Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (14 page)

“It
… is not important.” After delivering the old man’s ale, Bettina walked into the kitchen. With her new knowledge of English money, she calculated twelve guineas. She swallowed hard; it was a tremendous sum for a girl in her position.

* * * *

Rain splattered the coach window. The driver hopped down and opened the door. Bettina hid her surprise and rushed into the manor, out of the March downpour. She hung up her dripping cloak, wiped her shoes near the front door, and entered the library, but Frederick wasn’t there.

“Sit down, will you please, Miss Laurant.” Mr. Camborne’s staunch figure occupied the desk. He even stood until she sat in a winged chair.

He was dismissing her already, she feared as she shifted on the leather. He discovered his civility and now chose to rid himself of the nuisance. She held her damp hands together.

A plump, fiftyish woman trotted in and placed a silver tea service on the desk. She gave Bettina a flicker of curiosity, then departed. “Tea, Miss Laurant? I must apologize for the way I treated you on our first meeting,” he said, though still maintaining his formal air. “My manners were far from acceptable.”

Bettina’s pulse quickened. Would he bother to apologize and serve tea to someone he discharged? “Merci, I … hoped we could become better acquainted, since I am working with your nephew. He is a dear little boy.”

“He adores you as well, Miss Laurant. You appear to be a far more educated young woman than I first thought. I had doubts as to your qualifications.” He handed her a delicate porcelain cup and saucer. She noted the gracefulness of his hands. “I don’t like to pry into people's affairs, as I don’t want them prying into mine. But I can't help wondering why you work and live in an inn. Since you present a refinement at odds with your situation.”

“The story is complicated. I had no place to go at the time, and Miss Tregons has been generous to me.” Bettina didn’t add that it wouldn’t have been her first choice; her loyalty to Maddie grew stronger every day. She put more sugar in her tea, a sweet luxury, and sipped it.

“Where is your family, have you no one?” Camborne’s question came out rather dry, like her music tutor requesting she turn the page of a composition.

“I do have someone. I have plans to be reunited with them, soon.” Her reply sounded more wistful than she intended and a silence lingered between them. She sipped more of the sweet tea, feeling it warm up her innards.

“Are you
… pleased with your position here?” He seemed at a loss for the rudiments of casual conversation, but at least he made the effort.

“I am pleased. It is delightful to tutor your nephew, with his enthusiasm.” Now she felt at a loss, uncomfortable in persisting. Her previous boldness had vanished. Fiddling with the teacup in her lap, she smiled at him.

“Fair enough. If everything is satisfactory, I’ll bring Frederick in.” He gave a slight smile in return, before rising to his feet—a very tall, imposing figure.

“Of course.” Bettina found his smile more intriguing than his apology.

Camborne brought the boy into the library and hesitated near the open door. Bettina dove right into her lesson and wondered if he intended to stay. When she glanced up, he wasn’t watching them at all. He stared out the window with a look she could only describe as preoccupied and troubled. She felt a stab of pity diluted with mistrust.

* * * *

In the taproom that night, Bettina’s thoughts kept sliding to Mr. Camborne, and she wished they wouldn’t. The master of Bronnmargh had no place in her scheme of things, and she knew she occupied no place in his.

Someone poked her shoulder. “There’s a man sittin’ in the corner,” Dory said with a suggestive wink. “Don’t think he’s ever been in here afore. Says he wants a Porter
… but wants the French girl to serve him.”

“Tell him I am too busy.” Bettina swiped at an ale spill near the kitchen door. “Why would a stranger say that?”

“Don’t know.” Dory shrugged her round shoulders, her worn bodice slipping off one of them; she didn’t bother to pull it back. “But he don’t want no one else. He’s wearing a huge hat, over in the far right corner.”

Bettina sighed. “He probably wants to taunt me because of my wicked country. I will not trouble with him.”

“They’s all looking for trouble, ain’t they?” Dory laughed, pushing her breasts higher above her corset to reveal more cleavage. “Might get a nice vail from him, if you’re good an’ friendly.”

The customers had thinned out, the candles flickering low. Bettina reluctantly ordered a Porter from Maddie and approached the corner table. The man sat in semi-darkness, the shadows draping a bulky body with beefy shoulders and arms. A broad-brimmed hat obscured his face. She noticed, when she set the tankard in front of him, that he wore a gaudy, red-stoned ring on his right hand. He had big, blunt-fingered hands.

“Thanks, m’lady,” he croaked, not glancing up. He didn’t offer of a tip for this courtesy, nor make any attempt to mock her origins. She left him in silence, relieved, yet disconcerted that he’d address her as “m’lady.”

When they closed for the night, Bettina off-handedly asked Dory for details.

“Not much to tell. Just ‘I want a Porter, have the French girl serve it’. Didn’t want no one else. That were ’bout it.” Dory pulled a few coins out from between her breasts, her manner indifferent. “Oh, he did ask what your name be, an’ had an odd way of talkin’. Foreign sounding, kind o’ like you.”

Chapter Ten

Settled into the now familiar library at Bronnmargh, Bettina absorbed the clean scent of leather and beeswax, and the warmth of a fire with sea-coal and no meat roasting over it. She reached out and squeezed Frederick’s arm when he fumbled over his sentences. “You have to think of the French language … as a graceful sound, with a beautiful rhythm.”

“Like a drum? Uncle promised he’d bring me a drum from Africa.” The boy kicked his stool leg. “If he travels there on his business.”

“No, not so like a drum.” She smiled at his earnest expression. “What sort of business does your uncle do?” Bettina tried to sound casual. Though curious about Mr. Camborne, she’d never asked Frederick about his private affairs.

“He
… ships things. Across the sea, to other places. He’s a merchant shipper. Someday he says I can travel with him, and see other lands.” The child sounded wistful, as if unsure this might happen.

“Visit to other lands, that does sound exciting.” When she glanced at him, he had a pensive look on his face, which he replaced with a smile the instant he caught her gaze. The little boy’s cheerfulness might be a façade. After all he’d been through, Bettina couldn’t fault him. She shuffled through the papers she used to write down lessons. “I will need some more paper, if your uncle can spare them.” Bettina hated to admit she’d returned here in anticipation of seeing Mr. Camborne. She shook off such folly. “Try again—”

“Mademoiselle, we can ask him. He’s across the hall in the parlor.” The boy hopped off his stool.

“No, I do not want to disturb him.” She felt her cheeks burn as if he’d read her thoughts.

“It will be all right.” He scampered from the room.

“Wait, please, Frederick…
.” Bettina stood and followed reluctantly. She was concerned that the child evaded his lesson for the first time. Frederick opened a door across the hall to an unexpected room covered in bright ivory silk wallpaper. A pale pink marble fireplace shimmered in front of Bettina, and an exquisite pianoforte sat to the left. She resisted the urge to approach it.

Mr. Camborne rose from a cream-colored brocade settee on the right.

Bettina stared in dismay. “I am so sorry to bother you, Mr. Camborne. But Frederick insisted.” She backed up a step and motioned for the boy to come out. “We must resume the lesson.”

“Frederick can be impulsive at times.” Camborne smiled indulgently at his nephew. His gaze even seemed warmer toward her. Bettina noticed an open book behind him on the settee.
Robinson Crusoe
, by Daniel Defoe; it was about a man marooned alone on an island.

“Uncle, Mademoiselle Bettina needs more paper.” Frederick grinned up at him. Camborne ruffled the child’s curls.

“It is nothing I need at this moment.” Bettina couldn’t suppress a smile at the affectionate gesture. “You have a nice pianoforte.” In the silence, she felt she had to say more. “Do you play, Mr. Camborne?”

Camborne’s gaze flicked to the instrument in transient distaste. “No. No, I don't.”

“Aunt Miriam used to.” Frederick went over to the bench. “Have you ever played, Mademoiselle?”

“I have not played in a long time.” Bettina didn’t look at Camborne after the mention of his wife. She stepped up and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We must go.”

“
S'il vous plaît
, play a little.” Frederick stared up at her, his blue eyes beseeching.

“If your uncle does not mind, only.” She glanced over and Camborne nodded. Bettina sat on the bench, arranged her skirt, and brushed her fingers over the ebony keys. It was a Stein with rosewood inlay, a fine instrument. Frederick plopped down beside her. “Eh bien, we will see if I remember.” Encouraged by the child’s exuberance, she tried a short piece from Mozart’s Piano Sonata, and thought it sounded fine even if she was out of practice, and the piano out of tune. She went right into the three movement Sonata in C.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,
très magnifique
.” Frederick clapped his hands. “Play some more, won’t you?”

Mr. Camborne stared at her, the speculation on his face evident. “You play competently, Miss Laurant. You have had formal training.”

Bettina knew she’d kindled his interest. The sense of being watched by a stern patriarch, wary over this mystifying addition to his fold, stole over her. Now feeling intrusive, she rose to leave. “Yes, a little, a long time ago. Thank you for allowing me.” Her fingers still hummed and she enjoyed that slip back into a carefree moment.

“My pleasure.” His voice still held an elusive edge.

Bettina withdrew into the passage. She tried to fathom why he unsettled her, deciding it wasn’t fear of his repute, but something else akin to danger. If his wife had once played the pianoforte, Bettina might have stirred up bitter memories.

* * * *

Her boots caked with slime, Bettina slogged up the muddy road. The incessant rain during the previous three days had made her feel too cloistered; she didn’t mind the walk. She’d waited longer than expected at the miller’s at the south end of Sidwell. The sun hung low, then slipped behind clouds, turning the sky dark as she headed home with a sack of flour. She found herself humming a pianoforte tune, the notes trilling in her head. Her fingers tapped in rhythm on the sack. It had been another step into the comfort of her past. No doubt she tried too hard to recapture something lost.

Trudging along, her ankles straining with the effort, she grew uneasy, as if someone followed her. She turned to look, but saw no one.

The shadows around her deepened, the air sweeping in from the sea was chilled.

She resumed her walk. Other footsteps sucked in the mud, keeping pace with hers. She hurried to pass through the village, weathered cottages on both sides of her. A woman leaned out a window, beating dried mud from a rug.

The footsteps stopped and started again. The hair on the back of Bettina’s neck bristled and she quickened her gait. Rushing the last few steps to the inn, she splattered mud on her skirt and stockings. She squeezed the sack to her chest and feared that Stephen followed her. Inside the inn, she breathed in gulps and leaned against the thin security of the closed door.

* * * *

Icy patterns of snowflakes formed on the window in Bronnmargh’s front hall. Bettina stared out. Her lesson with Frederick had just ended. “It is snowing so much.” She and the boy watched the flakes fall, glistening in the light from the lantern hung over the porch.

“It hardly ever snows in Cornwall,
quel dommage
.” Frederick pressed his nose to the pane, leaving a smudge. “The coach isn’t here for you, Mademoiselle.”

“A mid-March snowfall is unusual. I’m afraid the coach may not be able to maneuver the hill in this weather,” Mr. Camborne said, coming up behind them. He patted Frederick gently on the top of his head.

Bettina smiled at them as she put on her cloak. “I can walk probably, it is not far. The snow does not look that deep.” But she didn’t want to walk down alone in the night and waited to see if Camborne would offer to escort her. She had the increasing desire to know him better.

“I can
… perhaps … offer you a room for the night.”

“Please do not bother, I will manage.” Bettina pulled up her cloak hood to hide her disappointment. Staying in this forbidding place held no appeal. She stepped to the door.

“You can’t go out alone. It’s dark and rough going. I’ll walk you down.”

“Merci,” she said, glad he proved himself a gentleman. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.