Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (18 page)

“That’s what I wanted to discuss. I’m not certain when I’ll be in London next, but I had an interesting letter from an old friend of mine, Mrs. Hopper, who lives in Exeter.” Camborne rubbed his chin. “She mentions that an elderly man, an émigré, has come to work for her at her chinaware shop. A minor aristocrat it seems, he used to be involved in the Sevres factory in France, and wanted to dabble in it again.” He drummed a hand on the table. “Since Mrs. Hopper does run a shop, she could offer advice on that level, too. Perhaps … you’d like to travel to Exeter to meet this man? And discuss shop business?”

“I would like that. Merci beaucoup.” Bettina’s pulse quickened; she was delighted that Camborne showed an interest in her expectations. “Perhaps he knows of societies in England to aid refugees.”

“Precisely my thoughts. Can you request Saturday off? I’ve been planning to visit Ellen for some time. This will take all day, I’m afraid. Exeter is several hours from here.” He spoke fast, but she sensed his underlying anticipation. She filled with a hot rush at the thought she’d spend a day away from Sidwell with him.

* * * *

Maddie glared at her. “Another Saturday off? You know it’s my busiest evening. I’ll have to cut your pay, but take it if you must. I just hope you ain’t be getting in over your head.”

“She ain’t comin’ back. Strangled in a ditch. You’ll have to hire a new wench.” Ann plucked a duck at the kitchen table, bony fingers flying. Pinpricks of blood seeped up on the carcass. “A God
-fearin’ one this time.”

“You do not need to worry, Maddie.” Bettina could afford to lose a day’s wages if Camborne paid her double. She vowed to buy another dress with this increase, something lighter for the season. She tugged at her gown, the plum wool snug across her chest, shoulders and waist. She hadn’t grown fatter, just taller, more mature in her figure. “May I borrow a needle and thread? My skirt needs mending on the seam. This gown has grown too tight.”

“I’ll show you how to let it out, to salvage it.” Maddie pulled down a basket from atop the kitchen cupboard. “I won’t be lying to you, child. Your going off with Mr. Camborne don’t sit well. What do you really know ’bout him?”

“I know he is not the person everyone thinks he must be.” She took the basket and didn’t meet Maddie’s eyes. “If you saw him with his nephew, you would see how kind he is.”

“You trust him to be kind to you?” Maddie turned to inspect the barrels of beer just delivered—the entire kitchen reeked of fermented hops—then put her sharp gaze back on Bettina. “Has he told you ’bout his wife’s whereabouts?”

“I have not asked. But I
… a person must not be condemned without evidence.” Bettina rooted for a needle in the basket and pricked her finger.

“Look in the cellar, no less. That snooty harlot be—”

“Ann! Quit yappin’.” Maddie put her hands on her hips, glaring at Bettina again. She listed forward in what Bettina termed her ‘Mother Hen’ stance. “That’s the first thing you need to find out.”

“You cannot simply ‘ask’ that. It is a nice day today, but did you murder your wife?” Bettina hated to say it, even to Maddie. She sucked on her finger and frowned at the copper taste of blood.

“Don’t be fooled by fancy words. An’ men who might still have wives alive somewhere. There’s no future in it.” Maddie’s voice wavered an instant, as if she spoke from experience. “An’ don’t be saying you’re close to the nephew, when you be getting close to the master.”

“I like him as a friend and
… I promise to be careful.” Bettina stared into Maddie’s suspicious green eyes, then made a pretense of threading the needle. She brooded if she might never ask because she was afraid of the answer.

Maddie crouched in the kitchen corner and opened a trap door. She pulled out a bottle of French brandy. “You best not stay overnight nowhere.”

Dory sauntered in, passing Maddie as she strode out, and set down a tray.

“That strange man be here again.” Dory poked Bettina’s shoulder then shook out her kinky tresses. “Just come in
… the one who only wants ‘the French girl’ to serve him.”

Bettina experienced a chill, which turned to irritation. “You take care of him, please, Dory. I do not need more problems.”

“I tried. But he says ‘where’s the French girl’? Don’t want me at all.” Dory’s smug grin grew deeper on her plump features. “Even if I could put a smile on him faster ’an you.”

“I have no doubt you could.” Bettina ran the needle through the frayed him of her gown, tightened the seam and knotted off the thread.

“Heard tell about Mr. Camborne an’ you. Maybe the stranger want a bit o’ that, too.” Dory snickered. “So you ain’t so much better like you pretend.”

“
Parbleu
, those are lies,” Bettina sighed in disgust, cringing as Dory laughed louder.

To avoid Dory’s sneer, Bettina entered the smoky taproom to look over at the same corner. The man’s hulking body spread like a lump at the table, his hat pulled low on his face. She received and briskly served his Porter, watching him grasp it with his blunt, ugly hands, the right one adorned with the ruby ring. Despite the hat obscuring his features, she felt his eyes boring into her. He smelled of earth and grass as if he seldom came indoors.

“Thanks, m’lady,” he grunted. “How long have you worked here?” He obviously tried to disguise his voice, his accent garbled. His use of ‘m’lady’ seemed an open accusation. He tugged his hat lower to cast more shadow, but the candle near him was already blown out.

“I have been here long enough,” she said. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Maybe only a few months?” he replied with an amused inflection in his gravelly voice. “What is your name?”

“Miss Laurant.” She quivered with another chill. But he only tried to taunt her, like the others. She stared closer. “What is your name, sir?”

“Ah, I am called the Hunter.” His response was followed by something resembling a chuckle, but it sounded more like rocks rattling off a stonewall. “I hunt lost people,” he said in a loud whisper.

Bettina gulped. But she couldn’t fall prey to such goading. “Are you a Frenchman? Who are you
… hunting?”

The man slurped at his tankard, tossed a few coins on the table and stood. “We might talk again, but privately.” He flipped a large finger at his hat brim and ambled toward the door.

“Are you searching on behalf of….” Bettina put her hand to her throat. She’d almost said, on behalf of her family.

“We shall see who I find.” He snickered again and strode out.

He did sound French, but Bettina recognized the distinct accent of the lower classes. She gripped a chair edge and knew her family would never use this crude man for such an important venture. But who else would be hunting her?

Chapter Thirteen

The coach rolled up in front. Bettina stepped out of the inn and into the cool early morning air. Lew tipped his hat to her from the box. Camborne alighted and opened the coach door. When he helped her inside, she smiled at this courtesy, long absent from her life.

“Where is Frederick?” She had assumed the three of them would share this excursion.

“I’m sorry. I had expected him to travel with us. But he spent yesterday playing in the woods with Mrs. Pollard’s grandson, and they both came down with a cough. So Mrs. Pollard insisted Frederick stay at her cottage, and that I continue as planned.” Camborne’s smile was tentative. “We could do this another time, if you’ll feel uncomfortable on this jaunt unchaperoned.”

Bettina smelled the spicy soap from him, the leather seats of the coach. She was anxious to travel out of Sidwell. She tucked a loose strand of hair under her straw hat and knew she couldn’t pass up meeting this émigré. “I would like to go still. I am used to bending the rules, a little, after living at the inn.” She bit down on her tongue, hoping he didn’t think her too forward, or lacking in morals after her hasty remark.

“Very well, then we shall do just that.” In a jingle of harnesses, the coach rumbled up the road. They traveled for a while in an awkward silence the boy’s presence would have eased.

Heading north to the main road, the coach turned onto the highway leading east. In the ride through the countryside, Bettina observed the foliage damaged during the recent snowstorm. The wilted myrtle and verbena, the Hawthorn and beech trees with a few branches snapped from the weight of ice and snow. Yet April struggled on, with wild bluebells and purple foxgloves blooming in the tall grasses in vivid bursts of color.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Camborne glance at her periodically.

“I’ve written a letter to my business partner in London and asked him to check on refugee organizations there. Of course, London would be the central settling point for any such activity. Next time I’m in Town, it will be easy to contact them.”

“I appreciate you doing that for me.” She rubbed a finger over the buttery seat that jolted beneath her. “And for taking me to meet this man … and Mrs. Hopper.”

“I assure you it’s no trouble.” His affectionate smile made her breath catch.

She stared out the window as the coach crossed the Camel River, then the larger Tamar, and bowled through several villages. “Mr. Camborne, have you made a decision about sending Frederick away to school?” she asked after several minutes.

“Yes, I’ve decided not to.” Camborne stroked the brown silk cravat at his throat. “I believe he’s fine for now. He’s had too much disruption in his life.”

“I think it is a wise choice.” Bettina gave him a shy smile, unsure whether she was happy for herself or the child. How many months would she need to continue tutoring to raise the money she required? And then, would she simply leave them? “Now you will see me all the time, too.” She meant it as a jest to lighten the mood, and he did laugh. It was a nice sound she enjoyed.

“A delightful prospect,” he finally said. His soft words made her shiver.

They ate a simple dinner at a tavern and continued their journey. Soon an elegant arched bridge came into view. The coach trundled across the River Exe, then through a massive stone gate cut into fragments of a once encircling Roman wall, and into a city of old stone and black and white timbered buildings.

“Exeter is beautiful.” Bettina stared out the window. She felt like a country lass on her first visit to a thriving metropolis. As a countess who had once lived in Paris, she mused on how narrow her world had grown.

“Ellen’s shop is here on the High Street. Farther down is the famous Cathedral. I can show it to you later if you like?”

“I would like that.” She smiled at him.

They disembarked on a corner. Bettina admired the many quaint shops that lined this wide, busy boulevard. Cobbled lanes and alleys led off the main street. The bustle and commerce was a stark contrast to the remoteness of Sidwell.

Camborne escorted her to an establishment with the sign,
‘Chinaware Shoppe, Importer of Fine Wares from the Orient’ above the door.

A bell tinkled when they entered the shop. A tall broad-shouldered woman with iron-gray hair glanced up from behind a counter. She broke into a wide smile. “Everett, how splendid to see you.” She rushed to clasp his hand and kiss his cheek. “Hasn’t it been far too long?”

“Indeed, it has.” His smile was radiant and Bettina felt a twinge of jealousy. Had this woman received his smiles, when she saw so few? “Ellen, this is Miss Bettina Laurant. Miss Laurant, Mrs. Ellen Hopper.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Hopper.” Bettina guessed her to be well over forty. To soften her childish pique over Mr. Camborne having a female friend, she glanced around the shop: it was littered with displays of plates, cups, soup tureens, creamers and sugar bowls, all available in a variety of delicate patterns. But more importantly, she scanned the room for the elderly Frenchman.

“If you had given me more notice, I could’ve closed the place for the day.” Ellen glanced at Bettina then patted Camborne’s shoulder. “Let’s have tea in the back.” She led the way to a room piled with papers; half-opened crates stuffed with straw cluttered the floor. The woman rearranged a jumble of items to clear a place for them to sit.

“As a matter of fact, Ellen, Miss Laurant is interested in running a shop of her own. I thought you could give her the wisdom of your years of experience. But before we delve into that, you said you had a Frenchman working here, an émigré?”

“This pretty little child, a shopkeeper?” Ellen grinned indulgently. Her ample bosom thrust out like a ship’s prow as she sat at a messy desk. “She should find herself a good husband instead.”

Bettina’s cheeks burned. She clasped her hands together on her lap and hoped no one noticed. “I am not in the market for a husband, Madame. But I would like to meet this émigré.”

“You want to see Jean-Pierre? He’s out on an errand, and should be back shortly. He has been a Godsend. I had no idea French aristocrats bothered with trade.” Ellen poured the tea, dispensing lemon wedges and sugar lumps. “Alas, running a business is hard work for a woman. Not an undertaking for the frail. Quite a headache, too. This morning I had to fire one of my clerks for incompetence, and what a row we had.”

“I believe I am capable enough, and very determined.” Bettina kept her voice even. She resented being perceived as a porcelain figurine collecting dust on a shelf. And her father had
‘bothered with trade’, as did many of the French nobility. “What is Monsieur Jean-Pierre’s last name?”