Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (37 page)

“There is no point in resting. I have spent the entire day waiting.” She grasped his arm, then caressed it. “I am not a delicate orchid. I want to be involved in your plans. This is important to me, too.”

Everett shook his head with a frustrated sigh, and finally nodded. He held out his arm and they left the apartment, hurried down the stairs and walked out into the night.

“Pete’s not what you might expect.” Everett’s breath steamed into the cold air as he helped her into the coach. It lurched forward and they rattled past the ancient fortress of the Tower. “He’s very coarse and inelegant in appearance. But an associate of mine recommended him because, as he put it, Pete is the ‘eyes and ears of the seamier parts of London’. He’s been invaluable to me. I had him scouting for Miriam too, but there’s no trace of her in town. I believe Hollis knows the truth. Even he couldn’t be so stupid as to try to extort money on someone’s behalf when that someone might come forth, refute him and snatch the money for herself.”

The coach trundled past sheds and dilapidated buildings that clung to the waterfront. A few lanterns and oil streetlights shone little brightness on the docks at Wapping.

The driver halted before a tavern, the Town of Ramsgate, near the Wapping Old Stairs alley that led to the river. The stink of the Thames surrounded them the moment they stepped from the coach. A link boy had followed, and he dangled a lantern on a pole to light their way to the door. Everett gave him some coins and pushed open the weather-beaten portal.

Smoke and loud voices drifted out.

Bettina’s nose crinkled at the stench of bodies. Several sailors and dock workers glared when they edged through the benches. “He’s over there
,” Everett pointed.

A squat man stood and motioned them to a table. As Bettina approached, she agreed with Everett’s forewarning. Pete reminded her of an old pirate, with a patch over one eye and a missing front tooth. His wide face was littered with scars. Gaspar’s toad-like visage flashed in her mind like a douse of icy water. She sat across from him with Everett on a bench. Her fingers touched the sticky surface and she curled them to a fist.

“Sorry you had to bring the missus here, Mr. Camborne. But I’m here to meet up with a crony.” Pete spoke in a gravelly voice. “I found Hollis, as I said. He’s at a boarding house in St. Giles, run by Sally O’Brien—a nasty Irish widow to be sure.” He rubbed his dirty fingernails over a stained coat, frayed around the collar. “I has people watching for me, and he ain’t moved from there since last eve.”

“Splendid. Can you hire a few men, take me there, and we’ll force him out?” Everett had to raise his voice to be heard over the ruckus around them. He kept a wary eye on the other patrons.

Many of the men leered at her and Bettina stiffened inside her cloak. Her experience at the inn steeled her for such discomfort.

A small wheel on the wall behind Pete rattled as a little dog walked inside. This movement rotated a spit over the flames in a large stone fireplace where a joint of meat roasted.

A potboy thrust in a stick and poked the dog. The animal yelped, running faster. Bettina started and glowered at the boy.

“St. Giles is
… a peculiar place to be sure. It won’t be so simple to walk in and snatch him.” Pete picked at one of his blackened nails. “We has to be underhanded so Hollis don’t cry for help, pullin’ every blackguard in the rookeries down our throats.”

“What do you suggest?” Everett drummed his fingers on the splintered table top, moist with beer and rum. Bettina coughed in the smoke from the clay pipes that dangled between the lips of cursing men.

“We can go in, but a scheme to draw him away from the parish is best. I has a few ideas, an’ you might have some. This Hollis seems to have spread money around, making close friends, if you get my meaning?”

Everett grimaced. “I don’t know where he could’ve gotten any mo—”

The front door banged open. A naval officer entered, followed by three sailors in baggy trousers. The people in the room shifted in agitation; men ducked under tables, into other rooms, or scuttled out the back. One of the sailors had a club and they fanned out around the taproom. Bettina reared back on the bench and clutched Everett’s arm.

“It’s the press-gang,” Pete said in an undertone. “I’s too old for ’em now, won’t bother with me. But you better take the lady outta here, might get rough.”

“That’s wise. I’ll try to come up with an idea and contact you tomorrow, Pete.” Everett rose and handed him two crowns. He hurried Bettina out the tavern’s rear door, leaving Pete to his waterfront indigence.

“What was that about? What is a press-gang?” Bettina asked as they rushed through a pitch-black alley, brushing their shoulders against damp stone.

“In England we have a … unique way of hiring crews for the ships. Roving groups like those gentlemen, called press-gangs, scour the taverns and inns, kidnapping able-bodied men and impressing them onto ships for long voyages.” Everett hesitated at the alley’s end and scanned the street. “It’s brutal, but no one stops it because it’s the only sure way to recruit. Most people don’t care for the harsh life of a sailor.”

“That is brutal.” She shivered in the fog that hazed out the only working streetlamp. “You should send them after Hollis. It sounds fitting for your brother-in-law. What do we do now to capture him?”

“I agree it’s fitting.” Everett helped her into the coach and the hired driver urged the horses forward. Men’s shouts came through the tavern’s front door. “Well, let’s put our heads together and dream up a plan to draw the cur from his cave.”

They picked up a shepherd’s pie, salad, and ale at a cook shop and carried it upstairs.

“Everett, when you received those letters demanding money, was there a place discussed for you to meet and arrange this?” Bettina spread out the meal on a low table before the parlor fire. Everett tossed on more coal.

“I was directed to leave a package of money at this chandler shop on the outskirts of St. Giles. Hollis didn’t even bother to pretend there was a solicitor’s office, or try any legal haggling. More of his insane, blatant greed.” Everett took a bite of pie and chewed slowly. “Pete has staked out the shop, but never saw Hollis go near it.”

“Why do you not drop off a letter there, telling Hollis you will meet with him?” Bettina tasted the overcooked beef and onions. She swished a swallow of the weak ale in her mouth, then stretched her hands toward the fire. “No, you should address it to the phony solicitor.”

“I’ve been thinking of doing just that. Contacting this Mister Jones—very original—just to ask more questions pertaining to the matter.” Everett took a drink of ale and sighed. “Details about Miriam.”

“Yes, say you want to discuss a financial settlement for Miriam Camborne. Hollis may have someone working there who keeps in touch or checks the shop in case anything is left.” Bettina rubbed the back of her neck, a weariness creeping over her.

“And if Hollis is desperate enough, he’ll send someone to pose as this solicitor. Then I’ll see what kind of person I’m dealing with.” Everett ate the last bite of pie. “I could insist on meeting with Hollis through him. Of course, then I’d have to admit that I know my brother-in-law is behind all this, supposedly in league with my estranged wife.”

“Tell him you are pretty certain, and promise to settle money on Hollis and Miriam if Miriam agrees to a divorce, because you want them both out of your life.” Bettina stood and brushed the crumbs from the table, tossing them into the fireplace. “But Hollis has to meet with you face-to-face.”

Everett chuckled. “You have a devious mind for a nobleman’s daughter.”

“And the meeting must be away from this St. Giles, with Pete and others close by.” She raised her arms and stretched like a cat, and saw his gaze turn desirous. “Then you will have him and force his confession, if he has one.”

Everett stood and pulled her toward him. “If he’s foolish enough to fall for it.”

* * * *

The next morning, Bettina flipped through the paper as the coach squeezed through the London streets. “According to
Le Courrier de Londres
, many émigrés have settled in the Soho district, a place with a French flare because it was settled by Huguenots in the previous century.”

“I know the area. We’ll visit there as well.” Everett rested is arm over her shoulders.

“There is a bookshop there called Dulau on Wardour Street, where émigrés trade gossip and inquire about relatives.” Her excitement rising, she gripped the pages with a crackle. The coach bumped into a neighborhood of elegant, cream-colored townhomes.

“My sources say the émigré nobility settled here in Marylebone, also originally populated by Huguenots.” Everett had the coach driver stop. They stepped out into crisp chilly air. Bettina’s stomach tangled in knots as he escorted her into one of the homes to speak to a displaced aristocrat.

“What a silly, prissy man.” She fumed in the coach when they left a half hour later. “He wants to maintain his expensive way of life, with nothing left in France to support it. No peasants to tax. I am proud that I worked for my room and board.” As a child she’d never noticed how useless some of the aristocrats really were. Now she was embarrassed by her countrymen. “Each day, I understand more about what started the anger of the lower classes.”

“Many are starting to understand. Though there are more civilized ways to bring about change.” Everett squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry he knew nothing about your mother. We’ll keep searching. To Wardour Street in Soho,” he told the driver.

They entered the Dulau bookstore. Bettina stared at the numerous volumes, all in French. She checked the notices nailed up with requests for information on family members, but found nothing pertaining to her. Several men stood around, arguing in French. It felt good to hear her native language again. She stopped a wiry man in a cape, who seemed to know everyone there. “Please, Monsieur, have you heard any news about my family, the Jonquieres?” Bettina explained her situation, the French rolling off her tongue.

“We haven’t heard anything about the Jonquieres in England.” The man raised an eyebrow, looking her over. “But your mother, the Comtesse, would do well to leave the country, after what happened to your poor father.” He stalked out the door.

“Wait, do not go, please! What do you mean?” Bettina rushed out after him. “My father, he died from a heart ailment.”

“Pardon. Many of us suffered beyond what we should have.” The man clenched his hands and wouldn’t meet her anxious gaze. “Your father interfered with people who grew too strong to thwart.”

“What people? Was it about his business?” Bettina couldn’t help but think of Gaspar.

“It was about money, the revolution. Isn’t everything? That’s all I know.” He wrapped his cape about his shoulders and swept like a bat around the corner.

Bettina thought of the reaction of the old Baron in Exeter when she mentioned her family, and more of her conversation with Gaspar. She quaked with frustration and looked up at Everett who kept pace beside her. “My father interfered, with money, with the rebels? But he was an honest man. I … there is far more to his death than my mother wanted me to know.”

* * * *

Their feet crunching over frosty grass, Bettina walked with Frederick under ancient oaks in Hyde Park. She and Everett had picked him up in a hackney coach at the school so they could spend the day together. It was Oleba’s day off, and she was visiting with friends. When they returned, Everett had found an urgent note from Pete informing them he’d set up the meeting with Hollis, and Everett left.

“Are you enjoying school any better?” Bettina had trouble concentrating after the bookstore encounter, and now Everett’s meeting that might change their entire lives. But she couldn’t neglect this child. She tore up a hunk of bread she’d brought, and handed him pieces.

“It’s not so awful, I suppose.” He flung several scraps toward the swans near the Serpentine pond. The birds poked their heads on long necks to snap and nibble.

A small carriage rambled by on the park’s perimeter drive, the route du roi, with a well-dressed woman inside. “Look over there, Mademoiselle. That lady is hoping those men on horseback will notice her.” Frederick laughed. “There are so many of them in the summer. Girls are silly.”

“Not all girls are silly. Some day you will not think so.” Bettina tried not to laugh.

The two of them walked past Kensington Palace and strolled through the botanic garden, though little bloomed on this brisk November day.

A woman in shabby clothes hawked food close by. She leaned over a tripod above a raised brick fire, a greasy smell thick in the air. “Hot fritters, piping hot fritters!”

“When will Uncle Everett be back?” Frederick asked, a disgruntled look on his face. “I thought he was coming with us.”

“He will be back as soon as he can.” Bettina felt guilty that she wished she could have gone with him to the coffee house just outside St. Giles and finally meet Frederick’s infamous father.

“Can we walk all the way to Buckingham House? We might see the king and queen.” Frederick picked up a twig and hurled it through the air. His cheeks and nose were already red, like a ripening apple, from the cold.

“Maybe we should find something that is inside to do.” Bettina looked up at the darkening sky. “Have you made any friends at school?” A raindrop splattered on her nose. She steered the boy under a spreading oak with thick branches.