Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (10 page)

He pranced around the room with this item, until he again paused in the center. “The dance I can no further go,” he sang out.

“I pray ’ee, good sir, why to say so?” the fiddlers replied in chorus.

Bettina had wanted to return home, surprised she thought of the inn as home, but this development caught her interest.

“For Jenny Toliver will not come to.” The plump youth broke into nervous laughter, his cheeks scarlet.

“She must come to, whether she will or no.” This reply from the fiddlers sent a stocky girl in the crowd to giggling. The young man sprang forward and placed the cushion at her feet. The girl slowly kneeled on it. The man bent low and kissed her.

Bettina flushed at so public a show of affection, but the others merely applauded. When the girl hopped to her feet and called out a boy of her choice, Bettina gaped.

Stephen turned to Bettina with a leering grin, his elbow digging into her side. “You be next, Frenchie. I’ll dance the cushion to you. You’ll have to ‘come to’.”

“Newlyn, it is time for us to leave.” Bettina whirled around and squeezed through the people, toward the barn entrance. As she expected, Newlyn trailed after her like a beaten puppy.

Men leaned against the wall outside. Pipe smoke drifted in the crisp air. Bettina hurried past them and prayed Stephen stayed inside.

She slowed and Newlyn almost bumped into her. “Please, see me home now.”

As Newlyn walked with her across the field and through the village bathed in sunset, Bettina pitied him, saddled with such a brother. His silence also vexed her. “Your brother is very rude. It is good you are not like him.” Newlyn didn’t reply. They walked on. She glanced back to make certain no one pursued. When more silence followed, she strained for a subject that might interest him. “What is it like living on your farm? What type of crops do you grow?”

“It be tolerable.” He shuffled along beside her, never looking at anything but his scuffed boots. “Don’t grow much
… some potatoes, some turnips.”

“
D’accord
. I see.” She bit down on her bottom lip and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. As they passed the blacksmith’s, his mongrel dog growled. “Kerra says you have three sisters, what are they named?” She waited for Newlyn to mumble another evasion.

Footsteps rushed up behind them and Bettina spun around.

“Newl. I be walking the young lady back now.” Stephen elbowed his brother aside, then caught him and jiggled his shoulder. “You asked her like I wanted, good job. Now you can go.”

Newlyn started to tremble. “I
… can’t … can it wait till…?”

“You encouraged him to ask me?” Bettina glared at them both.

“I knew you’d never go with me,” Stephen snickered, his eyes appraising her.

“You are right, I would not have.” Bettina shook with anger and stalked off through the cool evening. When she turned to make certain Stephen didn’t pursue, she saw Newlyn stumble after her.

Stephen grabbed his shoulder again and shoved him. “I said go home. You already fouled up by not keeping her at the barn.”

Newlyn swung his arms for balance as he tripped over his own feet.

“Stop treating him like that. What kind of brother are you?” Bettina cried.

Newlyn shrugged, mumbled goodbye as if he never expected better, and lurched off down the road. Bettina, mortified at being duped by these farm boys, hurried toward the inn.

“Wait, I said I’d take you.” Fast on her heels, Stephen caught her arm, dragging her to a stop. “A lady deserves a strong man by her side, now don’t she?” He gave a derisive emphasis to the word lady.

“I do not need an escort, I can go by myself.” She jerked from his grasp. Then she felt a prickle of uneasiness as she noticed the street was deserted, except for someone on horseback in the distance. “You do not know how to respect anyone, so please leave me alone.” She resumed her brisk walk.

“Respect?” He kept pace beside her, his smile mocking. “Coming from your heathen country, you think you’d be bolder. You be wastin’ time on my little brother. I just asked him to smooth the way. I know exactly how to respect a girl like you.”

Bettina bristled at his goading. The inn waited several yards ahead, the dusk creeping its shadows over the buildings. “You know nothing about me.”

Stephen loped in front of her, forcing her to stop again. “You work in a taproom. I know how to satisfy a brew wench with my stiff pudding.”

“
Affreux
!” Bettina recoiled from him. “You are … a rutting pig, and have no reason to say that to me!”

He grabbed her upper arms as she tried to shove past him. His bared teeth turned him wolfish, wiping any attractiveness from his features. “A pig, am I? I’ll show you a pig, froggie!”

“Let go of me!” She struck and pushed at him with her fists. But the harder she struggled, the more he laughed.

Stephen hauled her to his chest, then brushed his damp lips on her jaw when she whipped back her head. Bettina wrenched up a hand to scratch his cheek. He growled, his fingers digging into her flesh. She shrieked for help as he slammed her body once more into his.

A horse clopped up. Someone dismounted, jerked Stephen around and punched him in the face.

The young man sprawled on the ground, kicking furiously at the dirt. “Damme! Who the hell—
oh!” He staggered to his feet and sped off into the twilight, his footfalls echoing across the cottages.

Bettina froze, her hand at her throat, heaving for breath. Facing the person who came to her aid, she took in a tall figure in cape and hat silhouetted against the darkening sky.

“Are you all right, young woman?” The man spoke in a deep, resonant voice, his tone aloof. The clean, faint scent of spice floated around him.

“Yes
… merci,” she uttered through quivering lips.

“Then if you don’t live far, you had better proceed home.”

Bettina didn't wait for more and hurried up the road. Once she reached the inn porch, she looked back to see the man mount his horse and ride away. With a ragged sigh, she brushed tears from her cheeks. She’d little doubt she just came face to face with the nefarious Everett Camborne.

Chapter Seven

“Those Tremaynes are not to be trusted. Stephen is dangerous, and Newlyn … he just does as he is told. I want nothing to do with any of them.” Bettina stared up at Kerra as she sat on her bed mending her stockings the next morning. Her arms ached and she’d noticed ugly bruises from Stephen’s rough ‘escort’.

Kerra leaned in the doorway and gave her nose a disdainful scratch. “Won’t never find no husband if you be too choosy. I only wish Charlie would pay court to me.”

“I do not want to court yet.” Bettina never imagined courting to be so blunt. In France, in the old days, she might have been betrothed to someone she barely knew in an arranged marriage, but with the niceties observed at all times. “Why do I need a husband?” She stabbed the needle through the thin material and considered herself above that boy and the others in the village. Soon she’d return to her former life, the problems in France couldn’t last forever.

“Every girl needs a husband. You wanna end up a spinster like Maddie? You be wishing you had someone to snuggle up to when winter comes.” Kerra adjusted the ribbon on her straw hat that she’d tucked with pink meadowsweet, a pleasant wintergreen and sweet almond fragrance. “I’m off to visit a recent widow, since Charlie might be takin’ his mamm an’ sisters there
… in her time of need.”

“I want to straighten out my own life before considering anyone else.” Even as she said this, Bettina swallowed a sigh and thought of her rescuer from last night. She experienced a strange spark of warmth. This mysterious gentleman from the manor began to fascinate her.

* * * *

In Port Isaac, Bettina handed the fishmonger his payment from Maddie. She stepped outside where the chill wind off the bay washed away the fishy stink. The breeze ruffled papers nailed to the Fish Market’s wooden wall, advertisements for services and goods in exchange for money or fair trade.

She fingered her frayed shawl, and an idea occurred to her. Bettina reopened the door. “Please, Monsieur, may I post an advertisement?”

For a half-penny the man handed her the materials and she lettered a sign with anxious strokes:
French lessons given for a fair price, from a French woman of liberal education and decent background; please inquire of Miss Bettina Laurant, at Maddie's Ace Inn, Sidwell
.

Beaming, she tacked up her paper, mounted her horse, and rode back up the twisted cobbled lane. From more gossip at the inn, she’d learned that French émigrés continued to accumulate in London, many since before she’d arrived in England. She grimaced when she thought of Armand’s directive to be secretive. If it was common knowledge that aristocrats sought asylum here, why did he order her to conceal herself? What made her so special? She wanted to discount all the old man’s advice, yet decided to hold on to her secret until she could contact other émigrés. Perhaps these people could help locate her mother. Any extra money would aid her journey.

Bettina huddled against the increasing cold as she trotted Shevall up Fore Street. The wind whipped and moaned up from the cove, swirling in a fog so thick she could have left teeth marks in it. The dampness invaded her muscles, freezing each joint. She heard a footfall and jerked her head to the side, afraid that Stephen might lurch out of the fog and attack her. She swore a whispered ‘froggie’ came from a dark doorway to her left. She kicked the horse to walk faster and rode up to the inn.

At only four in the afternoon, the November sun sank low, a dribble of orange in the murky sky. A lantern swinging over the inn’s front door shone its light on the salt-encrusted front windows splattered by the turbulent sea.

Bettina stabled her horse and pushed through the door to the kitchen, relieved to be inside. The smell of meat and smoke that once repelled her now seemed welcoming. Sleeping near the kitchen, and working there, Bettina ended up stinking like whatever they cooked that day. But that too she’d grown used to.

She leaned against the closed door, shook off her trepidation, and focused her mind on something warm: her bright homeland
, the gentle surf of a brilliant blue sea reflecting a hotter sun, the familiar landscape of vineyards.

“Quite the flaw out there.” Maddie’s voice drew her from her musings. The proprietress stirred a mutton stew in a pot over the kitchen fire. “Did you pay all right? If fish gets more expensive, might have to cut wages a bit so we don’t starve.” She pulled out the spoon and took a taste. “Watch this for me. I has other things to tend to.” Maddie stalked from the room.

Bettina started, about to dash after Maddie to insist she could never afford a wage cut. She bit back her complaint and slipped to the turf fire, warming her fingers by stirring the pot. She tasted the stew, then sprinkled in some dried thyme. At least she was learning how to cook.

The previous day, November 6th, had been her eighteenth birthday, but she’d told no one. Swirling the chunks of lamb and potatoes in rich gravy, she refused to f
lounder much longer in drudgery.

* * * *

Kerra shoved her way into the butcher’s with Bettina behind her. The smell of raw meat filled the air. In spite of the chilled late November weather, everyone seemed to have come to town. “Older I get, the more crowded it be.” Kerra scooted to the front, ignoring any protests. She probed a hanging shank of meat and eyed the butcher shrewdly. “I’ll take this leg o’ mutton, if you charge me fair for it. No extra finger on the scale now.”

“I be as honest as the day’s long,” the man replied in sarcasm, picking at the wart on his chin. He weighed and wrapped the meat and the two women bustled out into the frigid air.

“Too bad the days be short,” Kerra muttered. She called a hello to a couple of people walking by. “Still need apples and onions. Maddie says she’s gonna make squab pie tomorrow.”

“Where do we buy the squabs?” Bettina asked, hugging her hands inside the cloak Maddie gave her, found left behind in one of the upstairs rooms. At Maddie’s suggestion, she had rubbed it with rosemary to dilute the smell of the previous owner.

Kerra groaned and rolled her eyes. “Don’t use no squabs in a genuine Cornish squab pie. That’s what the mutton’s for.”

Bettina knew she condemned her as a hopeless foreigner who would never grasp the finer points of the West Country. She deemed herself a stranded outsider, desperate because two weeks had passed with no inquiries for her French lessons, and fretted over what else she could do.

“That sounds as odd as the ‘star-gazy pie’ we made a few days ago,” Bettina replied. “Who has heard of a pie with fish heads poking out the top crust with their bulgy eyes?” She’d grown tired of what seemed the constant Cornish diet of pies made from fish or sheep entrails.

Kerra waved off her words, and they went next to the market stalls. The few straggling booths were surrounded by mud peppered in footprints. Two elderly women in front of them were having a loud discussion, their breath misty in the breeze. They both wore pattens, the wooden overshoes on metal rings that elevated their shoes above the mud. Bettina looked down at her shoes squishing in the mire, her stockings already damp.