Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (13 page)

“So, what happened to your family?” Kerra snatched a broom and swept up the food remnants on the taproom floor. “Looked kinda sad a few times tonight, like you be missing them.”

Bettina set the bowl on a table, rubbed her shoulder and yawned to hide the wariness that crept up in her. “I … I am not certain where they are now.”

“Sticks in my craw, you don’t tell me nothin’.” Kerra gave her a pout, though it looked contrived. “Ain’t we good friends? You never said nothin’ ’bout teaching, an’ to go up to the manor.”

“Good friends, yes.” Bettina smiled at Kerra’s now earnest expression as she dampened the rag and wiped tables. “My guardian, he sent me off, because of … the trouble on the continent. But then the people I was supposed to … you remember, they were not living at that address anymo—”

The front door banged open with a gush of icy wind. Benny, one of the regulars, stood there, his face florid, his grin broad. “They done it, on Christmas Day no less!”

“Now what’s happened?” Maddie asked, her expression tired and impatient as she dragged benches back into place.

“A wreck, down in the cove! Someone showed the false lights and drew them in. Come on, if you want to scavenge!” He rushed off.

“Oh no, I be done with that.” Maddie shut the door, throwing the bolt with a clank.

“What is this, something has wrecked?” Bettina stared at the other women.

Kerra’s green eyes lit up with mischief. “Salvagers an’ smugglers used to work from this inn, years back. They’d wait out the storms in the coves, for any ship that lost her way. Showing false lights so the captain would think it safe and try to come in. If the ship wrecked on the rocks, ever’one would be ready to grab the cargo.”

“
Vraiment
?” Bettina sat and massaged her aching ankles. “Is that not against the law?”

“’Course it is. But people here consider it fair game, especially when times be bad.” Kerra turned to her sister. “Sure you don’t wanna go down an’ see what we can find, Mads?”

“Go to bed, an’ that’s an order.” Maddie jerked off her white cap, sending her short dark hair flying. “I mean it. Don’t need no trouble with the excise men.” She wagged a finger at Kerra then trotted up the stairs.

“Such a wild history you have.” Bettina dragged
herself to her feet again. “What are these ‘false lights’ you mentioned?”

“Someone on shore with lanterns, pretending to guide the way to safe harbor, but bringin’ in the ships to crash on the rocks.” Kerra propped her broom in a corner.

“It sounds like a cruel occupation.” Bettina frowned, but Kerra just shrugged.

In her room, Bettina pulled off her wool gown, unlaced and peeled off her stays, and wrapped herself in the blanket on the thin mattress. She smoothed down her pillow and tried to relax. Then she bunched the pillow in her fists, the anger rising, thinking of Armand’s false light—his false tales about delivering packages and finding refuge, luring her to dash on this shore.

She prayed Mr. Camborne didn’t change his mind about her when February came.

Chapter Nine

Bettina stared out the inn window, her breath fogging the glass. When the small coach rumbled up, relief warmed her like the sun’s rays that had been so scarce. She climbed in the coach, her stomach growling. She’d been so nervous this first Monday of February, 1791, that Mr. Camborne might think better of hiring her, she’d barely eaten all day. The weeks up until now had passed in an agonizing routine.

At Bronnmargh, the dour Mr. Slate answered the door and showed her to the same room.

“Good afternoon, Miss.” A child greeted her with a radiant smile. He sat before a crackling fire, dressed and groomed like a little gentleman. “I’m Frederick Prescott.”

His cherubic face, golden curls, and blue eyes illuminated the room. Yet he looked out of place, like a trapped butterfly. Bettina wanted to hug him. “Bonjour, I’m certainly glad to meet you, young man. Please call me mademoiselle.”

Bettina sat in a wing chair, deciding how to begin. The weather was mild today and she suddenly wanted to give this child some air. “Put on your jacket and we will walk around the grounds, oui?”

The boy nodded eagerly. They stepped out under the gray sky and strolled in front of the manor. A brown speckled curlew flew over their heads. Bettina pointed up. “That is a bird. In French,
c'est un oiseau
.” The boy repeated it. She did the same for tree—
arbre
, and sky—
ciel
.

Frederick stumbled over the pronunciation, but tried hard, his little pink face screwing up at the unfamiliar words.

The grounds at the back of the manor looked sullen with neglect. A ramshackle barn and weathered stables sat back amongst overgrown gorse and bracken. The view gave her a bleak feeling and she huddled inside her cloak.

“Let’s go into the garden,” Frederick said, running toward the south side of Bronnmargh. “You can visit my own wild jungle.” He laughed as he led her through an iron gate with a rusty
‘C’ at its center.

“Garden is
jardin
,” Bettina said, stepping in. “
Nous devrions entrer dans le jardin
.”

Little walkways with scattered gravel separated rows of misshapen half-dead rose bushes, boxwood and yew. Four stone benches sat empty and forgotten, moss growing in the cracks. Gnarled ivy crept up the high stonewalls. The area was tangled with furze and weeds, and dried leaves never swept aside. She smelled the damp scent of decay, and shivered.

“My mother told me she loved to play in here when she was a child. When it still looked pretty,” Frederick said as they poked through where they could, brittle branches scratching at their clothes.

Bettina resisted the urge to ask if his mother mentioned Mr. Camborne being carefree enough to play alongside her. Maybe his
‘missing’ wife once labored here, keeping a family tradition. But now no one tended to it. This child beside her might end up as neglected as the grounds and house seemed to be. She dismissed that unpleasant thought and waited for the boy to elaborate on his mother, but he didn’t.

Bettina pointed out each plant and told the boy the French name. She thought of this as an introduction to the language and was delighted by his enthusiasm. Unlike the other denizens of the manor, he was also polite and friendly.

When they returned to the front of Bronnmargh, Mr. Camborne awaited them. Bettina suddenly felt uneasy, as if they had done something wrong. He nodded to her and smiled down at Frederick. “Did you have a good lesson?” he asked the child.

“Oh, yes, she’s very nice. She taught me
‘Bonjour Oncle’.” The boy beamed at him, and Bettina couldn’t help a smile. Camborne put out his hand and the child took it without hesitation.

“Thank you, Miss Laurant. We will see you on Thursday.” Camborne’s stiff manner returned as he addressed her. He and Frederick entered the house, talking in happy voices.

“Au revoir, Frederick. Mr. Camborne,” she said, before turning toward the coach.

On Thursday, Bettina found her salary waiting for her on the oak desk. How fabulous to have this much money in her hands, she mused as she clinked the coins together. She never realized before leaving France how vital, how hard-won it was, to have enough money.

She’d debated, once she found her mother, on buying a business of her own: a nice respectable shop. Maddie demonstrated by example that a capable woman could handle a business, even if Bettina considered running an inn not her forte.

With the revolution still raging in France, her hopes of return faded. Since the aristocrats were losing their place in society, she and her mother might do well managing a shop together. Before too long, she could finance her way to London.

* * * *

Muscles knotted with anticipation, Bettina alighted the coach in front of Bronnmargh. Over a week had passed with no glimpse of Mr. Camborne. She didn’t relish being ignored and even felt challenged to flaunt her worth, since he’d thought so little of her to begin with. Because of that, she’d asked the butler to set up a meeting with his employer the next time she came, if it wasn’t inconvenient. Mr. Slate had registered nothing at her request, inconvenient or not.

Before entering the library, Bettina smoothed her dress and tucked a stray hair under the chip hat. Then she opened the door.

Mr. Camborne sat at the desk, his look solemn. She masked her satisfaction that he’d conceded to her request. “Mr. Camborne, I want to report Frederick's progress.” Her employer’s stare tilted her off-balance and that frustrated her. “He is doing well. He is smart and willing to study.” She paused to analyze his face. “Do you think I’m working out adequate as a teacher?”

Camborne’s eyes appraised her as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her. “You appear very capable, Miss Laurant. Frederick is pleased with your instruction.”

“Would you care to sit in on a lesson, so you can see how well he does?” Determined to forge a relationship for the child’s sake, Bettina couldn’t deny her own curiosity about this man. “It is important for the family to be involved.”

Frederick peeked around the library door, and Bettina called him in.

“Perhaps
… just this once.” His manner still guarded, Mr. Camborne watched with a measure of interest as she and the boy went over the words from the previous lesson. He stoked the fire and kept his own council. Acutely aware of his presence in the room, Bettina pretended the opposite.

At the conclusion of the lesson, Frederick excused himself. Bettina picked up her hat and turned to Mr. Camborne. “I think that went splendid, do you not?”

He stared at her a moment and she grew uneasy again under his scrutiny. “Very commendable, indeed. Good afternoon, Miss Laurant.”

Bettina smiled at him with a bright flash of teeth, something—to her shame—she’d practiced before her looking glass. She then pondered her need to draw closer to someone who might have sinister inclinations.

* * * *

“You’re up at Bronnmargh now, aye?” Old Milt needled Bettina the next evening in the taproom. The curmudgeon took pleasure in taunting her after their first unfortunate encounter. “First ’ee go off with that lout Newlyn to a dance, where he don’t dance. Now you’re after Mr. Camborne?”

“My personal life is none of your concern,” Bettina said as she served his ale. She smiled and walked away from him.

“An’ Stephen weren’t good enough for her neither. She wants the quality, the Squire,” Dory said with a smirk. She laughed and tweaked the ear of a local miner, who then slapped her on her ample bottom. “We’re beneath the likes o’ her.”

“Dory, mind your jaw, jealous jade.” Kerra turned to Bettina. “Is Mr. Camborne more friendly to you now?” She dispensed drinks at the casks, since Maddie was out at the butcher’s disputing a bill with the man.

“He is civil enough.” Bettina brought over a tray of cheese and bread and set it on the front table. “He seems good to his nephew.”

“Does you think he did it, killed his wife?” Kerra whispered, coming close, the pungent smell of alcohol coming off her hands and clothes.

“I do not think about it at all,” Bettina said, a half-lie, as she sliced the cheese. “He seems
… a lonely man.”

“Suppose I’d be lonely too, if I done my wife in,” Kerra muttered under her breath.

“Oh, please … I am sure it is not true.” Bettina tried not to laugh at her friend’s comment.

“What does it look like, inside the place? It be fancy?” Kerra turned the tap as Dory came up for a Stout.

“I have only seen one room in front, an elegant library.” Bettina put a slab of butter next to the bread.

“Did you ask to see the cellar? That’s where Vida swore the Mistress were buried
,” Dory giggled, before she returned to her miner, who pulled her onto his lap.

“He’s a cruel rogue, no doubt. A strange family, them Cambornes,” Old Milt said with a cackle. “You know Mr. Camborne’s mother run off, left the place, after his father died? She couldn’t stand bein’ up there with her son and his snooty wife an’ all the fights they had.” The codger glared at Bettina. “Fetch me another ale, girl.”

“Was you there? You be a great one to talk ’bout anyone.” Kerra swatted toward his face as if he were a pesky fly. “Livin’ off the poor money from the parish, ’cause no one can bear to look at you to offer no job. You’ve spent plenty o’ time in the Bodmin debtors’ prison.”

“I try not to judge people without knowing all the facts.” Bettina took the old man’s empty tankard. “Not even one like you.”

“Afore long, ’ee be under the house next to the former Mistress.” Old Milt didn’t laugh this time, but his eyes held a malignant glitter. “Always a speck o’ truth in gossip, girl.”

Bettina turned away and walked toward the casks, clenching the tankard. “Do you know how much it would cost for coach fare to London?” she asked as Kerra dribbled liquid in it.

“Wouldn’t be goin’ by coach now. I heard a highwayman’s hauntin’ the roads. The safest way to travel is by post-chaise, more private. Cost ’bout twelve guineas for that fare. Why?”