“A delightful prospect,” he finally said. His soft words made her shiver.
They ate a simple dinner at a tavern and continued their journey. Soon an elegant arched bridge came into view. The coach trundled across the River Exe, then through a massive stone gate cut into fragments of a once encircling Roman wall, and into a city of old stone and black and white timbered buildings.
“Exeter is beautiful.” Bettina stared out the window. She felt like a country lass on her first visit to a thriving metropolis. As a countess who had once lived in Paris, she mused on how narrow her world had grown.
“Ellen’s shop is here on the High Street. Farther down is the famous Cathedral. I can show it to you later if you like?”
“I would like that.” She smiled at him.
They disembarked on a corner. Bettina admired the many quaint shops that lined this wide, busy boulevard. Cobbled lanes and alleys led off the main street. The bustle and commerce was a stark contrast to the remoteness of Sidwell.
Camborne escorted her to an establishment with the sign, ‘Chinaware Shoppe, Importer of Fine Wares from the Orient’ above the door.
A bell tinkled when they entered the shop. A tall broad-shouldered woman with iron-gray hair glanced up from behind a counter. She broke into a wide smile. “Everett, how splendid to see you.” She rushed to clasp his hand and kiss his cheek. “Hasn’t it been far too long?”
“Indeed, it has.” His smile was radiant and Bettina felt a twinge of jealousy. Had this woman received his smiles, when she saw so few? “Ellen, this is Miss Bettina Laurant. Miss Laurant, Mrs. Ellen Hopper.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Hopper.” Bettina guessed her to be well over forty. To soften her childish pique over Mr. Camborne having a female friend, she glanced around the shop: it was littered with displays of plates, cups, soup tureens, creamers and sugar bowls, all available in a variety of delicate patterns. But more importantly, she scanned the room for the elderly Frenchman.
“If you had given me more notice, I could’ve closed the place for the day.” Ellen glanced at Bettina then patted Camborne’s shoulder. “Let’s have tea in the back.” She led the way to a room piled with papers; half-opened crates stuffed with straw cluttered the floor. The woman rearranged a jumble of items to clear a place for them to sit.
“As a matter of fact, Ellen, Miss Laurant is interested in running a shop of her own. I thought you could give her the wisdom of your years of experience. But before we delve into that, you said you had a Frenchman working here, an émigré?”
“This pretty little child, a shopkeeper?” Ellen grinned indulgently. Her ample bosom thrust out like a ship’s prow as she sat at a messy desk. “She should find herself a good husband instead.”
Bettina’s cheeks burned. She clasped her hands together on her lap and hoped no one noticed. “I am not in the market for a husband, Madame. But I would like to meet this émigré.”
“You want to see Jean-Pierre? He’s out on an errand, and should be back shortly. He has been a Godsend. I had no idea French aristocrats bothered with trade.” Ellen poured the tea, dispensing lemon wedges and sugar lumps. “Alas, running a business is hard work for a woman. Not an undertaking for the frail. Quite a headache, too. This morning I had to fire one of my clerks for incompetence, and what a row we had.”
“I believe I am capable enough, and very determined.” Bettina kept her voice even. She resented being perceived as a porcelain figurine collecting dust on a shelf. And her father had ‘bothered with trade’, as did many of the French nobility. “What is Monsieur Jean-Pierre’s last name?”
“A name impossible to pronounce. I daresay you’ll have to ask him yourself. Actually, I started this shop with Mr. Hopper, but he died several years ago. Now I handle it all myself. Sometimes I think about finding myself another husband.” Ellen laughed mannishly and reached over to squeeze Camborne’s hand.
Bettina winced and speculated if Mr. Camborne might be one of her candidates. The idea he might be annoyed her more. She had to wonder again at her inappropriate jealousy.
After tea, Mrs. Hopper showed Bettina around the shop and discussed what happened on a daily basis. The work sounded time consuming, but interesting and rewarding. When a customer entered, Bettina observed what transpired during a business transaction. Ellen then discussed further details and duties of a shop proprietress. Camborne watched them with a satisfied air.
Bettina grew impatient, staring out the bow-front window at every person passing by. Finally, a frail looking man with a cloud of white hair under an old-fashioned tricorn hat stepped into the shop. His wizened face resembled creased parchment. He wore a frock coat of fine cloth, large for his frame, shiny at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs.
“Here is my Jean-Pierre. Voila, as the French say.” Ellen’s loud voice made the old man twitch his mouth, his body quivering. “Come and meet my guests.”
After introductions, Camborne and Mrs. Hopper left Bettina alone with Jean-Pierre in the back room. They conversed in French, to her delight.
“I am, or was, Baron Gasquet de la Roche, Mademoiselle Laurant. But, ma foi, that is all of the past. What do you wish of me?” He spoke in a whispery voice, his delicate hands pulling at his cravat.
“I want to know if you traveled to England with other émigrés, and if you knew where I might contact my mother … if she has done the same? Her name is Volet de Jonquiere.”
“Jonquiere?” He raised a hand to his wrinkled cheek, his dull eyes bright for an instant. “Was your father Comte Homere de Jonquiere?”
“Mais oui. You knew him?” Bettina’s heart vibrated in her throat.
The old man half turned from her. “No, not personally. I knew of him.”
“Please, what do you mean?” She watched the twitching of his bony shoulders.
“A time of such upheaval.” He turned back and faced her, his expression now full of pity. “After the riots, I stayed away from the cities, and emigrated as soon as I could after the Bastille. I traveled with friends, and took all the money I had. Ma chère, if your mother has left France to come here, you should ask in London. I hope she did.” He reached out a claw of a hand to grasp her arm, reminding her of Armand that last morning. “A bloodthirsty regime is in control of our homeland, never forget that. I’m a very old man, and want to live in peace. I no longer speak of the past.”
* * * *
Gasquet fluttered out of the room. Bettina slumped in a chair and fought back tears. No matter how she’d probed, the old man had shaken his thin head and refused any more questions.
The door opened again. “Are you all right?” Mr. Camborne walked over to her.
“He sounded so odd about everything,” she said as she repeated their conversation. “I suppose I cannot blame him after what he has been through. But it seemed my father’s name upset him.”
“I am sorry. But don’t be too disappointed. This man knowing your mother’s whereabouts would have been a great stroke of luck. He’s right, London is our best resource.” Camborne squeezed her shoulder, his hand remaining there, warm and firm, until Mrs. Hopper joined them.
“He’s a nervous old dear, isn’t he?” she said with a laugh. Mrs. Hopper sat at her desk and patted the chair beside her. Jutting out her chest again, she began to reminisce to Camborne about their shared past, he having been a good friend of her departed husband.
Bettina gazed out the window, still disappointed, and now feeling left out. She noticed their discourse never touched on Camborne’s wife, marriage, or anything of that sort. She suspected they purposely talked around it because of her presence in the room.
“Ellen, thank you for your help. We’ve taken up enough of your time,” Camborne said after several minutes, glancing at Bettina. “I have enjoyed our visit.”
“You’re so very welcome. Please, let’s not be strangers again.” Ellen leaned close and once more kissed his cheek. “Do come back and see me soon.”
Bettina rushed to her feet, shaking
the gloom away. “You have been most kind, Mrs. Hopper, but we really ought to be on our way.”
Back out on the front step, Bettina watched well-dressed shoppers in flowing velvet and silks bustle along the street. She stared down at her drab wool and suddenly pictured herself a dreary little mouse in her simple, over-washed attire.
“Would you care to take a walk around the city?” Camborne stepped beside her as Ellen closed the shop door. When he offered his arm, he looked at her in a way that soothed most of her doubts over her appearance. His blue eyes were tender. She allowed his approval to push aside her frustration at the Baron’s behavior.
She clasped his sleeve, the wool of his coat soft underhand. “That sounds perfect.”
They passed small shops with bay windows and Tudor beamed houses with overhanging upper floors.
“Up there is Rougemont Castle, or what’s left of it. The gatehouse still stands.” He pointed to a ruin sitting on the highest ground to the north. The gatehouse, a small square-shaped structure, sat surrounded by the remains of a high wall. “The castle is named for the red earth here and thus has those distinctive red-hued stones. The West Saxon kings supposedly used it for their royal residence, though many argue that the ruins only date from the Normans. Then the Earls of Cornwall took it over.”
His cultivated voice and manner enchanted Bettina as before. He seemed relaxed as they walked, his tone gentle. Yet she suspected he often hid behind his well-chosen words to keep familiarity at bay. She encouraged him to open up by asking questions and hoped he wouldn’t think her a bother.
The pair approached the Exeter Cathedral Church of St. Peter. Bettina thought it glorious, with its castellated parapets, crocketed pinnacles and flying buttresses—like a fairytale castle.
“The cathedral is Gothic with twin Norman towers. Though the towers too were once believed to be Saxon. This west face has statues representing God, the Apostles, and Evangelists. There’s King Richard II, and also many unidentified figures.”
“It reminds me of Notre Dame, in a way. May we go inside?”
“Of course.” He brushed against her when they entered. Bettina quivered as a strange tingling crept down inside her abdomen. Camborne stared at her as if he experienced a similar sensation, then they both looked away.
Bettina studied the long, unbroken vaulting of the ceiling with its massive gilded bosses studding the junctures. She touched her shoulder, finding it difficult to dismiss that feeling when it had rubbed against his.
“That carved fourteenth century throne is where the Bishop sits,” Camborne said, his tone now measured and self-conscious. “And this west window has seven of the Apostles depicted in the stained glass … as you can see.”
“They are impressive.” Bettina stood three feet away from him, but something drew her closer. The cathedral was cool and dim, yet she felt sticky under her clothes.
“You look … tired. Shall we get a drink somewhere? And some supper?” Camborne asked, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them.
“Please, I would like refreshment.” Her voice sounded far away.
* * * *
They sat in a shadowy corner at a low-raftered Elizabethan coffee house nearby. Camborne ordered a bottle of Canary and a chicken and mushroom pie.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Miss Laurant?” He filled her glass with an unsteady hand. The rich aroma of coffee from other customers’ cups permeated the room.
“No, I always wished I had. After me, Maman found she could not have any more children. I do not think Armand capable of abandoning more than one of us on your shore. We might have overpowered him and refused to go.” She didn’t add, ‘as I should have’. In Camborne’s company, she mused whether fate had a different future in store for her.
“I just wondered what family you left behind,” he said.
A fat old man and a younger woman were engaged in a drunken argument on the settle near the fireplace. Bettina started when a glass shattered on the hearth.
“My family? My mother, two aunts, an uncle, a few cousins. When my mother sent me to Boulogne, she stayed behind to convince her sister to come with her. But Tante Creissant refused to leave Paris, that is what my mother said in her last letter. My aunt insisted everything had calmed down. I suppose at the time that was true.” Bettina sipped the wine, sweet on her tongue, to relax herself. “That old Baron, he acted strange at the mention of my father’s name, as if there is something more. But he would not speak of it. Or maybe I misunderstood.” She tried to smile as she took a bite of the pie. It was overcooked, but flavorful.
“He seemed quite the nervous sort, perhaps it is nothing.” Camborne’s gaze was sympathetic.
She decided to change the subject. “What type of trade do you do, since your estate is not a working farm? Frederick told me that you ship things.”
“He’s right. My father ran a successful shipping enterprise, which I took over from him. He wanted me to train to become a barrister, but that didn’t interest me. I did attend university, then took time off to travel. I visited his areas of business—Gibraltar, the West Indies, the west coast of Africa. And I gladly took charge of the business when he decided the work too much for him.” Camborne refilled her glass. She sipped it, relishing their private interlude. “As for the estate, Bronnmargh was a thriving place at one time.”
“If you can’t keep it quiet … oh, bother, John, let your daughter take you home.” The coffee house proprietor scolded the bickering pair in the settle.
Bettina remembered what Old Milt had said about Camborne’s mother running off after his father passed away. “What about your family?”
“My father died some time ago … and I had only the one sister, Clare. Frederick’s mother.” He glanced away for a moment. “My mother lives in the Scillies now.”
Bettina turned the wine glass between her fingers, the liquid wavering inside. “Frederick mentioned an … Aunt Miriam.” She held her breath. His eyes narrowed for a moment and she almost regretted she’d said it.
“My wife and I have been separated for a long time.” Camborne’s jaw stiffened as he stared out into the room, his eyes unfocused. “It’s late, we do need to travel home.” He stood. His words were clipped, but she discerned a great sadness beneath them.
“I understand. Thank you for the supper.” Bettina knew she’d spoiled their evening, just when he seemed so receptive toward her. Yet she saw nothing wrong with wanting to know more about him.
* * * *
“Look at that beautiful sunset,” Bettina said as they boarded the coach. Full with several glasses of wine, she felt as glowing as the sky with its purple and orange hues etched above the city’s medieval skyline.
“The air is chillier. Here, put this around you.” Camborne pulled a rug out from under the seat and draped it across her lap, tucking it close about her legs. His touch warmed her more.
The coach rattled across the arched bridge through the lengthening shadows and gained the road to the west. Camborne sat beside her, their thighs almost touching.
Bettina’s thoughts swirled over the day, their conversation and growing intimacy, until her mentioning of his wife. What did she mean to this man next to her? Was she just a tutor for his nephew, a casual friend? Did he already have a paramour? “That woman, Mrs. Hopper, she seemed very … is she sweet on you?”
“Ellen? No, why do you think that?” He sounded amused. The horses clopped, harnesses jingling. “Would it matter if she were?” he added softly.
Bettina swallowed, the pulse in her throat throbbed. “Yes … I think it would matter very much.” Tension hung thick in the air between them. Only the outside coach lamps were lit, and the increasing darkness masked her shame after such a bold utterance.
In a creak of leather, Camborne turned toward her in the seat. “Miss Laurant, I….”
Bettina leaned forward, to hear his hushed words.
He reached up and caressed his hands over her arms. Her breathing quickened. He d
rew her closer in the swaying conveyance. Bettina shuddered and looked at him shyly, his figure vague in the gloaming. He reached under her chin, lifted her face and caressed his warm lips over hers. She gasped, yielding to his kiss and the provocative twinge deep inside her. Tasting the wine on his lips, she feared her heart would burst from her ribcage.
Camborne’s kiss intensified, searching her mouth, hungry and anxious. She slid her arms around his neck as he pressed his chest against hers, firm muscle against her tender nipples. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead. His mustache tickled her skin.
“Oh, Bettina, what are we letting ourselves in for?” he murmured into her hair.
Chapter Fourteen
Bettina filled a bucket at the pump, lugged it into the kitchen and poured water in the kettle above the fire. She browned a piece of bread over the flames, then lathered it on both sides with butter. A favorite English preparation, they called it ‘toast’.
Groggy from the night before, her sleep had been elusive as she’d re-tasted Mr. Camborne’s—or dare she think of him as Everett—kisses. She craved anew that sensual tingle, the musky scent of his skin. After his cryptic remark, words so faint she might have imagined them, he’d held her head against his chest until they reached the inn. There he kissed her on the forehead as if she was a mere child and not a woman, before saying goodnight.
“Mamsell, who do you think invited me to go for a ride in his gig last night?” Kerra bounded in and plopped down at the kitchen table. “An’ we talked till late. Not my usual evening when alone with a man. Usually it be more of a wrestling match.” She laughed, her green eyes glistening.
“Hmmm? Who was it?” Bettina tore off a piece of toast and put it in her mouth, savoring the rough bread sweet with butter, her body feverish with her own recent trysting. She wondered where it would lead.
Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) Page 14
