“Do try to contain yourself. Do you want to disturb the entire house?” Little half-rose from the chair, his handsome features twisted into a leer. “Though I’ve noticed you have few inhabitants in this pretentious pile.”
“C’est odieux.” Her father’s kind voice and sweet smile seeped into her thoughts. She shook her head to chase the images away. “Why would anyone do that? He was a good man.”
“Where were we…? After his death, we realized Jonquiere had absconded with our funds. The money was never found. Soon after, you and your mother fled to the country, and eventually you were taken to the coast by your majordomo.”
“I know about Armand’s work for you.” Tears burned behind her eyes. She sniffed and regretted that rash disclosure. “He insisted to take me there. He tricked me and my mother.”
“He convinced even us it was better that way, to first separate you from your mother.” Little snorted. “Armand had just begun to work for our side, and the rights for the people, but he was a doddering old fool. Madame Hilaire was supposed to watch you both for us. But when we demanded he bring you back to Paris, he defied us and put you on that ship to England.”
“He … he sent me to you, with a package of blank papers.” Bettina tried to steady her breathing. She pressed her hands to both sides of her head.
“Armand used that package to convince you to go, as if you had a true purpose. He had small hope you would make it as far as Bath. And if you did, then he fulfilled his obligation to us. If you didn’t, perhaps you’d be out of harm’s way and he hadn’t really betrayed your family. He left it up to fate. He even gave you my old address to confuse matters.”
“I still do not understand what this has to do with me.” Armand had deliberately put her in danger by sending her to this man. She scooted back her chair, needing movement to jar her fractious emotions. “Why am I so important?”
“Sit still.” He thumped his elbow on the table. “While you and your mother lived in Poissy—many months later, rot it all—a letter was found hidden in a desk taken from your father’s office. It was for you, but he’d never gotten the chance to finish it. He wrote of something he gave you days before … unspecified, but of course the letter was incomplete.”
“A letter? I never knew of any letter.” Her voice was shrill. She wanted to scream.
“Jonquiere said if anything should happen to him, this item would help to take care of you. Perhaps he gave you a key to unlock the receptacle of our stolen money.” Little squinted one eye. “That’s when we contacted Armand to return you to Paris, and he fooled us by putting you on the ship.” Her unwelcome guest stood and walked closer until he loomed over her.
Bettina stiffened and glared up at him. “Do not stand so close. What are your intentions, Monsieur?” Her mouth dry, she almost screamed for help, but who would come? “My father gave me no key. Was not that Gaspar person working with you? He never mentioned a key.”
“Gaspar? He told us where you were, then the oaf disappeared. More than likely he was drunk, careless, and dumped in gaol. But he did speak with you, eh?”
Bettina knew Gaspar was dumped somewhere, but it wasn’t behind bars. She hunched forward to still her trembling body. “Yes, he … he told me it had something to do with my father’s business. But he never mentioned a letter … a key. What else was in this letter?”
“Never mind. Why didn’t Gaspar bring you to Bath, as ordered?” Little twitched his jaw, his mouth tight, with just a trace of that theatrical smile. “A drunken louse, but a brilliant tracker. Where did Gaspar go after he talked with you?”
“I … do not know where Gaspar went.” She swiped her tears on her dress sleeve and wanted no more questions about the missing tracker.
“We sent another to find him, but there wasn’t a trace. He tried to locate you as well, but the only French girl in the area never left that inn down the hill, except in the company of others. Then she, I assume you, was gone.” Little paced toward the fire then came back. “So I decided to clean up this matter myself.”
“What does France’s revolution have to do with you, an Englishman?” She spewed the words in anger at having to listen to his horrid tale about her loving father.
“Many of us here are interested in the developments across the water. I happen to be the founder of the Bath Society of Friends of the People, a pro-revolutionary group. It appears we Englishmen are better organized than you French.” Little chuckled. “Your bourgeoisie, and the radical nobles that wanted to tear down their own privileges to be citizen-aristocrats, thought they could handle the mob, incite them to bring about events for their own benefit by destroying the monarchy and most of the aristocracy.” He slapped his hand on the table. “But things went awry from the start.”
Bettina jumped. “I do not know of any key, Mr. Little. My father never gave me such a thing.” She stood, hands clenched. “I want you to leave.”
“Am I expected to believe that?” Little leaned closer to her, his features a fiendish mold in the uneven light. His pomade reeked sweet and sickening. “He’s given you something to explain the disappearance of all that money.”
“I swear I do not have anything. Now go before I—”
Little snatched something from his waistcoat pocket. Bettina stared into the barrel of a small pistol. Her pulse skittered in her throat.
“A lot of people invested their hard earned savings. They want their money back or put to beneficial use.” His tone grew harsher. “Now think hard, what did your father give you a short time before his death?”
Bettina put her hands to her stomach, over the precious baby growing inside her. “I told you, there was nothing. If I had something I would give it to you.”
“I would advise you to cooperate, Miss Jonquiere. I have no qualms in forcing your cooperation.” He pointed his weapon at her chest.
“Please, Mr. Little—”
A sharp wail cut through the air.
Little jerked his head up, the pistol waving. “What the devil is that?”
“I do not know.” Bettina shuddered at the strident noise, but was relieved by the interruption. In her tumbling mind, nothing made sense.
When the cry intensified, Little strode out into the dining room. Then he glared over his shoulder. “Come out here, now.”
They both listened in the dining hall. It sounded as if a cat or some creature was being strangled. “It is a trapped animal on the upper floor, perhaps?” Bettina inched away from Mr. Little. If she could just run … but where? She had to find a way to reach the others.
Little grabbed her arm. “We’ll fetch the candle and go up there.”
He kept close behind her ascending the staircase. She twitched as his pistol prodded the small of her back. “Who else lives up here?”
“No one.” She wanted to shield Frederick and Oleba. Shivering at the inhuman tone, Bettina wasn’t anxious to uncover this manor ghoul either—if she believed in such things. They reached the landing, but the wailing vibrated through the ceiling.
“Where’s the next stairway?” he demanded.
She led him to the bare curving staircase. Again, his pistol urged her up. When they stepped into the gloomy upstairs hall, the wailing ceased. The doors leading to the balcony were wide open. A cold gust of air blew out her candle. In the darkness, Little jerked on her arm.
Bettina squealed in surprise. She dropped the candleholder and it rattled across the floor. “It must have been the wind, that is all.”
A grinding, metallic screech came from the direction of the balcony. Little nudged her toward it. “Let’s go, slyboots, out there.”
Bettina froze, stiff with fury. “You are the brave man, you go to see what it is!”
He swore under his breath. Dragging her by the arm, he aimed the pistol and stepped out onto the balcony. An object swung over Bettina’s head and struck Little at the base of his skull. He staggered and groaned, releasing her arm. Frederick brushed past her to shove the dazed man. When Little
stumbled toward the balustrade, Bettina lunged forward. Dark hands joined hers and she and Oleba pushed him off the balcony.
Bettina watched a blur fall into the shadows, the stone balustrade biting into her fingers. He hit the ground below with a dull thud.
She turned and clutched at both Oleba and the child. “Mon Dieu. What have I done?”
“I smacked him with the telescope,” Frederick said in gasps, gripping Bettina’s arm.
Someone ran out the balcony doors. Mr. Slate stood in his nightcap and shirt, wagging a blunderbuss. “What the blue blazes … what is happening here?”
“Hélas. It was a burglar. I had to push him off. Rush down and see if he is still alive, please,” Bettina said through trembling lips. She and Oleba hurried Frederick back down the stairs. Bettina embraced the boy in the hallway. “You saved my life, both of you. How did you know?”
The child struggled to answer, squashed to her chest. “I couldn’t sleep. I heard you arguing and started down the stairs. Oleba joined me.”
“I too heard arguing. I listened at the landing. I knew I had to do something.” Oleba’s voice strained to retain its calm pitch. “I remembered a story my mother told me of a keening evil spirit in Africa. Frederick said we should draw him up to the balcony.”
“I did the screaming. Didn’t I sound true?” Frederick wriggled away from her, his cheeks flushed. He coughed and rubbed his throat. “Who was that man?”
They stopped talking when a disgruntled Mr. Slate passed them on his way out, his slippers flapping across the carpet.
“I did not know Mr. Slate had a gun,” Bettina whispered.
“Did you know the man?” Frederick bounced from foot to foot. “He called you by a name I’ve never heard before.”
“He was … someone who thought he knew me.” Bettina rubbed her face, blinking back the last tears. She hugged the boy again. “I am so sorry you had to be part of this.”
Frederick pulled away for the second time. “But it was exciting.”
“No, it was dangerous, young sir,” Oleba said.
Trotting back up the stairs minutes later, Slate scrutinized them through narrowed eyes. “The man’s dead. I'll go for the Justice in the morning. Everyone return to bed.”
Dazed, Bettina entered and locked her chamber door. She undressed, panting in sharp, shallow breaths. Her father wrote her a last letter and she hadn’t been aware. Her eyes blurred with tears as her head swam with more images of him. Did her mother know her father was murdered? Had she lied to her? Was her mother even safe?
She sat, then crumpled across the bed like a rag doll. The brutal reality of her papa’s fate ripped her apart. Striking the mattress with her fists, she muffled sobs into her pillow for her rudely interrupted childhood and her brutalized dear father.
Chapter Thirty
Anguished dreams jostled her senses, and Bettina felt herself gathered in an embrace. She struggled to get away. Fingers held her tighter and she gasped.
“What is it, darling?” It was Everett’s voice.
She opened her eyes to the light of dawn and ran her fingertips over his cheek to convince herself he wasn’t a dream. “At last you are home. Just hold me, mon amour.”
Everett kissed her forehead, soothing her despondent murmurs. He climbed in beside her, hugging her body to his. “I’m sorry I’ve arrived so early. But what’s happened to upset you?”
“Kiss me again, please.” She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. She found his lips, the moist spicy taste of him, desiring his attentions to erase the night’s tortured events.
Everett kissed her mouth, cheeks, then down along her throat. He pulled up her nightgown, his hands stroking hot on her thighs. She banished everything else and gave herself up to him as their bodies entwined.
Afterwards, she snuggled against him, into his warmth, and allowed sleep to overtake her again. Her dreams tossed images in her mind of her father, Armand and Bernard Little.
She jerked awake with a groan. Full sunlight filled the room.
“Are you all right?” Everett sat up and blinked.
“Oh, Everett, we have a terrible problem.” Bettina threw off the covers.
“What could be a problem?” He stretched and smiled, sounding half-asleep.
She hopped out of bed and started to dress. “There is a dead man in the garden.”
* * * *
“Every time I let you out of my sight, you entangle yourself in another calamity.” Everett shook his head as he framed her face in his hands, his gaze concerned. The kitchen fire crackled, their porridge half eaten between them on the table. “Thank God you weren’t harmed. And I wouldn’t tell Mother, or anyone, about this man Little’s real purpose.”
“I will not, no. But Mr. Slate might be at Port Isaac by now, to bring the Justice. He believes the man is a burglar. At least I think he believes it.” Bettina sat back and took a sip of tea. The liquid stung, her throat raw from the previous night’s sobbing.
“We might have detained him if we hadn’t overslept. But how else can we explain this man to the venerable law?” Everett drummed his fingers on the table. “Frederick and your maid might suspect he was something more than a thief. We’ll have to convince them otherwise. I hate to see the boy involved in this, a man falling to his death.”
“He did not seem upset about it, poor child. But I will speak to him.” Bettina looked down at her bowl and her stomach churned.
“Better let Trethewy have his moment. We’ll have to stick with the burglar story. I understand why Lew had to leave, it couldn’t be helped.” Everett reached over and ran his thumb just below her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry about your father.”
“Now I understand why that old baron in Exeter, and even the émigré in London, behaved so odd about him.” Bettina’s eyes filled with tears. “My father, he was a good man.”
Everett pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks. “Too many good men have suffered. Now it’s likely others will come after this Little, looking for you for the same reason. You’re positive your father gave you nothing before he died?”
“Oh, I hope they have not gone after my mother. Why did she not tell me any of this? She wanted to protect me, of course.” Bettina shrugged in frustration; her hand fluttered to her throat. Her fingers curled. “Mais oui…the necklace! How could I have forgotten? He gave me a necklace the week before … but it had nothing to do with a key.”
Everett clasped her now waving hand. “Where is it?”
“I took it to London and then brought it here. I put it with my clothes in the chest of drawers upstairs.”
“Did your father say anything when he gave it to you? Was it special in any way?”
“He told me it had belonged to Madame de Montespan, one of King Louis XIV’s mistresses. It had been a gift from the king to her. He said to … to treasure it. I am afraid I thought it gaudy, not to my taste. He did ask me to always wear it. I laughed as if he teased. But he … I remember he looked anxious and strained. To please him, I wore it, but under my clothes, out of sight. That made him happy, I think.” She traced a finger over her collarbone. “I never had the heart to tell him I thought it ugly. And I laughed. How flippant of me.”
“I’m sure he understood.” Everett took both her hands in his, his heated touch soothing her. “We need to go up and look at it.”
Mr. Slate walked in then, standing mute until Everett acknowledged him. “Sir, Justice Trethewy is with the body of the … ah, burglar.”
“And I'll wager he’s smiling broadly at another mysterious happening at Bronnmargh.” Everett’s words dripped with sarcasm.
“I told the Squire a lie, sir,” Slate continued in his dry way. “I told him I surprised the intruder, scaring him with the blunderbuss, and he … fell off the balcony. I did it to protect Frederick.”
“Quick thinking. We appreciate your discretion,” Everett said.
“I also checked the body for identification beforehand. There wasn’t a
ny.” Slate bowed his head and excused himself.
“Good man!” Everett rose from the table, his gaze on Bettina. “Darling, finish your breakfast, I won’t have you starving our child.” He brushed his fingers under her chin as she looked up at him. “Don’t worry, everything will be all right.”
“Mr. Little’s horse is in your stable.” Bettina had forgotten about that too. “There may be identification in his saddlebags.”
“I’ll have Slate take care of that as well.”
The bell clanged. Bettina left her food and followed Everett into the dining room. Mr. Slate brought Trethewy down the hall.
The JP raked his sardonic gaze over them. “No doubt to my mind, this fellow was a pretty fancy dresser for a burglar. And you’ve never seen him before, I trust? I didn’t think so. I'll send up a few men to remove the body.” Trethewy scratched under his ill-fitting wig. “And you, Miss, or have I heard, Mrs.? With this new Alien Act, you being French, you need to give me your full name, to keep track of, so to speak. And show me your passport.”
Bettina smiled to mask her discomfort. “Of course. I will have to find my passport somewhere in my belongings. But as soon as I do, I will bring it down to you in Port Isaac.”
“Hmm umm. I would also be curious to see that divorce decree, Mr. Camborne. Not that you’re obligated to show it to me.” He plopped his hat over the wig, setting it askew. “Good day to you, Mr. and Mrs. Camborne.”
They escorted him to the front door. Bettina closed it after him and turned to Everett. “What do we do about a passport? I entered the country illegally.”
“We’ll put him off. When next in London, I’ll find some way to get you one. I wondered how long it would take Trethewy to froth at the mouth over my divorce.” Everett put his arm around her. “Now, my love, because of your problems with pro-revolutionaries and the possible threat of Hollis, we definitely need extra protection. I intend to hire someone to stay here at the manor specifically to be on guard.”
They walked arm in arm up the stairs to the bedchamber. Bettina opened a drawer, dug out the necklace and held it out.
Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) Page 31
