Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance)

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Charlie Tremayne, no less.” Kerra snapped her fingers with a toss of her dark unpinned hair. “Did you hear what I said? Don’t look enough impressed, if you did.”

  Bettina dragged her thoughts back to the present. “Oh, Kerra, that is nice.” Of the three Tremayne brothers, Charlie seemed the only bargain. He was as handsome as Stephen and gentle like Newlyn, but without the latter’s dullish ways. “I am very happy for you. You always had a ‘fancy’ you said for him.”

  “An’ I think he might have a fancy for me. Time I get serious ’bout someone.” Kerra sawed off a slice of bread, put it between the tongs and swung it over the fire. “Did you put butter on yours? Maddie won’t be happy, it be too expensive. Use the drippin’ beef fat.”

  “I … was not thinking.” Bettina loathed the ‘dripping’. “You and Charlie just talked, nothing else, yes?” she asked in a tease as she placed two teacups on the table.

  “Maybe a bit. ’Course, Maddie were huffed when I lit out with him. You be gone, leaving only Dory to help.” Kerra flashed an impish grin. “But if I ain’t careful, gonna end up an old maid just like Mads.”

  Bettina unlocked the tea caddie and removed a measure of tea leaves. She inhaled the rich aroma. “Maddie is so pretty, why has she not ever married? Has she never had anyone special in her life?” She placed the leaves in a crockery pot and poured in boiling water.

  “Once, but she don’t like us talking ’bout it. Were a long time ago.” Kerra glanced over her shoulder when she said this. “Now Charlie says he understands why a girl like you won’t bother with Newlyn. An’ did you know, Stephen’s been missin’ for several days? No one knows where he got off to. His mamm be worried.”

  “He will turn up like a stray dog. But Charlie, he says ‘a girl like me’?” Bettina sighed, condemned as the eternal brew wench. “I thought him to be above such slander.”

  “Now don’t get your back up. He didn’t mean it in a bad way. He says you be too uncommon, in a good way. But does you have your cap set for Mr. Camborne?” Kerra sniffed, then let out a yelp. She jerked her burnt, sizzling piece of toast from the fire. “Fie!”

  “My cap? We went to meet an associate of his in Exeter for business advice, nothing more.” Bettina hated to dwell on her disturbing meeting with the émigré. She fanned the smoke away, opening the kitchen door for fresh air on her hot cheeks. “We had a pleasant, productive day.”

  “Productive, aye? Spent lots o’ time alone with him, if the truth be told … all day an’ evening.” Kerra threw her ruined breakfast into the ookener, on top of the turf and furze, where it crumbled. She smirked and brushed crumbs from her lap.

  “Ann would have a fit at seeing that mess.” Bettina hid a grin by taking another bite of buttery toast.

  “Can you honestly say there’s still nothing between you an’ him?” Kerra slanted suspicious eyes at her. “Did he try to kiss you this time?”

  “Cannot a man and a woman be friends?” Bettina’s rushed words sounded false, even to her. She wasn’t sure if she could confide in Kerra. She feared the news would be spread all over Sidwell the minute they finished talking. She also didn’t like that this new level of intimacy unsettled her, like she was again on the edge of danger.

  “If you seen your high color just now, you be wary if someone’s telling the truth.” Kerra gave a slight laugh and patted Bettina’s hand, as if absolving her of any immediate confession. “You went off with no chaperone, just like me. But you did it with the most jawed about man in north Cornwall. ’Course tongues be a waggin’. Better watch it, a man of his means just dallies with a kitchen girl. He won’t want nothin’ respectable.” Kerra winked.

  “I am more than a … it is too soon to speak of these things.” Bettina busied herself pouring tea. Intrigued by Camborne, she was desperate to raise herself out of this existence. But she didn’t know if she wanted to pursue a relationship and push aside her plans for London.

  * * * *

  Bronnmargh loomed into view and Bettina’s stomach twisted. She alighted the coach, feeling stripped and vulnerable. Mr. Camborne must think her brazen in letting him kiss her; she should have objected. Had he taken literally her remark of bending the rules? Even with that cheap treatment, she couldn’t stop thinking about his lips on hers.

  Halfway through the lesson, her mood switched to frustration. Camborne should have been here by now to greet her. Didn’t he feel the change in their relationship as acutely as she?

  “Frederick, please tell your uncle I wish to speak with him.” The boy stared in surprise at her abrupt words and jumped to his feet. Bettina then thought better of her tone. “Wait … ask him if he has a minute to spare for me, please.”

  She stewed a little more as she was left waiting in the library for several minutes. Had that kiss meant nothing to him? Had it been merely a passing fancy? Did she project more into this than she should?

  “Bettina, ah, Miss Laurant, I am sorry I have ignored you. I’ve been trying to solve a business problem that’s occupied my mind all day.” Camborne came in and shut the library door.

  She glared at him, thinking he’d had all day Sunday to make his intentions known. But his gaze looked as vulnerable as she felt, his eyes searching hers. “I did feel … ignored.”

  Camborne closed the distance between them, touching her lightly on the cheek. “I wish to apologize for the other night. Perhaps it shouldn’t have happened.”

  He was ashamed that he kissed her? She half expected denial, but not regret. Pulling away, she jabbed into the corner of his desk, biting back the pain. “You are right, I should not have allowed it.” She turned away to conceal her moist eyes. “I must leave now.”

  “Can’t we talk a bit? I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  She still had her back to him, fiddling with the ribbon of her straw hat, making a hopeless knot. “I see that I have expected….” Now she pondered what did she expect from this man she barely knew.

  Camborne clasped her shoulders and eased her around. His eyes looked large and full of pain. “Bettina, I think you misunderstand. What I meant is….” He bent near her, his breath hot on her skin, then kissed her lips as if he couldn’t resist. She stiffened. A sigh escaped her, and her mouth responded to his. She should have pushed him away, but couldn’t deny her own need.

  The library door creaked open. “Uncle, what’s this word, I don’t understand it?”

  They flew apart before the child wandered all the way into the room. He held a textbook open, his mouth twisted in a frown.

  “Frederick, wait in here, I’ll be right with you.” Camborne smiled at the boy and escorted Bettina into the hall, pulling the door closed behind them.

  “Did he see us?” Bettina kneaded the shabby hat, which crackled in her hands.

  “I don’t think so.” He gazed at her as if observing her through a tunnel from far away. “I hadn’t meant that I didn’t want to kiss you, because I … you’re so young, and things are … very complicated.” Camborne grimaced, but did he grapple with temptation or guilt?

  “If I have misunderstood, what is this complication? If you want to discuss it.” Bettina studied him, anxious at how much he’d reveal.

  “No, we’d better do it another time. The boy is waiting. The coach as well.” Now he balked, as if realizing the extent of her request. “I have much to do. I must travel to London in a day or so. Mrs. Pollard will watch Frederick here.” He opened the front door, helping her on with her cloak. “I’ll make certain to check refuge organizations for you.”

  “Thank you for doing that. But I wish to talk now, if we—”

  “No. As I said, another time, please.” His gaze furtive, he hurried her out and helped her into the coach. He squeezed her fingers, closed the door and walked back into the manor.

  Bettina slumped against the squabs. “Mon Dieu.” She flung her hat onto the other seat. He was obviously reluctant to develop a relationship. In proper society you never allowed a man to kiss you
unless you were betrothed to him. Is that what she sought from Camborne? She had so many doubts. He was too confusing. Or did he just have a wife buried in a cellar?

  * * * *

  Dory lit the candles in the taproom as the evening shadows drifted in. Bettina went to the hearth and lifted one of the sugar-loaf hats hanging there. She poured the shrub ingredients—rum, orange juice and sugar—into this coned tin receptacle, slopping some over the side. She then wedged the point into the turf fire to heat the mixture. The evenings were still cool, and the drink was popular all winter. She squinted as the smoke burned her eyes, then felt someone move up behind her.

  “Heard you left town with Mr. Camborne the other day. All alone you be, just the two of you, aye?” Old Milt glared at her.

  “That is my business, not yours.” She touched a finger to the tin side, then pulled the heated cone up out of the turf with a rag. Pouring the shrub into a pewter cup, she stepped away to hand it to a waiting customer.

  “Heard tell a dead body were found down in the cove last night. And didn’t Stephen Tremayne disappear after chiding you and the squire?” The old man snickered. “Maybe Camborne were jealous and murdered the boy.”

  “You are making this up. How dare you say such awful things.” She turned from Old Milt and clattered the cone back up on its hook.

  “Enough of this wild talk.” Maddie strode over. She tilted her head toward the corner, where Kerra stood with Charlie. But those two seemed lost in each other’s eyes. The tall, rangy, copper-haired Tremayne leaned into Kerra’s sprite of a figure, both their smiles broad.

  “This girl needs to watch out who she beds with, if she want to keep breathin’.” Old Milt stabbed a finger in Bettina’s face.

  Maddie slapped his hand away. “Go an’ finish your ale, or take your arse elsewhere.”

  Old Milt lumbered off with a cackle.

  “If you had a loyal an’ hardy husband, Maddie, wouldn’t have no grief from ones such as him. Can I offer me services to such a lovely lady as you be?”

  Maddie sneered at the impudent regular. “Oh, choke on your flummery, George. Ain’t never marrying, then this place would belong to him an’ not me.” She turned to Bettina. “The men are just jealous of your time with the quality.”

  “Cambornes ain’t so bad,” Peder, the dog whipper, said. He sat near the door in his filthy clothes, as if afraid to soil the rest of the room. He pushed his mop of hair from his eyes. “I worked runnin’ errands for Mrs. Camborne, the elder, when I were a mite. They was always kind to me—the current squire, too.” He glanced, mouth drooping, toward Kerra, the girl he’d kissed under the mistletoe at Christmas.

  Bettina smiled at Peder, one of the few to come to Camborne’s defense. She walked with Maddie into the kitchen. “Did they really find a body down in the cove?”

  “Aye. No word on who it be. A drowned sailor, no doubt. That old codger always stirs up trouble.” Maddie snatched up the clean tankards Ann just washed. “How was your outing? Did you question Mr. Camborne ’bout his wife?”

  “A little. He said he has been separated from her for a long time.” She recalled his upset at the mention of it and sagged against the table. “I know I need to ask more. But I am not sure about his feelings … toward me.” Or of her own towards him.

  “So you are gettin’ friendlier?” Maddie’s eyes sharpened. The pewter clinked in her grasp. “You ain’t thinkin’ about crawling between the sheets with him?”

  “No, of course not.” Bettina swept her hand to her throat, feeling her skittering pulse.

  “Good. Keep them maidenly parts untouched.” Maddie lowered her gaze for emphasis.

  “Do he know where Mrs. Camborne be? Nay?” She started to leave, and then looked back over her shoulder, her brunette hair brushing along it. “A man can find ways to tangle the truth in so many ways, and an anxious heart wants to believe it. Don’t take a fool to see you is more educated for someone in your straits. But a gentleman be particular what type o’ girl he marries, if he’s in need of a wife.”

  Morley stumbled into the kitchen, almost knocking Maddie over. The spindly boy shook with excitement. “Did you hear? The Justice says it’s Stephen’s body that were in the cove. Charlie just run out to go there.”

  “Parbleu.” Bettina pressed her hand to her temple. She swayed with dizziness and plopped down in a chair.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I know Stephen were a chucklehead.” Seated on her bed in the attic, Kerra frowned. She held a black shirt and shot a needle in and out of a seam. “Never no friend o’ mine. But I’m that sad for Charlie, and their mamm. Insisted on mendin’ this for him, for the funeral.”

  Bettina sat beside her on the crackling straw mattress. Two days had passed since Morley’s announcement. “I am sad for them, too.” She gripped her hands in her lap. “Do they know how he died?”

  “Blow to the head, the Justice said. So Charlie told me.” Kerra screwed up her little face. “Skull were crushed in on one side.”

  “Could he have fallen down the cliff, drunk perhaps?” Bettina bit down on her lip, picturing such a blow. She wanted it to be an accident, no one at fault.

  “Nay, no other scrapes on him. He were killed and dumped in the sand.” Kerra dropped the shirt and grabbed Bettina’s hand. “Where’s Mr. Camborne been?”

  “I hope you have not listened to Old Milt. Those ridiculous tales of his.” Bettina’s chest tightened. “What does Charlie think happened to his brother?”

  “Drunk, aye … and probably fightin’ with someone.”

  “But why would the killer dump the body in the cove for everyone to see?” Bettina squeezed Kerra’s fingers. “A drunken brawl, I am certain. Mr. Camborne, he has been in London. Far away from here.”

  *****

  In Bronnmargh’s library, Frederick stumbled over the sentence for a second time, but Bettina hardly noticed. She stepped over to the window and stared out.

  “Mademoiselle, what is the matter?”

  “Pardon?” She turned and forced a smile. “It is nothing. Say it again, the sentence.”

  Mr. Camborne had been gone almost two weeks. Stephen’s death, the whispers in the village, all swirled in her mind. She ached to discuss matters with Camborne, but didn’t know where to begin.

  “May we be done for the day?” The child gave her an impish grin.

  “Mrs. Pollard has not returned yet.” The housekeeper had asked Bettina to look after the boy while she went to her cottage.

  Frederick hopped up from his stool. “Mrs. Pollard left some tarts in the kitchen. I’m hungry. Let’s eat one.” He opened the library door and walked down the hall.

  Bettina followed him into a spacious, flag-stoned kitchen at the rear of the manor—a better equipped place than the inn. Oiled cast-iron implements hung over the hearth, a roasting-jack with weights sat in the large fireplace. She picked up a crockery pitcher near the chimney piece. “Frederick, fill this at the pump. I will heat water to wash our hands.”

  “Wash our hands, why? But, Mademoiselle, we have a tap here in the kitchen.” Frederick pointed to a stone basin in an alcove beside the back door. “We have inside water. Uncle says there’s a cistern on the roof. You have to pump the water up there to store and it falls down through the wood pipes when you open the tap.” He proudly turned the tap, releasing water into the basin.

  “Inside water.” Bettina smiled, filled the pitcher and poured water into a three-legged kettle. She lit a fire and placed the kettle in the fireplace. “Too bad everyone cannot afford such a luxury.” She thought of her weariness of lugging water from the pump at the inn. “My mother always liked me to wash my hands before I ate. She said cleanliness keeps away disease.”

  “Where is your mother?” Frederick splashed the warmed water over his hands. “The plates are in that cupboard.”

  “She is in France … I think.” Bettina dismissed any sadness, opened the cupboard and admired the bone china stored there. She was pleased that Mr. C
amborne didn’t purchase cheap imports from his Mrs. Hopper in Exeter. She and the boy each ate a sticky gooseberry tart. The sweetness tasted delectable.

  Mr. Slate walked in like a black wraith, helped himself to a tart, and left again, registering nothing at Bettina’s presence.

  She couldn’t help a cringe. “Does that man ever speak to you?”

  “Mr. Slate ‘does not care for children’. He told me that after I came,” Frederick replied with mock arrogance, puffing out his cheeks.

  “How awful, what a dreadful person.” No one should speak to a child that way, especially one who just lost his mother. As she had a few times before, she wondered what became of the boy’s father.

  “Do you want to see my room? You've never been upstairs, have you?”

  “I do not know if I should.” She was curious, but thought better of it. “Perhaps not.”

  “It will be all right.” Frederick clasped her hand and urged her into the dining room.

  Coldness remained in this shadowy part of the house. Bettina shuddered, feeling ill-disposed to enjoy a tour. The child led her to the staircase, but she hesitated before the first step.

  “Do you like living here, Frederick?” She rubbed her chilled arms, realizing she ought to have kept that question to herself.

  “Most of the time. Mrs. Pollard lives near the village, she has no husband … he died. Mr. Lew lives in the village too—he watches the horses and drives the coach. So there’s no one to keep Uncle Everett company except me.” Frederick ran up a few steps on the faded red carpet.

  “What about Mr. Slate?”

  “Oh, him. Yes, he lives here too. He has a room on the ground floor, in the back. He’ll hide there now, because he doesn’t like … visitors.” The child had bent towards her to whisper the last word, his brow furrowing. “Come on up, Mademoiselle.”

  “Why does your uncle not hire a governess for you, since he travels away for business?” Bettina followed him up the curving staircase, sliding her hand along the worn walnut banister.