Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (17 page)

“Ladies, good evening.” Camborne removed his hat, his voice gracious, if wary.

“Evenin’, sir.” Maddie’s gaze roamed over him and Bettina. “Can I do something for you?”

“Oh, aye, evenin’, sir.” Kerra stared wide-eyed at the tall man, the culmination of infamy in her world. She looked about ready to curtsy. “I’m Kerra.”

“I’ll bid you all goodnight.” Camborne replaced his hat, nodded, squeezed Bettina’s hand, and exited out the door.

“Have a safe ride back.” Bettina couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say. She hadn’t wanted him to see the place she lived, the meager conditions.

“Mighty kind o’ him to show you home.” Maddie’s tone was riddled with suspicion. “You must be a very good French teacher. Given Mr. Camborne’s repute, you best be careful with him. Men can hide much under polite ways.”

“He probably got her drunk and had his way with her. The devil has his due, I always say.” Ann turned and scraped old turf and furze from the grate.

“He appreciates that I am good to his nephew.” Bettina walked toward her room, happy with the escort, but disturbed he saw this element of her existence. Now he might deem her unacceptable to continue tutoring Frederick. She pulled off her hat and tossed it on her bed.

Kerra nudged into the room behind her. “Don’t never put a hat on the bed, it brings bad luck.” She snatched it up and hung it on a peg. “Will Mr. Camborne escort you every evenin’? That jackanapes Stephen certain sure sounded jealous.”

“I wish he would stay with his mouth quiet.” Bettina wanted to keep her problems with Stephen to herself. She felt mortified to have sunk this low in the first place, especially after telling Camborne she was the daughter of a count.

“I’ll tell Charlie to keep Stephen at the farm, good excuse to talk with him.” Kerra smirked and leaned against the doorjamb. “Or Mr. Camborne might bury him in the basement.”

“Kerra, he is a gentleman, and is a kinder man than anyone gives him credit for.” Bettina frowned, sat on her bed and removed her shoes.

“I seen him squeeze your hand, like a man who’s sweet on you. Don’t flip up your skirts for the quality. Won’t get you nowhere.”

“I am undressing for bed.” Bettina stood and unfastened her bodice as she turned from Kerra’s probing smile. Mr. Camborne had walked inside with her, when he might have left her at the door. His actions unbalanced her. Did her attraction evolve from this enigmatic mystery surrounding him? Or did she sense that not only the boy needed her, but his uncle as well?

Chapter Twelve

Bettina was explaining the idiosyncrasies of French regular and irregular verbs to Frederick, when Mr. Camborne came into the library. “I trust you are well, Miss Laurant?”

“I am well, merci.” She basked in Camborne’s smile for her. His defensive armor had thinned. He seemed more interested in her instead of less.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He walked to his desk and pulled a stack of papers from a drawer.

“We have done enough for today,” she said to the boy, who sighed in relief. “Have you been out riding, Frederick, since the weather is nicer and the snow melted?”

“Not yet. You’ve never seen my pony, have you, Mademoiselle?” Frederick rose from his stool near the grate. Over his shoulder she saw Mr. Camborne still searching through his papers.

“No, and I am anxious to take my own horse out for exercise. I hear there are several interesting ruins in this area,” she said, rising herself. “Is that not true, Mr. Camborne?”

Bent over the desk, Camborne straightened to glance at her. “True? Cornwall is quite full of history, yes.”

So he had listened. “Perhaps we can have an afternoon of riding this Saturday, Frederick. Would that be all right?” Bettina looked at Camborne and smiled.

“Yes, that should be fine. I’ll ask Mrs. Pollard to pack you a dinner.”

“Oh, that will be the most fun.
Quel amusement
.” Darting out to the hall, Frederick poked his head back in and grimaced. “Please, not the kidney pies from Mrs. Pollard. I don’t care for them.”

When Camborne chuckled at this nephew, Bettina stepped closer, testing the fabric of that armor. “You may join us, of course. To show me where these historic ruins are and tell me something about them, perhaps.”

But he hesitated, even after Frederick’s enthused agreement, and she feared she pushed too far. Perhaps she misjudged his warming toward her. Aiding an employee didn’t mean socializing with one.

“I do have a lot of paperwork to accomplish. I’ve fallen hopelessly behind with these weather problems. The shipments delayed, forms piling up. Alternate arrangements being made.” Yet his words didn’t sound convincing.

“We will go, Frederick and I only.” She gathered up her cloak.

“No, no, you can spend some time in fun, won’t you, Uncle Everett?” Frederick gave him a sweet smile, unwittingly doing her dirty work in her inexplicable desire to draw this man closer. But she waited for the inevitable refusal.

Camborne sighed. “Since you’re both so persuasive, I suppose my work might be put off. And we’ll all have an outing.” When he looked up from his nephew, his eyes met hers. Even with his surrender he seemed uneasy, and her discomfort resurfaced.

* * * *

The early spring dampness clung to the landscape, but the fresh smell of foliage struggling to grow gave the air a pleasant tang. “This keep is from Norman times.” Camborne pointed to a half ruined tower as they walked through a stone arch toward the jagged cliffs north of Sidwell. The two horses and pony snorted and cropped at the scrubby grass.

“The Norman French. We have invaded before.” Bettina held onto her chip hat in the wind. Maddie had fussed at her for requesting a Saturday off, but she didn’t care.

“Indeed you have,” Camborne chuckled, and she liked the sound.

Frederick ran and poked his head and hands into whatever cranny in the crumbling stone he could manage. He then bolted down a precipitous stone stairway that led to the sea.

“Careful there, young man, mind your footing!” Camborne called to the child as the boy disappeared into the Tamarisk willows at the water’s edge. The man stood beside Bettina, closer than they’d ever been, the heat of his body palpable. They looked out an opening in the stonewall, high above the churning sea. “The excise men mounted a cannon here several years ago, to try and discourage the smuggling along this coast. But nothing deters that for long. Privateering in Cornwall is like breathing.”

Bettina swept down her billowing hair, which refused to be tamed by pins. “I have heard Maddie’s inn was once a headquarters for smuggling and scavenging.”

“Yes, quite notorious. That is when the customs took a close interest in our area. But since Miss Tregons took proprietorship, such activity has quieted down.”

“She is a formidable woman.” Bettina watched the set of his shoulders, which betrayed his lingering caution. If privateering spurred on the Cornish, this man revived that breathless sensation in her. “Frederick says your horse’s name is Onyx. That is an unusual name. What does it mean?”

“It’s for the black onyx gemstone.” Camborne stared down toward the shore, keeping his nephew in sight. “Frederick, you should come back up now.”

“My horse is named Shevall. Kerra didn’t understand I referred to the French word for horse, and christened him with it.” After a nervous laugh, to keep his attention, Bettina explained the mishap on the coach when she met Kerra. “Though I was not happy about it at the time.”

Camborne looked at her and shook his head, another smile on his lips. “I have lately had suspicions of your being a rather unique young woman. Now dangerous too, I see?”

They both laughed. Frederick stormed back up the stairs, interrupting Bettina’s absorption of this praise. She was relieved that Camborne was capable of easy laughter, an emotion that brightened his eyes and softened his mouth.

“Don’t run off like that again, Frederick.” Camborne clasped the boy’s shoulder, hugging him against him.

“Let’s show Mademoiselle King Arthur’s castle.” Frederick hurried to his pony. They mounted and rode farther north up the coast road. “We’ve been there before.”

At Tintagel, the crest of a valley to the right, the land sloped in front of them to the cliffs, which faced a stark island separated from the mainland by a ditch of water. The sea and wind slapped the rocks with brutal force. After dismounting, Bettina hugged her cloak around her.

They spread their picnic items in a sheltered spot behind an embankment.

“That’s part of his castle. King Arthur, who had the round table with all the knights.” The boy pointed to a walled ruin perched on the edge of a sheer cliff. The blond curls under his cap rustled about his cheeks.

“This was reported to be the castle of the legendary King Arthur by Geoffrey of Monmouth, in his
History of the Kings of Britain
,” Camborne said. “But there’s always dispute that since this castle may only date from the thirteenth century, Arthur couldn’t have lived here. Of course, some say the man never existed at all. But we know that’s incorrect, don’t we, Frederick?”

At this indulgent pandering to his nephew, Bettina saw more of the bond between them and felt happy to be a part of it. She nibbled on fresh bread and slices of yellow cheese, and a succulent beef and turnip pie made by Mrs. Pollard. Frederick munched down a gooseberry tart, eating the rest of his uncle’s as well. After eating, they walked among struggling grass and Camborne pointed across the chasm to the island where several steps led to a parapet and another fortress ruin.

“There’s a cavern underneath the castle where visiting boats sailed directly up. But over the centuries ruins tumbled in blocking the way. It’s believed there must have been a drawbridge connecting these two structures in ancient times.”

As Camborne gave a little of the local history, she listened in fascination. Bettina loved to hear him talk with his cultured resonance, now that he cast off his indifference toward her.

“Cornwall has always been steeped in superstition,” he said with quiet pride.

“Tell Mademoiselle about the giants,” Frederick said.

“The first ruler of ancient Britain was Brutus, a Trojan. He had to rid the island of Giants, so the tale goes. His fiercest warrior was Corineus, who defeated the last Giant in this region and threw him over a cliff in Plymouth. Thus Corineus became king of this county, calling its inhabitants Corineus’ men, or Cornishmen. A few Giants are reported to still lurk in the caves and mountains around here.” Camborne winked at Bettina.

“I’d like to see those giants. When can we go to the caves?” Frederick picked up a stone and lobbed it over the grass.

“I would as well,
vraiment
.” Bettina glanced back at Frederick who seemed to be throwing rocks at an even greater force, his face in a frown, almost spooking the horses. When he turned toward them, his smile returned and he scampered up.

They remounted, and Frederick kicked his pony to ride ahead.

Bettina rode abreast of Camborne, their horses in an easy walk. She grew sad, certain she would never explore any caves with these two because she’d soon be on her way to London.

They rode over fields, the scent earthy, past an isolated Norman church with a granite tower. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something, someone, near the church. It disappeared around to the back. She turned to look, the wind moaning about the structure in an area bereft of trees. Her first thought was Stephen. But this object appeared much larger.

* * * *

A crown and three shillings, the equivalent of eight shillings, waited on the desk, instead of the usual four, when Bettina walked into Bronnmargh’s library.

“Is that a lot of money?” Frederick asked.

“It is,
mais oui
.” She fingered each coin as if they were diamonds, thinking of what she could buy … perhaps freedom sooner than she expected. “I must thank your uncle.”

After the session, she walked with the boy to the dining room. Camborne stood in his shirtsleeves at the long oak table, papers scattered before him. Mr. Slate waited close by, looking like a dried biscuit in a black suit.

“Am I interrupting your work? I can talk to you another time.” Her skin prickled in this austere chamber with its musty smell, as if a cruelty happened here and the anguished ghosts still lingered. How strange that a woman once presided here, but any feminine touches had been swept away.

“No, no, please sit down. I did wish to speak to you about something.” He put on the frock coat Slate handed him before clearing a spot across from him. Frederick said good evening and sprinted up a red-carpeted staircase to the right. The old butler also left the room.

“I wish to ask about my raise in salary.” She sat in the chair.

“I thought you could put the money to good use. You are very important to us.” He shuffled already stacked papers. “After seeing the accommodations you have, and knowing your background
… I don't wish to insult you.”

Did she make him nervous? “My accommodations are small, but adequate. I can put the money to use for a post-chaise to London. I plan also to have my own business, a shop of some type. It is difficult for a woman to manage such an enterprise on her own, I am aware, but I intend to try. And involve my mother, as soon as I find her.”