“I don’t think he’d like a stranger living here. Mr. Slate worked for his father, my grandfather, and Mrs. Pollard has been here a long time.” His trusting innocence was sweet. When they reached the landing and passage, he showed her to the first door on the left. “This is my room.”
Frederick invited her into his chamber, a room with a four-poster bed, a chest of drawers, clothes press and washstand. The old and colorful wallpaper depicting scenes from nursery rhymes confirmed this room was meant for a child at its inception. Two windows overlooked the north side of the house. A jumble of toys were scattered on the floor.
“This is cozy, very nice,” she said, charmed by the room’s brightness, the yellow counterpane and light green rug. “But you should clean it up now and then.”
The boy scoffed and they returned to the passage.
“This is Uncle Everett’s room.” He opened the door directly across.
Conscious of the impropriety, Bettina still couldn’t stop herself from peeking in.
An oak, curtained four-poster bed with a paneled headboard dominated the room. An elegant highboy, a clothes press cabinet and a sitting area arranged around a white marble fireplace filled out the chamber. She inhaled the master’s spicy scent that lingered there.
“Close the door, please. We should not invade your uncle’s privacy.” She tingled with the pleasure of glimpsing this intimate part of him, but forced herself to turn and walk toward the stairs.
“No, Mademoiselle. Let me take you to the upper floor. Where the telescope is.”
“Oh … d’accord.” She remembered that snowy walk down the hill when Camborne had mentioned stargazing. Then she thought she must be daft to roam anywhere in this mausoleum. “If it is not difficult to—”
“It isn’t.” Frederick’s eager face encouraged her to push aside her reluctance.
Frederick took an oil lamp from his chest of drawers and she followed him down the hall to the back of the manor.
“Such a gigantic place for so few people,” Bettina said half to herself, trying to ignore the shadows lurking in the corners. But wasn’t this waste of space common among the wealthy? She thought of the palaces she had known in France—too much opulence and not enough warmth. Except that she remembered her family as living in bright and airy rooms.
“Uncle Everett told me our great, great, I’m not sure how many greats, grandfather had eleven children. He built this house for all of them.” The boy opened a door at the hall’s very end, revealing a bare narrow stairway twisting up into darkness. “These are the servant stairs.”
“On second thought … maybe we should not go.” Bettina’s skin prickled. She reached out her hand, but missed Frederick’s shirttails as he darted up the stairs. Forced to climb after him, she followed the bobbing light and the fishy odor of pilchard oil. At the landing they turned left, passing through a double set of doors and out onto a balcony.
“The garden is below,” the boy said. “My jungle looks even messier from up here.”
Relieved to be outside, Bettina leaned on the stone balustrade and breathed in the cool refreshing air. She looked straight down, seeing the outline of plants and the wall. The sun dipped low near the horizon, brushing over Sidwell in a stroke of red. The waves slapped at the cliffs beyond.
As the breeze ruffled her hair, she harked back, as she had almost every night, to Camborne’s kiss in the library. She wished he shared this with her. Hugging herself, she longed to feel his arms around her. She brushed her fingers languidly over her lips …
“Mademoiselle, are you listening?” Frederick asked in irritation, sharper than she’d heard from him before. “You have to look in here … the telescope?”
“Of course I am listening. Let me try it.” She shook off her fugue and approached the large telescope perched on a stand just outside the doors.
“Uncle says you must always treat it with care, it’s a very delicate instrument.” He stumbled over the last two words, and they both laughed at his effort to mimic his uncle.
Bettina stared into the eyepiece and viewed the full moon starting to rise, distinguishing the vague outline of craters.
“Uncle tried to teach me about the consta … lations. But I couldn’t remember the odd names. Something about a big bear … and a Queen Cassie something.” He shook his golden curly head. “But none of them looked like what he said to me.”
“Maybe we had better go back in, the wind is starting to get cold.” Bettina stooped to pick up the guttering lamp.
“I’ll beat you down, see if I don’t.” Frederick dashed off, vanishing into the manor’s gloom.
“Come back! Frederick!” She rushed inside and toward the stairs, but something out of the corner of her eye distracted her—a large draped object propped against the wall in the passage.
Bettina stepped over and lifted the cloth. Cobwebs stuck to her fingers, turning to shimmering strings when she cast the lamp near. Revealed was the painting of a beautiful woman with pale blonde ringlets cascading down her shoulders, pink bowed lips and blue eyes. Her frozen smile looked more haughty than demure. On closer inspection, a glassy deadness peered out from those eyes, but that might have been the fault of the artist.
This could be Camborne’s wife! Filled with an absurd jealousy over a painting, Bettina dropped the cloth. If he’d seriously wanted to hide this portrait, there were better places than open hallways.
Back on the first floor, Bettina heard Mrs. Pollard calling from downstairs. “Frederick, go down and tell her you need your supper now.”
The boy scampered off. Bettina stood alone in the hallway and glanced at the master chamber door. Unable to pass up this opportunity to know more about him, she took a deep breath, shoved down her doubts, opened the door and slipped inside. She crossed to Camborne’s linen press, a mahogany piece with molded cornices. She creaked it open and ran her fingers along the garments folded there, stroking the soft wool. She poked through the items on top of his chest of drawers—a teak calling card case, silver toothpick and silver-backed brush—careful to put everything back exactly the way she found them. Camborne seemed to be a man who preferred simplicity and order—a man who couldn’t kill anyone. She noticed that Mrs. Pollard could dust more efficiently, but Bronnmargh didn’t have enough staff to care for it. She decided to leave before Mr. Slate caught her.
Above the fireplace mantel was a large square discoloration on the wallpaper where a huge painting once hung. It might have been the one in the upstairs hall. Had Camborne gazed at his wife’s portrait with desire when their love was fresh, only removing it after their marriage soured and she … left?
A gold pocket watch lay on the mantle. She picked it up. Engraved on the back were the words, ‘To Everett, with all my love. Forgive me.’ The watch looked new. Had his wife sent this recently, begging to be taken back? Did this prove she was alive? Or had some other woman sent it? It occurred to her that Camborne might have several women eager to take his wife’s place. Ladies of style and polish he could be wooing right this minute in London. Even if few could surpass her aristocratic breeding, Bettina hardly measured up in her depleted situation. She clattered the watch down and hurried from the room and down the stairs, that jealousy washing over her again.
* * * *
Bettina turned and admired her reflection in the kitchen window. Her green walking dress, with sash around the waist and simple trim at cuffs and hem, accentuated her slim figure. She’d had it made at the draper’s in Port Isaac, and picked it up the day before. She’d also purchased a new straw hat with matching ribbon. What a relief to be able to afford decent clothes again. Expensive, yes, but she would need them in London, even if it meant dipping into her precious funds.
“Primpin’ for the master, aye?” Kerra winked at Bettina as she stood on a stool and hung herbs on the rafters to dry. “Fancy garb you has, now. Must make good wages at Bronnmargh.”
“Ann would tell me my vanity is a sin.” Bettina knew her cheeks heated. Word
had it that Mr. Camborne had returned from London, and it shamed her to look like a bedraggled maid in his company. But perhaps it didn’t matter to him.
Kerra stepped off the stool. “Tell me the truth, you havin’ an affair?”
“No, I am not.” Bettina almost wanted to ask Kerra for sexual details—she did seem to have experience with men—but she was too embarrassed. She had been taught that this intimacy was something only a wife should know. “I will tell you if I am.”
“Aye? Told you afore, you best be careful with the quality. Has you asked Camborne about Stephen’s death?” Kerra pursed her lips as she brushed an herb leaf from her shoulder.
“I am certain he will know nothing about that. He was in London.” Her words too sharp, Bettina snatched up her hat. “I must leave for the tutoring.”
* * * *
At Bronnmargh, Bettina paced in the library, concerned that Frederick still hadn’t appeared. The boy usually awaited her. The library door opened.
“Miss Laurant, I apologize for keeping you.” Mr. Camborne stepped in. Bettina had hoped he’d come to greet her, yet his smile unnerved her. “Good evening. Welcome back. Is Frederick coming for his lesson?”
“He has a sore throat, nothing serious. I’ve insisted he stay in bed. But I wanted to give you this.” He handed her a package. His gaze appraised her. “You look quite fetching in that gown.”
“Merci.” She hoped she didn’t blush and opened the package. Inside, she found sheet music and a pair of leather gloves. She fondled the supple texture of one and smelled the rich scent. “You remembered … this is so sweet. Thank you, Mr. Camborne.” With such gifts and kisses, could he be romancing other women? Could she be nothing but a dalliance?
“My pleasure, as always.” His smile tugged at her heart. He walked closer, so clean and neat in his attire. He seemed a more decisive person than the one who previously shooed her from his house. “I wish you would call me Everett.”
“Please, call me Bettina. How was your journey to London?” She took a deep breath and wished he didn’t unsettle her with this half-understood sensuality.
“A long, but necessary venture. My main office is in London. I had to straighten out a few business woes with the problems on the continent—well, you are aware of all that.”
“I am all too aware.” She leaned against the desk, its solid support bracing her back. “Have you heard about the … murder here?” She watched his face.
“Murder? No. What happened?” He sounded surprised, his blue eyes wide.
“He was that man you asked about, Stephen Tremayne. They found his body down in the cove.” She stared at her new shoes for a moment. “He is the one who you chased off that night.”
“Ah. The one I hit. Do they know who killed him?” Camborne’s expression was concerned as he put his hand on her shoulder.
She felt heat simmer on her skin with just that light touch. She stared up into his face. “They do not know yet who killed him.”
“He sounded like a troublemaker in this village.” He moved away from her. “But still, a murder … I’m sorry for his family.”
Bettina thought his words sincere—or did she just want them to be? She’d never admit it to Kerra, but she did feel relieved with Stephen dead. She rubbed a knot at the back of her neck and stepped toward the bookcases. “Did you find any refugee organizations?”
Camborne’s features relaxed. “I contacted various people in London who have helped the French émigrés settle here. They promised to try and find out anything they could about your mother.”
“I appreciate you taking the trouble.” Bettina circled near the fireplace like a cat sizing up her adversary. “There are other important matters we need to discuss.”
Camborne raised a brow. “I see. What sort of matters?”
“It is just that I am confused about—”
“I realize you probably want to—”
They both stopped, neither finishing their concurrent responses. His eyes turned guarded. Bettina stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm, to keep him open toward her. Camborne’s features dissolved to tenderness. He raised her hand to his lips. When he kissed her knuckles she trembled and forgot what she wanted to say.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her lips. Bettina felt her muscles soften like melting snow. His mouth became insistent on hers, their kissing so intense she moaned with pleasure. Camborne pulled her down to sit on the hearth, kissing her throat and across her chest. He unfastened her bodice and traced his lips along the curve of her breasts.
His warm, moist lips on her skin sent shivers twisting low in her abdomen. Bettina tangled her hands in his hair, her breath ragged. When he reached to caress her breast, she pulled back, holding him at arm’s length, though part of her hadn’t wanted him to stop. “We should not be doing this.” She held her breath in an effort to calm her heaving chest.
Camborne pulled from her grasp and leaned back. “You’re right, I am sorry. I lost control.” His gaze held a mixture of sadness and longing.
“I do not know what came over me either.” Bettina refastened her bodice with clumsy fingers. The proper young lady she was raised to be would never have let this happen. Yet, she had to admit, it excited her to make him lose control.
He took her in his arms again, kissing her cheek. “I don’t know where this will … there are those who’ll condemn us if they knew.”
In the silence, she had to speak of what loomed so sharp between them. “Of course I am aware of the gossip about your wife. And I need to know….” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. His kisses made her realize how her affection for him had grown. She wanted more. “Your intentions toward me.”
He squeezed her against him, but it seemed more from tension than comfort. “Events aren’t always what they appear to be.”
“As I am well aware. Everett, I think it is fair that I should ask….” Her pulse thrummed in her neck. “What really did happen to your wife?”
He released her and looked away, his shoulders stiffening. “I know exactly what the gossip is. Slate tells me everything he hears in the village.”
Bettina couldn’t picture the grim Mr. Slate gathering tales like a common fishwife. “But I never believed those sordid stories. That is why I need to know the truth.”
Camborne got to his feet and paced across to the desk. “My wife was extremely unhappy. We were both unhappy. Our marriage was a blunder, I realized too late. She threatened to leave me for another man, and I had little reason to stop her.” He stood with his rigid back to her.
Bettina grew chilled without him next to her. “Then she went with this other man?”
“When she left one night and never returned, I assumed she had done just that.”
“But why would anyone blame you for her disappearance?” Bettina spoke carefully, still tasting him on her lips.
His hands flexed against his breeches. “Miriam’s departure was quite abrupt. She left all her possessions behind. Including her silly maid, who started those rumors.”
Bettina rose from the hearth, brushing soot from her skirt. “And you have not heard from her since?”
“Not a word. I know you deserve the truth, but this isn’t something I’m comfortable discussing.” When he turned back to her, that sternness had settled over his mouth and jaw, though he seemed to fight it back. “You’ll have to excuse me, I have more work to attend to. I’ll walk you to the coach.”
“Once more, you are tossing me out,” she said in half-jest, to gloss over her frustration.
He blinked, then rubbed his chin. “I’m sorry if I sounded rude.” He walked close to her. “You have to realize I don’t like discussing Miriam. Deplore it, in fact.”
“But I should know about these—”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t, and I did tell you the truth. But I prefer to leave it in the past.” He caressed her shoulders, his hands warm but firm.
“I needed to hear what happened from you, if I am to
understand. We should not have any secrets.” She waited for him to define his feelings for her.
Camborne ran a hand through her hair, brushing a stray strand behind one ear. “Can we put the past aside for now? I was so miserable then, I don’t like to dwell there. Will you forgive me my bad temper?” He leaned close and kissed her softly on the mouth. She shut her eyes, that heat seeping through her, and felt disillusioned when he pulled away too soon.
The intensity in his eyes made her quiver. Was this a man coming to terms with a crime? He seemed so reluctant to pursue a relationship. Bettina didn’t know what to believe anymore.
Chapter Sixteen
“Might be war with France now.” A fat man near the taproom fireplace wiped his oily hands on his breeches. “Wonder what Farmer George will do ’bout a brother sovereign arrested by his own people.”
Bettina overheard this and elbowed her way into a group of lodgers. She picked up the platter of pilchard remains—greasy heads, tails and bones.
“We should stay outta France’s riots,” another man grumbled. “King Louis was out o’ his wits to run away. Shows he ain’t never gonna conform to that rebel constitution.”
“If I may interrupt, what do you discuss?” Bettina asked, her stomach roiling. The warm June breeze coming through the front windows fluttered her hair and chased away the stink of fish.
“You sound French, little miss.” The first man glared at her with pouched eyes, and she cringed. “King Louis and his family tried to escape, but they was recognized and caught. They’re prisoners now of the revolutionaries. Don’t look good for them.”
Bettina stifled a gasp. Her throat tight, she thought of her mother’s safety. But she ached for poor King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette. She glanced up and across the room saw the last person she wanted to see. The Hunter strode out of the shadows. He tipped his hat to her. She gripped the platter, angry that he taunted her, and knew she had to speak to him. She hurried into the kitchen.
Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) Page 16