Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) Page 3

  “Awright, get dressed. When the sun comes up, you be on your way.” The constable lumbered out. He turned to the desk clerk. “Now, Sarah, she don’t look as bad as all that. If you weren’t my wife’s sister….”

  Their voices faded down the hall and Bettina closed the door. If ‘quality’ meant the rich in England, why would they bother to stop in this dismal village? Stumbling in the dark, she dressed and gathered her possessions. She tied her fichu over her head in a makeshift bonnet, tucking the ends into her bodice. Soon the sun peeked over the hills in the distance through the narrow window, but it brought little warmth to her life.

  “Merde,” she said, echoing the sailor’s foul word on the ship, to denounce Armand for forcing her into this hostile country. He had better send word of her destination to her mother, as promised, though he should never have acted without her permission.

  When she stepped down to the lobby, which was dreary in shadows, she found the constable waiting.

  “Pardon, monsieur,” she said. “This is a mistake you have made. But can you tell me how to find the city of Bath?”

  The man now looked embarrassed. “If you has money for coach fare, I’ll flag down the early coach when it passes through in an hour. Might take a week or more to get to Bath. No one should have sent you off alone, girl. Where’s your family?”

  “A week it is?” Nausea rose up in her throat and she swallowed it down. Such a long journey lay ahead, but she was grateful the city existed. “I would be happy if you would, how you said, flag down the coach.”

  * * * *

  An elbow jabbed into her side. The coach swayed and jostled on and Bettina scratched at the bug bites from the last inn. The surly woman across from her continued to glare.

  “Must be a mess where you come from. Over there in that French place.” The man beside her, the woman’s brother, kept trying to make conversation. She wouldn’t have minded, except his fingers strayed over onto her lap. “Travelin’ alone is dangerous too.”

  “I am fine, I assure you.” She nudged his hand away and pretended indifference. She pulled the second-hand straw hat she had bought in one village down close to shield herself. She fingered the frayed shawl, her skin prickling at the idea of wearing a stranger’s clothes. Without the trappings of wealth, she was as low and helpless as any peasant. The revolutionaries strived for that, this equality of the classes.

  “The rise of the middling sort. We’ve that problem here in England. I heard your king’s brother run off after that Bastille business. Not very brave, aye?” He droned on, undeterred, his breath foul. “People a’feared for their lives. Heads on pikes? Is that true?”

  Bettina closed her eyes and leaned against the squabs. Armand had led her to believe her life was threatened. She thought the King agreed to many of the radical changes, rallying support among his subjects. A few aristocrats had fled the country. Then events simmered down. She and Maman had never followed any state news to such an extent before. After her father’s death, they were forced to reach beyond their narrow women’s role. She bit her lip and wondered where her mother was now. But soon the Littles would take her in with soothing sympathy and help her understand her exile.

  The fingers crept over again. Bettina shifted, clung to her bundle, and pinched his hand.

  “Ow! You’re a frisky one, ain’t you?” He grinned at her with his long, slack-jawed face, rubbing his fingers.

  The coach lurched to a stop. Bettina gripped the seat. Outside was an increase in people and vehicles. Scruffy peddlers pushed carts past several stone buildings.

  “Leave ’im alone, Frenchie,” the sister glowered at Bettina, then peered out the window. “Must be near the London road. It’s about time.”

  The door opened and a woman climbed in. She plopped down beside the sister. “Fie, that last coach were too crowded. Everyone goin’ to Bath or Bristol?” She looked slightly older than Bettina and wore a shabby red dress limp on her thin body. Her arms stuck out of the sleeves of a black frock coat that hugged her tight in the shoulders. A crooked straw hat perched on her brunette hair. “Name’s Kerra. Kerra Tregons.”

  The sister sneered and scooted away from her. Bettina nodded, too weary to say anything. Her stays crimped against her ribs and her head ached.

  “I’m William.” The man tipped his felt hat. The coach lurched off again. Bettina hoped he’d find this woman more interesting.

  “William, aye?” Kerra smiled. She had a sharp little face and luminous green eyes. “I just come from London. What a filthy, crowded place that be. Can’t wait to get home.” Kerra’s accent had a harsher sound than what Bettina had heard so far.

  The coach rambled on through the countryside, the passengers lapsing into silence, and Bettina tried to nap. Her stomach growled in hunger.

  “You married, William?” the newcomer asked in what seemed hours later.

  “Nay. I’m still lookin’, and don’t want to settle with just one.” He grinned, wet and sloppy like a hound.

  Kerra leaned forward and touched his knee. “That’s what all you men say. Never give us ladies no chance.”

  “I tried with this one, but she just stays coy.” William caressed his hand on Bettina’s shoulder.

  Bettina flinched and pressed against the window. “Please, do not touch me, monsieur. I do not know you.” She didn’t know what ‘coy’ meant either, but it couldn’t be decent.

  Kerra laughed and winked at her. “We can share him, aye? He thinks he’s worth it, don’t he?”

  “I’ve had quite enough of this mischief. Both of you keep your hands to yourself.” The sister straightened, cheeks sucked into her bony face.

  “Calm down. He ain’t worth it.” Kerra grinned and nudged the woman in the side.

  The sister stood in the swaying coach and rapped on the trapdoor. “Driver! Stop at once!”

  “What is the problem, Madame?” Bettina jerked upright. The coach halted with a groan and she almost slid off the seat. The conveyance rocked and the driver opened the door.

  “I demand you throw both these harlots off the coach. They’re being improper with my brother.”

  “I have done nothing, monsieur.” Bettina looked to the driver’s perturbed face, certain he’d see the ridiculousness of the situation.

  “I’ll pay you extra to do it now.” The sister jingled a coin purse. “And you know I’m good for it. My father is a judge.”

  “Come on out, ladies,” the driver sighed and grasped Bettina’s arm.

  “Mais non. He is the improper one with me.” She pulled back, but found herself dragged out of the coach. She stumbled in the dirt.

  The man reached in again and yanked a screeching Kerra out beside her.

  “Bloody devils! I ain’t done a thing.” Kerra stomped on the ground and shook her fist. “Don’t listen to that old sourpuss. He was enjoyin’ the attention.”

  The driver clambered on top of the vehicle and tossed down a valise. He jumped on the box, slapped the reins, and the coach surged forward, scattering dust and pebbles in its wake.

  Bettina thrust her hand up to protect her eyes from debris. “Mon Dieu. This England is far more dangerous than France.”

  Chapter Three

  They stood in a field with bracken and rocks and no signs of civilization. Bettina strode off, thankful for the warm air, her silk petticoat whispering around her knees. She’d follow the road in the direction the coach took. Her right heel stung again with the blister.

  “I was just bein’ friendly with him. Weren’t serious at all.” Kerra rushed up beside her, swinging the valise. “It do pass the time. Someone’s gonna hear ’bout their treatment. You never know what kinda people you have to trouble with when travelin’.”

  Bettina wanted nothing to do with this creature and hesitated to even reply, but anger bubbled up inside her. “Your ‘passing the time’ has made us lost and thrown out like the trash. I must arrive in Bath, people are waiting for me.” It wasn’t true. The Littles weren’t waiti
ng, and there was scant time to send word. Bettina walked faster.

  “You from France, aye?” Kerra kept pace, skirt rustling. “I ain’t never been out o’ England. I knew a Frenchman once. He was real purse-proud, if you get my meanin’.”

  Homesickness welled up in her. Bettina stopped to catch her breath and hopefully shed her companion. “I wish to travel alone. Have you been to this Bath? How far is it from here?” She made her words stern and imperious, though one could never be certain when speaking in another language.

  “It ain’t so far. Just past them trees yonder.” Kerra dropped her valise in the dirt and adjusted her battered straw hat. Her brunette hair had flown loose from its pinnings. “Fie, I hafta travel all the way to Cornwall. My sister runs an inn there. Her name’s Madronna—Maddie’s Ace it be named. We always called her Maddie.”

  Bettina resumed her stride, heading toward the expanse of trees in the distance. Her spirits lifted at the prospect of being this close.

  “Wait now. I’ll walk with you.” Kerra bustled up beside her, valise under her arm. “We unescorted women should stick together.”

  Bettina bit her tongue to keep silent. She was thankful the woman smelled like lavender and looked somewhat clean.

  “Truth be told, it were my fault. You has a reason to be flummoxed.”

  If ‘flummoxed’ meant frustrated and disgusted, Bettina agreed with her.

  The papers crackled in her bundle as she squeezed it to her heaving chest.

  “Maddie scolded me for goin’ off to London alone. Suppose she be right, but won’t never admit it to her,” Kerra said with a snort. “My sister’s a nice person. But, you must know, kind o’ serious. I should be more like her, aye?”

  Two hours elapsed before they reached and passed through the woods. Bettina tried to ignore her acquaintance’s unnerving conversation, once in a while replying with a yes or no. She stopped as the road dipped down and leaned against a tree’s rough bark to steady her breathing. Her ankles felt like she had been kicked by a horse.

  Tucked like gold nuggets in the shallow valley below was a tawny-stoned city. Bettina’s body drooped with exhaustion, but here was sanctuary. She hurried down the sloping road despite her swollen and pinched feet. Numerous tall buildings, interwoven with cobbled streets and grassy parks, rose up elegant and surprising. Carriages and carts clattered around her.

  “It is a city … trés magnifique.” She grinned, coughed and tried to stir up saliva in her parched mouth.

  “I been here afore. I’ll show you about, if you can spare the time.” Kerra rushed up next to her, her expression eager.

  “No, I do not have the time. But can you tell me where—”

  “Sure you does. We’re this close.” Kerra clamped her hand for a moment. “I’ll show you something you ain’t never seen. Just down here to the right.”

  Down here consisted of two blocks and Bettina limped on her aching feet, hoping to view this marvel, ask directions and hurry on her way.

  “Now these homes built in a ring, they’re pretty, aye? Called the Circus.”

  Bettina stopped and flexed her ankles. Intersected by the road, the opulent town homes, three stories high, were graceful like a circle of cream lilies. “I agree, they are lovely. But please, I must go to the rue Great Pulteney.”

  “Roo? What the devil’s a roo?” Kerra scrunched up her triangular face.

  “Ah, it is a street in English.”

  “I think I know where that be, come on.” Kerra led her over a green field with grazing cows. “See over there, them fancy places lined up in a curve? Built by the same man who built the Circus. Called the Royal Crescent. I been in one of ’em afore to visit. Gent told me they’re faced with phony Greek columns in … whatever them Greek column shapes be. Quite impressive. Too bad he weren’t.”

  “Were you betrothed to this man to be visiting him?” Bettina massaged the back of her neck, stiff from bouncing in the coach, and questioned the likes of Kerra being welcomed inside one of these imposing structures. She, however, warmed with relief that England boasted such a fine metropolis where she would now live.

  “Betrothed? Fie, just lied to be more like it,” Kerra laughed.

  “Is that so?” Bettina had no doubts about the kind of person she’d fallen in with. She disliked being snobbish, but Kerra had caused her more blisters. Her slippers were scuffed and filthy. Several well-dressed people passed and eyed them with distaste.

  Bettina stared back. She’d arrived and was proud to have persevered. “Why does this city have the odd name of Bath? Does that not mean washing yourself, in English?”

  “Aye. It’s from the hot springs that’s natural hereabouts. The Romans built a temple, long afore I were born, over the springs. An’ people still bathe there an’ drink the water … if you like that sort o’ palaver.” Kerra shrugged her shoulders in her black frock coat as they continued to walk. “Let’s go down this street. We can have a dram at the Saracen's Head.”

  “I thought you were showing me to Great Pulteney.” Bettina slowed and shifted her bundle. “If you will tell me how to find it, I will go there, and leave you here.”

  “It might be around the corner. But come in with me, I’ll buy you a drink.” Kerra smiled and shouldered her beat-up valise. “Won’t take a minute. Let me offer you a pittance for causin’ that trouble.”

  Bettina sighed. She was thirsty and Kerra acted so earnest. “I suppose I may.”

  “That’s more like it.” Kerra directed her to a building near the corner. The sign had the head of a severe-looking man in oriental garb.

  Bettina glanced down the street. She needed an excuse to move on and a practical one occurred to her. “Is it polite in England to enter such a place without a male escort? I know in my country it is not.”

  “Don’t bother with all that. Come in with me, Mamsell. You be something genteel afore you come here?” Kerra scoffed, rubbing her pert nose. “A lady of the quality?”

  “I … if you say it is fine. We may go in.” Bettina stuffed down her impatience to reach the Littles. In France these days it was dangerous to admit to being higher born. A position she was once proud of now incriminated her. How quickly life could turn. “A cup of coffee perhaps, only that.”

  Inside, the tavern was bathed in shadow, and the air reeked of ale and acrid smoke. Bettina stayed near the door, embarrassed, dying to massage her hands over the small of her back. Kerra sauntered up to a man in a soiled apron.

  “An ale for me, and a cup o’ coffee for my friend,” she announced, pointing a thumb over her shoulder.

  “Just has tea.” The proprietor sneered at them both. A couple of grizzled old men on stools turned to stare. One winked and clicked his tongue in his mouth.

  “Then tea. She’ll make do with tea.” Kerra glared back at the oglers. “Good afternoon, sots. Should woo after someone willing and closer to your own age. If anyone be left alive.”

  Receiving the drinks from a pot boy, as the oldsters jeered, Kerra went to a settle over near a fireplace. Bettina joined her, and coughed as smoke from the smoldering embers stung her eyes and throat. She slumped on the hard wood and fingered her gown, wrinkled and stained.

  “Now here we be. Let’s drink to arriving safe.” Kerra raised her tankard. “With only a few bruises, that is.”

  “I will drink to that.” Bettina raised her cup, took a sip, and savored the rich taste. She realized this rumpled girl’s temerity impressed her. Kerra not only entered a drinking establishment without a male escort, but insisted on ale.

  “Used to have more interesting fellas here about. Pitiful quiet today.” Kerra looked around and sniffed. Then the eyes in her little face darted back on Bettina. “How old are you, if I ain’t bein’ too personal?”

  Bettina massaged more knots at the base of her neck and imagined a hot, soaking bath. “I am seventeen.”

  “A bit young. I been on my own for a long spell, so I know all about it. I mean my sister was around, but she lets
me do what I want … mostly. Had adventures aplenty. Now I’m close to twenty. An’ if that don’t rhyme.” Kerra slapped the table for emphasis, jiggling Bettina’s teacup. “Who’s these people waitin’ for you?”

  Bettina stirred the dregs of her tea, uncomfortable in this tavern where elderly men gawked and still wary of this brazen young woman. In minutes she would be safe in the company of the Littles, who she hoped wouldn’t be overwhelmed by her intrusion. She touched the canvas bag beside her and knew they’d be happy to receive these papers. For the first time she preened at doing the royalists an important service. “They are … friends of my family.”

  “It’s always good to have friends.” Kerra’s expression softened. “I’ll help you find ’em. Drink up.” She drained her ale in one gulp, swiped her sleeve over her mouth and stood.

  Bettina took another sip. She rose, legs cramping, following Kerra across the room up the few steps and back outside.

  “We’ll walk down the street and see if I remember right.” Kerra waved a hand.

  Bettina hurried with her toward the corner where a wide street veered off to the left.

  “There’s the Pulteney Bridge, so it be down this way.” Kerra pointed left. “I come here for a time to visit that randy fella at the Crescent, like I said. But that jackanapes ain’t important no more, much like that cad in London.”

  They turned and walked shoulder to shoulder. Bettina was relieved when Kerra said no more about her sordid adventures with men.

  The street spanned a rushing river with shops on both sides of the bridge. This road, with the others leading into it, swarmed with carriages. Pedestrians pushed past them in a cacophony of voices. The buildings loomed tall and elegant in their limestone facades, many with stairs leading to an entrance below street level. They crossed the bridge. Two blocks over in a row of townhouses, on the right-hand corner, Bettina’s heart leapt when she saw number 65.

  Her muscles relaxing, she turned to Kerra with a huge smile. “I must manage this alone now, if you do not mind. Thank you for your assistance.”