Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (5 page)

“A bit young. I been on my own for a long spell, so I know all about it. I mean my sister was around, but she lets me do what I want … mostly. Had adventures aplenty. Now I’m close to twenty. An’ if that don’t rhyme.” Kerra slapped the table for emphasis, jiggling Bettina’s teacup. “Who’s these people waitin’ for you?”

Bettina stirred the dregs of her tea, uncomfortable in this tavern where elderly men gawked and still wary of this brazen young woman. In minutes she would be safe in the company of the Littles, who she hoped wouldn’t be overwhelmed by her intrusion. She touched the canvas bag beside her and knew they’d be happy to receive these papers. For the first time she preened at doing the royalists an important service. “They are
… friends of my family.”

“It’s always good to have friends.” Kerra’s expression softened. “I’ll help you find ’em. Drink up.” She drained her ale in one gulp, swiped her sleeve over her mouth and stood.

Bettina took another sip. She rose, legs cramping, following Kerra across the room up the few steps and back outside.

“We’ll walk down the street and see if I remember right.” Kerra waved a hand.

Bettina hurried with her toward the corner where a wide street veered off to the left.

“There’s the Pulteney Bridge, so it be down this way.” Kerra pointed left. “I come here for a time to visit that randy fella at the Crescent, like I said. But that jackanapes ain’t important no more, much like that cad in London.”

They turned and walked shoulder to shoulder. Bettina was relieved when Kerra said no more about her sordid adventures with men.

The street spanned a rushing river with shops on both sides of the bridge. This road, with the others leading into it, swarmed with carriages. Pedestrians pushed past them in a cacophony of voices. The buildings loomed tall and elegant in their limestone facades, many with stairs leading to an entrance below street level. They crossed the bridge. Two blocks over in a row of townhouses, on the right-hand corner, Bettina’s heart leapt when she saw number 65.

Her muscles relaxing, she turned to Kerra with a huge smile. “I must manage this alone now, if you do not mind. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Uh? ‘Course you does.” Kerra raised her brows. She shrugged. “I hafta be off an’ check the coach station. Obliged for the company, Mamsell. Remember, if you’re ever in Cornwall, it's Maddie’s Ace in Sidwell village.” She grinned and strolled back over the bridge at a quick gait, vanishing from Bettina’s sight.

* * * *

At last at her destination, Bettina prayed that these people would receive her kindly and would be as benevolent as her imagination created them. She patted down her dress, adjusted the hat and hoped her shabby condition wouldn’t repel them. Walking up the steps of number 65, she frowned at the sign posted: Franklyn Inn; Daily and Weekly Rates. She knocked until a squat woman in white cap and apron answered the door.

“Excuse me, but do Monsieur and Madame Bernard Little live here?”

“No, Miss,” she replied. “Don’t have no long-term lodgers right now, just the people on holiday. Don’t remember no one of that name. Would you be needin’ a room yourself?”

“Did they used to live here, these Littles? How long have you had this inn?” Bettina’s heart vibrated as fear crept over her. Armand couldn’t have given her the wrong address.

The woman called to someone inside, and a tall man came to the door. Bettina repeated her questions for him. “Do they live nearby? Can you give me an address, please?”

The man’s top lip curled in his glum face. “I did buy this place over a year ago from a couple named Little. They wanted to move out to the country. But I do not know, or least of all care, where they’ve gone. If you have no need for lodging, I’m very busy.” He shut the door in her face.

Bettina stared at the brass knocker. She doubted he’d find many lodgers with that attitude, then decided the English were a hopelessly crass, ill-mannered culture. She hammered on the door again with the knocker, then using her knuckles. The curtain at the window fluttered, but no one responded.

She turned and stumbled down steps that seemed to quake beneath her feet. What could she do now with no place to stay and only a few coins remaining? Armand had unwittingly tossed her into a quagmire. Or had it been unwitting?

“
Merde
,” she whispered. She whirled about, ran up the steps of the building next door, knocked, and asked if they knew where the Littles had gone.

“No, no, never spoke to them. They weren’t
….” the mousy woman who answered grimaced, “they moved away. But never knew them, good day to you.” The woman slammed her door in Bettina’s face.

She turned around and gripped the metal stair rail until her fingers hurt. The tawny façades of the surrounding buildings now appeared menacing as they towered over her. Behind every one waited another Englishman or woman ready to ridicule her. She barely registered the queerness of that last person’s response.

Bettina squeezed her bundle and plodded back across the bridge. She turned left on the road beside the river. The gushing sound pulled at her, matching the blood that roared through her veins. By the time she passed a Gothic Abbey on the right, her eyes brimmed with angry tears. At that moment she despised everything English.

“Mamsell!”

Bettina lifted from her haze to see Kerra running from the opposite direction, her valise bumping off her shins. Bettina’s relief to see her surprised her—a familiar face in a land of hostile strangers.

“What happened to your friends? Weren’t that the right place?” Kerra asked when she scampered up, gasping for breath.

Bettina sucked in air, almost unable to form the words. “They are gone … moved … no one knows …
ma foi
, I cannot believe it.”

“Gone where? Weren’t they waitin’? You be crying?” Kerra poked her little face toward her like a curious kitten, then put an arm around her and hugged her.

Bettina wiped her tears on the rough canvas. “They did not know I was … on my way.” She shriveled in confusion—and in shame. She regretted her earlier casual dismissal of the young woman. The hug felt comforting.

“Sounds awful. I’m in a fix, too.” Kerra scrunched up her mouth. “Don’t have enough for the coach fare. I’d paid all the way to Bristol. They said they couldn’t do nothin’ about us being ‘asked’ to leave the other. Thought I’d go back to the tavern for a dram, and maybe some food. Come with me, you could use a whistle an’ grub.”

“No, no, I must decide what to do.
Hélas
, if they do not live here, I have nowhere to go. I have no one else.” She slipped from Kerra’s embrace, fear tightening her chest. Her dress’s neckline, stiff with perspiration, chafed her collarbone. “I wish I could go home, to France.”

Kerra’s eyes glistened with compassion. “I know, Mamsell. I been drug through it, too. Life ain’t easy. I bragged about the men, but weren’t as bad as it sounded. A girl hasta get a good job, or a rich husband.”

Bettina rubbed her temples and pushed back her greasy hair. “What is this ‘job’?”

“Aye, you know
… work, labor.”

“
Un travail
? What could I do?” Bettina choked back her tears. A harsh reality, but ladies of her class were only groomed to be wives and hostesses. That had been the goal when her life started out. As for the rich husband, she dreaded the type of spouse she might attract in her present condition.

“I'm set to work back at Maddie’s, if I can get there. She said business be promisin’ afore I left. Say, maybe she can give you something to do, too.” Kerra flashed her impish grin.

“What kind of something?” Bettina asked, still dazed. A large coach-and-four clattered by over the cobbles. The footman clinging to the back yelled for them to keep out of the way.

Kerra urged her over to stand in the shadow of a building. “I dunno, cleaning up, making beds. Can you cook?”

“I have never tried.” She couldn’t think of any skill that might help her. Embroidering, deep curtsies, the proper way to walk in a gown, would put no food on the table, or roof over her head.

Kerra squeezed her shoulder. “Fie, Maddie’ll find some job you can manage.”

“Is there nothing but being a maid or a cook?” Neither occupation appealed to Bettina in the slightest, but other arrangements could be made. The idea of having to work for her living had never occurred to her before today. The Littles were supposed to shelter her until she could return home. “How far is this Cornwall?”

Kerra raised her pointed chin, narrowing her eyes. “Another several days. But that kind of work’s respectable enough.”

“It is that far?
Mais non
. I need to stay in Bath and try to find these people.” Bettina sighed, her frustration pinging up her shoulders and neck. “Is Cornwall a fine city like this? I might have a proper chance here.”

“Cornwall ain’t no city. But Bath’s a costly one. Can get unruly with these summer crowds, ain’t safe for a girl all by herself. If you’re found loiterin’, they’ll put you in the
workhouse. An’ you don’t never wanna end up there,” Kerra spoke with blunt concern. “It’s worse than a prison.”

Bettina sorted this through her frazzled mind. She still dreaded the idea of another long trek. “I do not know. I might find a job here, could I not?”

“No one in this fancy town would hire you lookin’ like a ragamuffin.”

Bettina didn’t need a mirror to verify what that meant. She remembered the leering men she had encountered and added the shadowy threat of the
workhouse. At least with Kerra she had a person familiar with the country and the prospect of not starving. “How do we travel to Cornwall? I do have a small amount of money.”

“I saw a man selling a bag o’ bones horse near the tavern where the coach leaves from. Said he’s desperate to feed his ailin’ wife. I know we can get it cheap, saddle and all.” Kerra nudged Bettina with her elbow. “We can travel together, can’t we? Pitch in and buy supplies for the ride out to the coast?”

“It is so much to think about.” Bettina swayed, the papers rustling in her arms.

“Come round now, sometimes too much thinkin’ gets you in worse trouble. We’ll indulge one night and get a room outside o’ town where it be cheaper.” Kerra slapped her on the back.

Bettina winced. She wondered if another innkeeper could be rude enough to evict two young women under suspicion with no ‘menfolk’? The coaching inns had been vulgar enough. She could pretend that Kerra was her servant. Resisting the urge to scratch under her arm where her stays chafed, she forced her mind to focus on something pleasant. “We will find a place with a hot bath, oui?”

“Not for me
,” Kerra snickered and rolled her eyes. “But if it’ll make you happy.”

* * * *

In the room that night, after a much-needed bath, Bettina touched the necklace she wore tucked beneath her chemise. She caressed the long gold chain with its enameled and diamond, opal studded salamanders. Guilt tugged at her that she thought it repulsive. It was a last gift from her father, and she knew she could never sell it to rescue herself. She stared at the envelope she’d carried from France and hoped the information wasn’t too crucial. Had she put anyone in danger by failing as a courier? Perhaps she needed to know what was inside.

Bettina glanced at Kerra, who was already snoring in the bed she insisted they share, then broke open the wax seal. A sheaf of blank papers spilled out onto the floor.

Chapter Four

With no sidesaddle, Bettina straddled the gray gelding like a boy, her thighs gripped on the leather. She didn’t know what a horse was worth in England—and the owner had acted confused about the value of her gold louis—but this emaciated beast seemed worth but a few sous. Familiar with horses, she’d insisted on taking the reins, desperate to have some control in the bizarre direction her life had scattered.

She’d ridden on her family’s country estate during the summers. She pictured her mother’s last wave from Château Jonquiere. Maman would never find her now. Bettina’s fury over Armand tricking her stung like glass shards in her stomach, but it kept her sadness at bay. His reasons seemed incomprehensible.

“Ain’t never had my own horse.” Kerra’s valise poked into her spine. “It’s nice ridin’ up this high. Like a queen.” She squirmed her skinny body behind her and talked on. Bettina concentrated on the warmth and movement of the horse, her mind tangled up with thoughts until it felt numb.

At nightfall, Kerra urged her into a grove of beeches, behind a pungent hedgerow. “We’ll camp here like them wild gypsies.”

Bettina had never slept outside, but dismounted and unpacked the supplies they’d purchased: vegetables, an iron pan, tin plate, one bent fork—the only implement left.

“Here’s a blanket, we didn’t think to buy one o’ them. Did that man leave anything else in these saddlebags?” Kerra dug around. “I have my tinderbox.”

“I hope he left a bottle of wine and roast veal.” In the shadows, Bettina rubbed her chafed inner thighs. She unsaddled the horse and led him to a creek to drink. He seemed a dull, docile animal, as bemused by his situation as she was over hers. She stroked his soft nose.