “An’ don’t be saying you’re close to the nephew, when you be getting close to the master.”

  “I like him as a friend and … I promise to be careful.” Bettina stared into Maddie’s suspicious green eyes, then made a pretense of threading the needle. She brooded if she might never ask because she was afraid of the answer.

  Maddie crouched in the kitchen corner and opened a trap door. She pulled out a bottle of French brandy. “You best not stay overnight nowhere.”

  Dory sauntered in, passing Maddie as she strode out, and set down a tray.

  “That strange man be here again.” Dory poked Bettina’s shoulder then shook out her kinky tresses. “Just come in … the one who only wants ‘the French girl’ to serve him.”

  Bettina experienced a chill, which turned to irritation. “You take care of him, please, Dory. I do not need more problems.”

  “I tried. But he says ‘where’s the French girl’? Don’t want me at all.” Dory’s smug grin grew deeper on her plump features. “Even if I could put a smile on him faster ’an you.”

  “I have no doubt you could.” Bettina ran the needle through the frayed him of her gown, tightened the seam and knotted off the thread.

  “Heard tell about Mr. Camborne an’ you. Maybe the stranger want a bit o’ that, too.” Dory snickered. “So you ain’t so much better like you pretend.”

  “Parbleu, those are lies,” Bettina sighed in disgust, cringing as Dory laughed louder.

  To avoid Dory’s sneer, Bettina entered the smoky taproom to look over at the same corner. The man’s hulking body spread like a lump at the table, his hat pulled low on his face. She received and briskly served his Porter, watching him grasp it with his blunt, ugly hands, the right one adorned with the ruby ring. Despite the hat obscuring his features, she felt his eyes boring into her. He smelled of earth and grass as if he seldom came indoors.

  “Thanks, m’lady,” he grunted. “How long have you worked here?” He obviously tried to disguise his voice, his accent garbled. His use of ‘m’lady’ seemed an open accusation. He tugged his hat lower to cast more shadow, but the candle near him was already blown out.

  “I have been here long enough,” she said. “Why do you wish to know?”

  “Maybe only a few months?” he replied with an amused inflection in his gravelly voice. “What is your name?”

  “Miss Laurant.” She quivered with another chill. But he only tried to taunt her, like the others. She stared closer. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Ah, I am called the Hunter.” His response was followed by something resembling a chuckle, but it sounded more like rocks rattling off a stonewall. “I hunt lost people,” he said in a loud whisper.

  Bettina gulped. But she couldn’t fall prey to such goading. “Are you a Frenchman? Who are you … hunting?”

  The man slurped at his tankard, tossed a few coins on the table and stood. “We might talk again, but privately.” He flipped a large finger at his hat brim and ambled toward the door.

  “Are you searching on behalf of….” Bettina put her hand to her throat. She’d almost said, on behalf of her family.

  “We shall see who I find.” He snickered again and strode out.

  He did sound French, but Bettina recognized the distinct accent of the lower classes. She gripped a chair edge and knew her family would never use this crude man for such an important venture. But who else would be hunting her?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The coach rolled up in front. Bettina stepped out of the inn and into the cool early morning air. Lew tipped his hat to her from the box. Camborne alighted and opened the coach door. When he helped her inside, she smiled at this courtesy, long absent from her life.

  “Where is Frederick?” She had assumed the three of them would share this excursion.

  “I’m sorry. I had expected him to travel with us. But he spent yesterday playing in the woods with Mrs. Pollard’s grandson, and they both came down with a cough. So Mrs. Pollard insisted Frederick stay at her cottage, and that I continue as planned.” Camborne’s smile was tentative. “We could do this another time, if you’ll feel uncomfortable on this jaunt unchaperoned.”

  Bettina smelled the spicy soap from him, the leather seats of the coach. She was anxious to travel out of Sidwell. She tucked a loose strand of hair under her straw hat and knew she couldn’t pass up meeting this émigré. “I would like to go still. I am used to bending the rules, a little, after living at the inn.” She bit down on her tongue, hoping he didn’t think her too forward, or la
cking in morals after her hasty remark.

  “Very well, then we shall do just that.” In a jingle of harnesses, the coach rumbled up the road. They traveled for a while in an awkward silence the boy’s presence would have eased.

  Heading north to the main road, the coach turned onto the highway leading east. In the ride through the countryside, Bettina observed the foliage damaged during the recent snowstorm. The wilted myrtle and verbena, the Hawthorn and beech trees with a few branches snapped from the weight of ice and snow. Yet April struggled on, with wild bluebells and purple foxgloves blooming in the tall grasses in vivid bursts of color.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Camborne glance at her periodically.

  “I’ve written a letter to my business partner in London and asked him to check on refugee organizations there. Of course, London would be the central settling point for any such activity. Next time I’m in Town, it will be easy to contact them.”

  “I appreciate you doing that for me.” She rubbed a finger over the buttery seat that jolted beneath her. “And for taking me to meet this man … and Mrs. Hopper.”

  “I assure you it’s no trouble.” His affectionate smile made her breath catch.

  She stared out the window as the coach crossed the Camel River, then the larger Tamar, and bowled through several villages. “Mr. Camborne, have you made a decision about sending Frederick away to school?” she asked after several minutes.

  “Yes, I’ve decided not to.” Camborne stroked the brown silk cravat at his throat. “I believe he’s fine for now. He’s had too much disruption in his life.”

  “I think it is a wise choice.” Bettina gave him a shy smile, unsure whether she was happy for herself or the child. How many months would she need to continue tutoring to raise the money she required? And then, would she simply leave them? “Now you will see me all the time, too.” She meant it as a jest to lighten the mood, and he did laugh. It was a nice sound she enjoyed.