Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (16 page)

“We will see.” Bettina nudged the ice back outside with her boots.

“I know how you can warm your hands, Mademoiselle.” Frederick opened the parlor door. “Play another song.”

Bettina followed him, a protest on her lips. She felt brash invading Mr. Camborne’s ivory parlor, but the sight of the pianoforte pulled at her. She stirred the embers in the grate to ease the room’s chill and thawed her hands close to the coals. The marble chimney-piece featured intricately carved roses and she traced a finger across them.

Frederick plopped on the piano bench and jabbed at the keys.

“No,
mignon
. The keys require a light touch only. Now watch me.” Bettina sat beside him and began to play a melody her mother had taught her, surprised she remembered. The song resonated with the heritage of her maternal grandmother, a dark, dignified woman. She closed her eyes for a moment, the notes tingling up her fingertips, the memories sweet.

“Uncle.” The bench creaked as he child swiveled around.

Bettina turned. Mr. Camborne stood in the doorway, his face unreadable. She clenched her hands but smiled. “I hope you do not mind, we were having a little fun.”

“I made her do it.” The boy grinned mischievously.

“No, indeed not, please continue.” Camborne smiled for his nephew. “Frederick, I believe you need to change out of your wet clothing.”

The boy chewed his lip and threw Bettina a disappointed look. He slid off the bench and trotted out. Camborne nodded to her, turned and walked down the hall.

Bettina stared back at the keys, contemplating another of Mr. Camborne’s elusive smiles. It hadn’t looked out of place, just out of practice. The fire sputtered in the grate; a clock on the mantel ticked in lonely rhythm. She started the song again, recalling her mother’s lively playing of it at their country château. She fought the off the sadness.

Camborne reentered. She stopped and prepared to rise, but he held up his hand.

“Please, keep playing, if you will.”

Bettina resumed her performance, putting spirit and emphasis into the notes. He walked over to a padouk wood pedestal sideboard to the right of the fireplace. “Would you care for a glass of brandy?”

Bettina finished, flexed her fingers, and tried not to show her pleasure at his abrupt hospitality. “I would, thank you, yes.”

“I thought you could warm yourself after sledding with Frederick.” He poured golden liquid into two snifters. “That was nice of you to think of it.” Camborne’s voice still cautious, he handed her a small snifter, his fingers long and tapered. “What was the name of that piece?”

“I … cannot recall the name, though it is Spanish. My mother taught it to me when I was a child. She is half Spanish. From her I inherited my dark hair and eyes.” Shyness flared as she accepted the drink. She took a sip of the brandy, and the taste of her homeland reeled her senses. “This is an excellent cognac.”

“You know your brandies as well as Mozart. You do confound me, Miss Laurant.” His tone was near amused, his face relaxed. He gazed at her with curiosity.

“My father used to—often people are different than what you first perceive them to be.” Not knowing what else to do, Bettina played more Mozart. This time the Rondo in D, and then the Concerto number 5.

Camborne sat on a Windsor chair beside the hearth and tossed a coal onto the fire. He fascinated her, while on another level continued to unnerve her.

She took a larger sip of the cognac, and immediately regretted it. The brandy burned a path to her stomach and she stifled a cough. “I am afraid you have heard everything substantial I know how to play.” She rose after the last piece. Emboldened by the brandy, she walked over and sat on an embroidered three-legged stool at the other end of the hearth and edged her damp ankles toward the fire.

“Perhaps I can find you sheet music. Do you read notes?” He turned to face her, his expression softer, his eyes alight. He smelled like leather and spice.

“I do read notes well.” Bettina was honored he wanted to hear more.

“I’ll look for music the next time I’m in London.”

“London.” She saw her opportunity. “That is very kind of you.”

“Kind?” He uttered the word as if alien to his vocabulary. “Yes, I suppose
….” Camborne swirled the brandy in his glass, his eyes focused on something intangible. Then he stared at her again. “You’re very young to be adrift here with no family. Didn’t you mention once that you had someone to reunite with? And you spoke of a mother just now.”

“I hope to reunite with my mother. But there are other
… circumstances to contend with.” Bettina brushed a hand near her collarbone and drank from her glass. “Mr. Camborne, how do you feel … about the revolution in France?”

Camborne sat back in the chair, his expression pensive. “Do you mean, am I for it or against it?”

“Yes, something to that effect.” She eyed him over the rim of her glass, her breath still.

“I’d have to say I don’t approve of what’s happening. They’ve gone about much of it in a cruel manner. If people had grievances with the king and his court, there has to be a more civilized way to solve it. Too many innocent people are suffering.”

“I agree with you.” Bettina took a deep breath and hesitated before prying herself open. But she perceived the honesty in his answer. “My father … he was a member of the nobility.”

Camborne arched his eyebrows. “A member of the nobility? Is this true?”

“The Comte Homere de Jonquiere. He died suddenly when I was sixteen. Just before the fall of the Bastille.” Bettina’s voice wavered when her father’s smile tumbled into her memory.

“That’s rather
… your father a count. I knew you seemed well-bred, but….” Camborne sounded a bit perturbed by her confession. “How did you end up here, with no resources, no guidance? Where is your mother?”

“We were living in Paris. But after
… my father’s death, and the attack on the Bastille, my mother feared for our safety. We left Paris for our country estate. After several months she sent me to the coast with an old trusted servant acting as guardian. My mother stayed behind to help other family members. But it was not safe for me in Boulogne, or so the old man said. I felt he overreacted. He told me other lies, which I realized later.” Her anger bubbled with the alcohol in her stomach. “He became ill and demanded that I sneak aboard a ship for England. He insisted that I contact a friend of his in Bath.” She took another sip of brandy and noticed that her hand trembled. “In Bath, this friend, a man named Bernard Little, had disappeared … moved somewhere unknown. I had nothing and nowhere to go.” Bettina sighed at that ill-fated memory. “I happened to have met Kerra, Maddie Tregons’ sister, out on the road, and she brought me here. Maddie was good enough to give me a job. That is why I work and live in an inn.”

Camborne’s eyes widened. He gripped his hand on his knee. “So you had no other recourse but to exist as a pauper?”

“I had so little money. And Armand, the old man, he warned me to be careful of sympathizers with the revolution, to keep my identity a secret. It sounds foolish now, but I was naive.” She blinked to chase back tears. “He meant to frighten me and I do not know why. Then he tricked me.”

“I’m shocked anyone would send you on such a journey alone, rather than hiding you elsewhere in France. He tricked you, you say?” He leaned toward her. His intent eyes were blue like Frederick’s, but Camborne’s flecked with green.

“There is much about this I do not understand.” Bettina explained about the package of blank paper, trying to keep the anger from her voice. Mr. Camborne may not even believe what must seem a far-fetched tale. “Armand so induced me to be secretive, and with the hostility I did experience, I have told no one this story.”

Camborne stood and leaned an elbow on the mantel, gazing down at her as he rubbed his chin. “And you chose me to confide in?” The clock ticked for a few heartbeats.

“I thought if you were not a sympathizer and you had associates, contacts, in London, perhaps there is a way to locate my mother.” She also understood her wish to draw him closer with startling admissions. “I wanted to go myself, when I first learned about refugees coming to London. But this weather has made the roads difficult. And I hate to leave Maddie short-handed when she has done so much for me. Of course, there is Frederick, his lessons.” She wouldn’t admit she hadn’t yet enough money for such an undertaking.

“That would be extremely dangerous for you unescorted, you mustn’t even consider it.” He almost scolded her, and she appreciated his concern. Maybe her absence would mean something to him. But what did she want it to mean?

Camborne shifted in place and took a gradual sip of his drink. “The republicans seem to be constantly fighting among themselves. No one knows which side to take. Your king and queen are prisoners, it seems, at the Tuileries palace in Paris. The king’s aunts recently were allowed to move to Rome. Many aristocrats did flee the country safely, as you said. Do you think your mother could be one of them to come here?”

“How sad for Their Majesties. I have only hopes for my mother. Armand, my guardian, promised to tell her I had gone to England. But I doubt if I can trust anything he said to me.”

“That was a cruel jest, making you believe you carried important information. Or perhaps someone else substituted those blank pages? You’ve had a difficult time.” Camborne made an effort to soothe her upset. If she once thought sternness enhanced his features, she realized her mistake, seeing this other side of him.

“It all confuses me.” She thought of Armand’s acerbic niece, of her friend wearing the tricolor. She ran her finger over the rim of her glass in a nervous, repetitive gesture. When the crystal began to sing, an eerie ringing sound, she stopped. “I think I was also confused, perhaps angry, by the events in France. But now, I begin to see why they happened.”

“May I read to you about the pirates, Uncle? And Mademoiselle?” Frederick hovered in the open door, clutching a large book in his arms. He looked at Bettina. “Uncle brought this to me from Plymouth.”

“Not yet, my good man. It’s too close to mealtime. Run and put your book away,” Camborne replied. The child made a pout before hurrying down the hall.

Bettina stood, though reluctant to move away from the fire. “I have taken up enough of your time. I appreciate your listening to me.”

Camborne watched her intently. “I might be able to do something to help. The next time I’m in London, I’ll inquire. There’s sure to be refugee organizations. I’ll try to gather information for you.”

“I will be grateful for anything you can find.” Bettina quivered—finally, some hope. “My mother’s name is Volet Jonquiere.”

Camborne straightened to his full height, moving away from the fire. “I assume Laurant is an alias, since both your parents are Jonquiere?”

“The Jonquiere name is well known in aristocratic society. I felt it better not to use it, due to the circumstances.”

“And you’re so certain you can trust me?” His tone remained solicitous, with a trace of bewilderment.

“I am … taking this chance.” As he had taken a chance in hiring a serving wench to tutor his nephew, as grudging as that seemed at the time.

“I see.” Did she detect tenderness in his eyes for her, or for her plight? “Well, since you’ve arrived on horseback, you had better return down the hill before it’s too dark. I’ll ride down with you.”

* * * *

Bettina rode with Camborne in front of the inn. Stephen Tremayne and a few local men tumbled out the front door. Laughter surrounded them.

“What a sight, lads. The froggie’s got her escort this time,” Stephen snickered, but slumped against the wall as if intimidated. “Only the best for her, aye?”

She regretted exposing Camborne to her base life, and encouraged her horse to hurry past.

“Who is that lout?” he asked as they clopped their horses around to the back of the inn. Darkness shrouded the courtyard.

“He is a farmer’s son, and is not very nice.” She dismounted in the weak glow from the lantern above the stable door, having to admit a new comfort in Camborne being beside her.

“Is that the man I caught assaulting you the first time?”

“Oui. His name is Stephen Tremayne.” The fact he’d remembered pleased her. Bettina led Shevall toward the stable. The horse huffed and steam blew out from his nostrils.

Camborne dismounted. “This is an unsafe place for you, for any decent woman.” He opened the stable door, unsaddled her horse and put him in the stall. “I’ll walk you inside.”

He took her elbow, warming her in the frosty air. When was the last time she felt protected, safe? They entered through the kitchen door.

“Look what blew in like an ill wind.” Ann’s derisive voice sliced the air as she glared at them, soot on her bony hands.

“Mr. Camborne? Child, you be all right?” Maddie asked, eyes narrowed. She had a bottle of
Canary tucked under her arm.

“I am fine.” Bettina turned to Mr. Camborne, hoping she hadn’t blushed too much in embarrassment. “This is Maddie Tregons.” The stink of the kitchen she’d almost grown used to now smelled overwhelming.

Kerra poked her face around the kitchen door. “Oh, fie. Himself is here? Stephen’s in the taproom makin’ a big to do ’bout it.”