“I’ve heard France has changed considerably in fashion since the revolution. And whatever Paris does, London usually follows suit.” Everett glanced away, tapping his frock coat pocket.
“Is London going to cut off people’s heads, like in Paris?” Frederick asked, knitting his brows.
“No, of course not. Now go put your things away.” Everett gave him an indulgent smile, pressing his shoulder.
“Let’s take Mademoiselle to the Tower where that queen lost her head.” Frederick bounded from the room. Then he turned and sliced the crop like a knife across his throat, his eyes shining. “Cut off by a French swordsman.”
“Miss Laurant, may I speak to you alone?” Everett left the doorway.
“Has something happened? You seem distracted.” Bettina followed him into the parlor to the bow window. They sat at a small table.
“I didn’t wish to spoil our outing, but I received another letter this morning.” He pulled it from his pocket. “This one is even more belligerent. Hobart hired a retired sailor to be my spy. Late last night he saw this letter dropped off below. He followed the culprit into the bowels of London, to the notorious parish of St. Giles. Not the sort of neighborhood a reputable solicitor would have an office.
“This informant got close enough to observe him, walking through the night rabble of beggars and footpads. He said he was a handsome, well-built sort, with curly blond hair.” Everett fingered the letter. “The fiend couldn’t have been anyone other than Frederick’s father, Hollis.”
Bettina gasped, but half expected it. She looked over her shoulder, to make certain the boy wasn’t near. “And you mentioned that you have not seen Hollis in all this time?”
“No. Unfortunately the informant lost Hollis in the gloom of back alleys.” Everett shook his head. “Only he could be arrogant enough to act as his own messenger.”
“He is trying to extort money from you, since you cut off his wife’s money.”
“Precisely. He must be in desperate straits.” Everett reached over and took her hand. “I spoke to a solicitor about petitioning Parliament for a divorce. I need to know Miriam’s whereabouts. I have to confront Hollis.”
Bettina bit back her elation. “But you do not think Miriam is involved in this scheme?”
“Not when she has a legal right to expect support, and utilize a proper solicitor. Why would my wife wait four years to demand what was hers in the beginning? I suspect Hollis knows Miriam is ‘incapable’ of coming forward. That’s why I question if she’s dead.”
“Or abroad somewhere. And Hollis is a bigger fool than you think.” Bettina disliked that she didn’t mind if they found her dead—murdered. As long as Everett wasn’t part of it.
“That’s what I need to find out.” He held her hand to his face. “We can’t have a future together until I know if I’m a widower or not. And Hollis could have the answer.”
She caressed his cheek. “Maybe you ought to bring a constable or sheriff into this.”
“Until I have proof, no one is going to bother with it. Right now it’s all speculation. London has no police force, only a magistrate and a few constables stretched thin. Except the Bow Street Runners, who mainly apprehend criminals in the act. No, I have to handle this myself.” He kissed her knuckles. “I do have news for your situation. With all the French refugees coming into England, and the upheaval so close, the government has enacted the Aliens Act, which forces all foreigners residing here to register their names and addresses with the proper authorities. I regret I have to travel to Portsmouth tomorrow for business. When I return I’ll take you to the Home Office in Whitehall.”
Bettina’s heart leapt. “Très bien, I might at last locate my mother. But please do not do anything about Hollis without involving me. It sounds very dangerous.”
* * * *
Bettina kissed Everett’s cheek and waved as he boarded the post-chaise for Portsmouth.
She turned to Mr. Hobart. “May I leave Frederick with you for a little while this morning? I have errands to run in the city. I also will need a coach.”
“Of course, I’ll send a messenger to bring a hackney.”
When the hackney arrived, Bettina boarded with Oleba. “To Whitehall, the Home Office, please,” she told the driver. She bundled her coat around her in the cold air. “I am too excited to wait for Mr. Camborne,” she confided to her maid. “I want to see if I can find out about my mother.”
“I understand. You would be anxious for the information.”
The hackney coach dropped them off at Whitehall, a street filled with government offices, named after a palace destroyed the previous century. The two women walked up to the first floor after entering the lobby of Montague House.
The man they were directed to, Mr. Cob, gawped at Oleba before Bettina spoke.
“My mother, Madame Volet Jonquiere, may have sought asylum here in England. I would like to know if her name is on your alien’s registry.”
Cob, a scrawny man in a shiny frock coat, sneered up at her from behind his messy desk. “And what about you, Madamozell? Are you on the registry?”
Bettina flinched. She’d been in England over a year and forgotten she too was an alien. “I … is it possible to…?”
“Just show me your passport. Is London your official residence?” Cob asked, his tone accusing. “Who did you come here to reside with?”
Bettina had no passport, having slipped into the country as a stowaway. She thought of her original contact, Bernard Little, and that package of blank papers. “I have not brought it with me. London is not my official residence. It is in Cornwall.”
“Aye? Then you need to register with your JP out in Cornwall. And better have your papers in order. Any émigrés brought into ports have to obtain a passport and state their name and town of destination, and are required to report to the local Justice of the Peace.” He stood, eyeing her up and down. “And you are not supposed to travel without your passport.”
“I see. My mistake. I do apologize.” Bettina’s throat went drier. She wanted to leave this place, fearing she might be arrested. But she intended to get what she came for. “Please, can you tell me if my mother is on your registry?”
“Your betrothed, Mr. Camborne, the important shipping merchant, will not be happy with this treatment,” Oleba said to Bettina, just loud enough for Cob to hear.
Cob grumbled something, then turned and went into another room. When he returned, he held a stack of papers and thumbed through them noisily. “I see no Jonquiere on this list at all,” he said after Bettina spelled it out for him.
The two women left Montague House and walked slowly down Whitehall, past the elegant building of the Horse Guards. “Thank you for coming to my aid,” Bettina said to Oleba through her haze of disappointment.
“I was happy to. I don’t care for arrogant people.”
At a newsstand, Bettina purchased a French language newspaper, Le Courrier de Londres. “This is written by émigrés for émigrés.” She scanned the few pages while Oleba hailed another hackney coach and they trundled in silence back to the waterfront.
Oleba boiled water in the apartment hearth for tea. Bettina warmed her hands over the fire, then sat and opened the paper. “These writers accuse the Aliens Act of tracking émigrés, looking for suspicious behavior against the British government, and threatening them with deportation. They claim the bill violates the protection of foreigners in England.” She rustled the paper. “I thought most of the French fled to avoid the revolution, the arrest of the aristocrats, but England fears émigrés are here to foment revolution. The government accuses English debating societies, like Jacobin Clubs, of revolutionary activity involving Englishmen.”
Oleba placed a steaming cup of tea before her with a few macaroons on a plate. “It sounds ominous. I think I have had enough of revolutions.”
“Where could my mother have gone? If she left France.” Bettina stared out the bow window at the gray river with her bobbing boats. “And how w
ill I obtain a passport and avoid arrest?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The lush setting of the Hanover School for Boys on the southern outskirts of London pleased Bettina. The grounds were an expanse of rolling green hills and thick oak trees. Vines crept up the walls of the long stone building. The place looked ancient, established, but perhaps like a prison to the boy beside her.
She looked at him as he also stared out the coach window. “It is like a park, Frederick.”
He sighed and said nothing. Bettina shared a sad glance with Everett. Was this the best choice for his nephew? She couldn’t let anyone see her doubts.
The myopic-eyed Headmaster showed them around the spacious grounds. They toured the classrooms and riding stables. Everett visited the dormitory where the pupils lived.
“We will come to see you soon,” Bettina said at their departure, her throat tightening. She hugged him. The boy’s lower lip showed a trace of a quiver before he sucked it in. “You do understand that this will be best for you?”
“You be brave, Frederick.” Everett bent to tell him goodbye. “Attend to your studies, make new friends. We’ll visit often.” His furrowed brow indicated far more emotion than his words conveyed. Bettina could tell that he strained not to show the child his own sorrow.
The boy looked around and forced a smile. “I’ll enjoy riding the horses.” With that, Everett smiled, ruffled his hair and shook his hand.
Bettina filled with guilt at leaving him, as if he were her own child. She saw his resilience flaking around the edges. He had to fight resentment at going through another change in his life just to please those around him. When they turned to leave, she saw that Everett’s eyes were moist.
Their coach ride back was silent and solemn. After supper at a tavern, Bettina roamed the parlor, tidying and rearranging already tidy and arranged items. Not having Frederick there to occupy their attention left her at loose ends. She had sent Oleba upstairs to the attic, saying she would call if she needed her. “It seems a nice place, he should be happy once he adjusts.” She put down the wick cutter she’d just picked up.
“Yes, any new experience takes adjusting. I hope he’ll be all right, secure.” Everett stood near the fireplace with his hands in his frock coat pockets. He nudged a coal into the grate with his new flat-heeled jockey boot.
“He buries his emotions often. But we encouraged him to be brave.” She glanced out the bow window. The wind pushed against the panes. A fog rolling in off the river blanketed out the street lamps in Southwark and the lanterns on London Bridge.
“The camaraderie and structured education will do him good. Please, come and sit.” Everett poked the fire to a blaze and took a place on the settee before it. “I wish you hadn’t gone off as you did to Whitehall. London can be a dangerous city. I am sorry you didn’t find out anything about your mother.”
“The paper I bought says there are bookshops where émigrés gather with news. I plan to seek them out, if you will accompany me.” Bettina remained standing and walked nearer to the fire. The coal smelled so different after a year with the woodsy turf and furze. She strained for a different subject. “You never have told me what sort of things you ship, from your business.”
“We deal in many things. Exports of woolens, flannels, hats. Cotton material, that’s quite in demand now. Importing brandy, rum, indigo, sugar, the cotton to make the material.” Everett skimmed this off as his eyes intently measured her. “Won’t you sit down?”
“What … exactly does obtaining a divorce entail?” Bettina thrust in this topic to cast aside the jittering inside of her at the sensual tension she gleaned from him. She finally perched on the cushion beside him. He looked handsome in his new frockcoat of brown wool with wide lapels and coat tails, and looser, longer-legged breeches.
He grimaced. “I’d have to send a divorce bill through Parliament where it would be voted on. I’d be expected to settle a ‘suitable provision’ on my ex-wife, should she still be alive. Which could be much less than she would receive if we just separated. Even if she were found guilty of adultery, I would be forced to provide this minimal support. Adultery involves a messy trial before the King’s Bench in Westminster, suing her lovers … for Frederick’s sake, of course, I would pursue a quiet divorce agreement.” He reached over and touched her hand.
“What have you learned about your brother-in-law’s whereabouts? You said earlier that you had more details.” She squeezed his hand as if to contain it, and smiled up at him.
“Hollis has a cousin here in London. He says Hollis recently stopped by, to beg for money. His cousin can’t abide the scoundrel, so refused to lend him any. St. Giles isn’t far from here. We’ll have to go in and flush the rat out.” Though he spoke of Hollis, Everett’s gaze on her was ardent, unsettling.
“Are you certain you cannot involve a constable in this?” Bettina released his hand and rubbed clammy palms over her knees. She stared at the crackling fire.
“No constables. Bettina.” Everett reached across and caressed her arm to her shoulder, entwining his fingers in her hair. “Can’t we relax together? You’re as edgy as a cat.”
Her heart thumped when he leaned closer. She should have resisted, but shut her eyes. His mouth covered hers, his lips warm and provocative. Weakened, she kissed him back. He pulled her against him as his mouth searched hers. Deep inside her, that heavy heat spiraled up. A sigh escaped her and she desperately wanted to succumb. He slid his fingers beneath her dress, lifted her skirt and stroked the bare flesh above her garters.
Bettina put her hands on his chest and levered herself away. “Everett, we cannot. I thought you understood my fears on this?”
He drew back from her, his eyes large and sad. “Indeed, as it must be. I am sorry. I bid you goodnight.” He rose and walked to his bedchamber, shutting the door. Bettina clutched the cushion beneath her, shivering in the now cold and empty room.
* * * *
“What are your exact plans once Hollis is located?” Bettina asked the next morning. Oleba had laid out bread, butter and jam from Fortnum & Mason on the small table. Bettina poured tea and tried to sound eager to diffuse the stilted atmosphere.
Everett looked away from her. He stood and gulped his tea, rattled down the cup, snatched up papers and rustled them into his briefcase. “Pete and I will formulate the details. We’ll have to discover his whereabouts, probably still in St. Giles, as I said, and grab him.”
“And what can I do to help?” She spread jam on her bread. “Who is Pete?”
He turned to her, his gaze peevish. “You will stay right here, where it’s safe. Pete is my informant. We’ll discuss this later.” Everett picked up his hat and strode out.
Bettina fumed when he didn’t return to take her to supper that evening. He meant to punish her for the previous night. She ate leftover bread and jam. The sweet dryness lumped in her stomach. Out the bowed window she glared at the man who lit the oil burning street lamps below. Ship’s lights bobbed on the river, but began to fade in the midst of more fog.
At eight o’clock Oleba helped Bettina undress for bed. The one ritual they’d established was the maid’s brushing of her long black hair, but tonight she didn’t enjoy it. Then Oleba put out the candles and retired upstairs. Too restless for sleep, Bettina laid in bed staring at the ceiling. She wasn't sure how long after that she heard the front door open. Facing the wall, she pulled the covers close around her head.
After a few minutes there was a soft rap on her door. It creaked open. “Bettina, please accept my humble apology.”
Her shoulders stiffened. She turned to see Everett framed in a light from the parlor.
“And you should apologize. Did you have an enjoyable supper?”
He lowered his head, one hand on her doorframe. “I worked the entire time downstairs.”
“And now you refuse to involve me in the search. I might as well return to Cornwall.” She sat up and shivered in the chilly room.
“I behaved very
insensitively toward you. But it is frustrating, being here together.” He walked closer.
“Do you think I do not have these feelings, too?” Aware she wore only a flimsy cotton nightgown, Bettina shrank inside the garment, crossing her arms over her chest. Everett came and sat on her bed, and she swallowed hard.
“Bettina, I need your affection. I have gone so long without anything.” He rubbed her shoulders. His touch sent a quiver down to her toes. “I know you have concerns, but we’ll be together always. I will take care of you. We’ll get married as soon as we can. I’m aching for you. Don’t deny ourselves this pleasure.”
“We will always be together, yes, and one day marry….” Bettina saw him opening up so fully to her, she had to believe this.
His arms surrounded her. He gently kissed her lips, cheeks and throat. Her body reacted, her need for him strong. Worries drifted away with his hot mouth on hers.
Everett picked her up and carried her to his bedchamber. He slipped her nightgown over her head, then his hands caressed along her naked body. Her skin tingled, raw nerves thrumming beneath the surface. She stretched out on the warming sheets.
He undressed and crawled in beside her, their heated skin in contact.
Bettina groaned when he kissed down her neck and explored her breasts with his lips.
“Tell me you love me, I need to hear it,” Everett whispered between kisses.
“I love you, completely….” She gasped and ran her fingers through his hair. His vulnerability made her more impassioned.
Everett trailed kisses across her stomach and along her inner thighs. He ran his tongue back up her body and once more crushed his mouth to hers as he stroked her with his fingers. This time, when he entered her, she was moist and ready, the brief pain quickly replaced with pleasure. Bettina arched against him, crying out to ease the throbbing that came from deep inside her, radiating outward. He gasped after several thrusts and shuddered above her.
Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) Page 26