Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (19 page)

“A name impossible to pronounce. I daresay you’ll have to ask him yourself. Actually, I started this shop with Mr. Hopper, but he died several years ago. Now I handle it all myself. Sometimes I think about finding myself another husband.” Ellen laughed mannishly and reached over to squeeze Camborne’s hand.

Bettina winced and speculated if Mr. Camborne might be one of her candidates. The idea he might be annoyed her more. She had to wonder again at her inappropriate jealousy.

After tea, Mrs. Hopper showed Bettina around the shop and discussed what happened on a daily basis. The work sounded time consuming, but interesting and rewarding. When a customer entered, Bettina observed what transpired during a business transaction. Ellen then discussed further details and duties of a shop proprietress. Camborne watched them with a satisfied air.

Bettina grew impatient, staring out the bow-front window at every person passing by. Finally, a frail looking man with a cloud of white hair under an old-fashioned tricorn hat stepped into the shop. His wizened face resembled creased parchment. He wore a frock coat of fine cloth, large for his frame, shiny at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs.

“Here is my Jean-Pierre. Voila
, as the French say.” Ellen’s loud voice made the old man twitch his mouth, his body quivering. “Come and meet my guests.”

After introductions, Camborne and Mrs. Hopper left Bettina alone with Jean-Pierre in the back room. They conversed in French, to her delight.

“I am, or was, Baron Gasquet de la Roche, Mademoiselle Laurant. But,
ma foi
, that is all of the past. What do you wish of me?” He spoke in a whispery voice, his delicate hands pulling at his cravat.

“I want to know if you traveled to England with other émigrés, and if you knew where I might contact my mother
… if she has done the same? Her name is Volet de Jonquiere.”

“Jonquiere?” He raised a hand to his wrinkled cheek, his dull eyes bright for an instant. “Was your father Comte Homere de Jonquiere?”

“
Mais oui
. You knew him?” Bettina’s heart vibrated in her throat.

The old man half turned from her. “No, not personally. I knew of him.”

“Please, what do you mean?” She watched the twitching of his bony shoulders.

“A time of such upheaval.” He turned back and faced her, his expression now full of pity. “After the riots, I stayed away from the cities, and emigrated as soon as I could after the Bastille. I traveled with friends, and took all the money I had.
Ma chère
, if your mother has left France to come here, you should ask in London. I hope she did.” He reached out a claw of a hand to grasp her arm, reminding her of Armand that last morning. “A bloodthirsty regime is in control of our homeland, never forget that. I’m a very old man, and want to live in peace. I no longer speak of the past.”

* * * *

Gasquet fluttered out of the room. Bettina slumped in a chair and fought back tears. No matter how she’d probed, the old man had shaken his thin head and refused any more questions.

The door opened again. “Are you all right?” Mr. Camborne walked over to her.

“He sounded so odd about everything,” she said as she repeated their conversation. “I suppose I cannot blame him after what he has been through. But it seemed my father’s name upset him.”

“I am sorry. But don’t be too disappointed. This man knowing your mother’s whereabouts would have been a great stroke of luck. He’s right, London is our best resource.” Camborne squeezed her shoulder, his hand remaining there, warm and firm, until Mrs. Hopper joined them.

“He’s a nervous old dear, isn’t he?” she said with a laugh. Mrs. Hopper sat at her desk and patted the chair beside her. Jutting out her chest again, she began to reminisce to Camborne about their shared past, he having been a good friend of her departed husband.

Bettina gazed out the window, still disappointed, and now feeling left out. She noticed their discourse never touched on Camborne’s wife, marriage, or anything of that sort. She suspected they purposely talked around it because of her presence in the room.

“Ellen, thank you for your help. We’ve taken up enough of your time,” Camborne said after several minutes, glancing at Bettina. “I have enjoyed our visit.”

“You’re so very welcome. Please, let’s not be strangers again.” Ellen leaned close and once more kissed his cheek. “Do come back and see me soon.”

Bettina rushed to her feet, shaking the gloom away. “You have been most kind, Mrs. Hopper, but we really ought to be on our way.”

Back out on the front step, Bettina watched well-dressed shoppers in flowing velvet and silks bustle along the street. She stared down at her drab wool and suddenly pictured herself a dreary little mouse in her simple, over-washed attire.

“Would you care to take a walk around the city?” Camborne stepped beside her as Ellen closed the shop door. When he offered his arm, he looked at her in a way that soothed most of her doubts over her appearance. His blue eyes were tender. She allowed his approval to push aside her frustration at the Baron’s behavior.

She clasped his sleeve, the wool of his coat soft underhand. “That sounds perfect.”

They passed small shops with bay windows and Tudor beamed houses with overhanging upper floors.

“Up there is Rougemont Castle, or what’s left of it. The gatehouse still stands.” He pointed to a ruin sitting on the highest ground to the north. The gatehouse, a small square-shaped structure, sat surrounded by the remains of a high wall. “The castle is named for the red earth here and thus has those distinctive red-hued stones. The West Saxon kings supposedly used it for their royal residence, though many argue that the ruins only date from the Normans. Then the Earls of Cornwall took it over.”

His cultivated voice and manner enchanted Bettina as before. He seemed relaxed as they walked, his tone gentle. Yet she suspected he often hid behind his well-chosen words to keep familiarity at bay. She encouraged him to open up by asking questions and hoped he wouldn’t think her a bother.

The pair approached the Exeter Cathedral Church of St. Peter. Bettina thought it glorious, with its castellated parapets, crocketed pinnacles and flying buttresses—like a fairytale castle.

“The cathedral is Gothic with twin Norman towers. Though the towers too were once believed to be Saxon. This west face has statues representing God, the Apostles, and Evangelists. There’s King Richard II, and also many unidentified figures.”

“It reminds me of Notre Dame, in a way. May we go inside?”

“Of course.” He brushed against her when they entered. Bettina quivered as a strange tingling crept down inside her abdomen. Camborne stared at her as if he experienced a similar sensation, then they both looked away.

Bettina studied the long, unbroken vaulting of the ceiling with its massive gilded bosses studding the junctures. She touched her shoulder, finding it difficult to dismiss that feeling when it had rubbed against his.

“That carved fourteenth century throne is where the Bishop sits,” Camborne said, his tone now measured and self-conscious. “And this west window has seven of the Apostles depicted in the stained glass … as you can see.”

“They are impressive.” Bettina stood three feet away from him, but something drew her closer. The cathedral was cool and dim, yet she felt sticky under her clothes.

“You look … tired. Shall we get a drink somewhere? And some supper?” Camborne asked, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them.

“Please, I would like refreshment.” Her voice sounded far away.

* * * *

They sat in a shadowy corner at a low-raftered Elizabethan coffee house nearby. Camborne ordered a bottle of Canary and a chicken and mushroom pie.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Miss Laurant?” He filled her glass with an unsteady hand. The rich aroma of coffee from other customers’ cups permeated the room.

“No, I always wished I had. After me, Maman found she could not have any more children. I do not think Armand capable of abandoning more than one of us on your shore. We might have overpowered him and refused to go.” She didn’t add,
‘as I should have’. In Camborne’s company, she mused whether fate had a different future in store for her.

“I just wondered what family you left behind,” he said.

A fat old man and a younger woman were engaged in a drunken argument on the settle near the fireplace. Bettina started when a glass shattered on the hearth.

“My family? My mother, two aunts, an uncle, a few cousins. When my mother sent me to Boulogne, she stayed behind to convince her sister to come with her. But Tante Creissant refused to leave Paris, that is what my mother said in her last letter. My aunt insisted everything had calmed down. I suppose at the time that was true.” Bettina sipped the wine, sweet on her tongue, to relax herself. “That old Baron, he acted strange at the mention of my father’s name, as if there is something more. But he would not speak of it. Or maybe I misunderstood.” She tried to smile as she took a bite of the pie. It was overcooked, but flavorful.

“He seemed quite the nervous sort, perhaps it is nothing.” Camborne’s gaze was sympathetic.

She decided to change the subject. “What type of trade do you do, since your estate is not a working farm? Frederick told me that you ship things.”

“He’s right. My father ran a successful shipping enterprise, which I took over from him. He wanted me to train to become a barrister, but that didn’t interest me. I did attend university, then took time off to travel. I visited his areas of business—Gibraltar, the West Indies, the west coast of Africa. And I gladly took charge of the business when he decided the work too much for him.” Camborne refilled her glass. She sipped it, relishing their private interlude. “As for the estate, Bronnmargh was a thriving place at one time.”

“If you can’t keep it quiet
… oh, bother, John, let your daughter take you home.” The coffee house proprietor scolded the bickering pair in the settle.

Bettina remembered what Old Milt had said about Camborne’s mother running off after his father passed away. “What about your family?”

“My father died some time ago … and I had only the one sister, Clare. Frederick’s mother.” He glanced away for a moment. “My mother lives in the Scillies now.”

Bettina turned the wine glass between her fingers, the liquid wavering inside. “Frederick mentioned an
… Aunt Miriam.” She held her breath. His eyes narrowed for a moment and she almost regretted she’d said it.

“My wife and I have been separated for a long time.” Camborne’s jaw stiffened as he stared out into the room, his eyes unfocused. “It’s late, we do need to travel home.” He stood. His words were clipped, but she discerned a great sadness beneath them.

“I understand. Thank you for the supper.” Bettina knew she’d spoiled their evening, just when he seemed so receptive toward her. Yet she saw nothing wrong with wanting to know more about him.

* * * *

“Look at that beautiful sunset,” Bettina said as they boarded the coach. Full with several glasses of wine, she felt as glowing as the sky with its purple and orange hues etched above the city’s medieval skyline.

“The air is chillier. Here, put this around you.” Camborne pulled a rug out from under the seat and draped it across her lap, tucking it close about her legs. His touch warmed her more.

The coach rattled across the arched bridge through the lengthening shadows and gained the road to the west. Camborne sat beside her, their thighs almost touching.

Bettina’s thoughts swirled over the day, their conversation and growing intimacy, until her mentioning of his wife. What did she mean to this man next to her? Was she just a tutor for his nephew, a casual friend? Did he already have a paramour? “That woman, Mrs. Hopper, she seemed very
… is she sweet on you?”

“Ellen? No, why do you think that?” He sounded amused. The horses clopped, harnesses jingling. “Would it matter if she were?” he added softly.

Bettina swallowed, the pulse in her throat throbbed. “Yes … I think it would matter very much.” Tension hung thick in the air between them. Only the outside coach lamps were lit, and the increasing darkness masked her shame after such a bold utterance.

In a creak of leather, Camborne turned toward her in the seat. “Miss Laurant, I…
.”

Bettina leaned forward, to hear his hushed words.

He reached up and caressed his hands over her arms. Her breathing quickened. He drew her closer in the swaying conveyance. Bettina shuddered and looked at him shyly, his figure vague in the gloaming. He reached under her chin, lifted her face and caressed his warm lips over hers. She gasped, yielding to his kiss and the provocative twinge deep inside her. Tasting the wine on his lips, she feared her heart would burst from her ribcage.

Camborne’s kiss intensified, searching her mouth, hungry and anxious. She slid her arms around his neck as he pressed his chest against hers, firm muscle against her tender nipples. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead. His mustache tickled her skin.

“Oh, Bettina, what are we letting ourselves in for?” he murmured into her hair.