Free Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) by Diane Scott Lewis Page A

tray.
    “She wants to sit with me … don’t you, dear?” another said, his haggard face creased with dirt, his fingers groping. He spat on the floor as his other hand scratched his crotch. A louse wriggled through his oily hair. “You be a comely little wench.”
    “Leave her alone ,” Maddie broke in, swiping at their hands. “If one of you so much as touches her, you be out on your arse. Friendly conversation and drinks served here, nothing else! You want a whore, go down to Port Isaac.”
    Bettina sighed in relief at her intervention, impressed when the customers obeyed. The majority of people respected Maddie’s formidable presence. Her regulars enjoyed her spirit.
    “Bunch of rutting pigs,” Dory snickered and tapped one miner on his head. “Wouldn’t know what to do with a woman, if lucky to get one alone.” She elbowed Bettina. “But if you was a mite more friendly, would get better vails.”
    “There must be a limit to friendliness.” Disturbed as to what ‘rutting’ meant, Bettina, her tray now empty, backed out of the fray and crunched on someone’s toes. “Pardon!” She spun about to see who stood behind her, then jumped.
    An elderly man stared at her from a bulbous face, the flesh scarred and mottled on one side. His gray hair stuck out in wisps from uneven patches on his scalp. He held up his right hand, revealing three finger stumps.
    “Scared ’ee now, didn’t I?” he declared with a sly smirk. Several of his teeth were missing. Many in the taproom turned to gawk.
    “I apologize, monsieur.” Bettina still found it difficult to meet his rheumy eyes.
    “I ain’t so pretty, it be true. But don’t keep me waitin’, fetch me an ale, girl!” His cackle came out as a hideous grinding sound. Bettina rushed toward the casks, as much to get away from him as to fill his order.
    “That’s Old Milt,” Kerra told her out of earshot. “He got drunk one night and set his house afire. But he be plenty ugsome afore the fire got him. He loves to harass, so don’t pay him no mind.”
    Dory winked at Bettina, brushed past her with a glass of Canary wine, and sank into the louse-riddled miner’s lap. “The Frenchie don’t want you. But I’m available.”
    “My life has become insane.” Bettina thought a smile good enough, and had to force that. She realized that she’d have to suffer some harassment for the vails the customers left for good service. This extra money could be saved toward the purchase of another dress.
    “How’d you get way out here?” a traveler asked after snatching his two-penny. “I heard them French refugees is comin’ into London in droves.”
    “They are, is this true?” Bettina held her breath and gave him a genuine smile. But he shrugged off more questions and ambled off.
    “Say, Dory, bring me a pot,” a man playing cards at a front table called out.
    Dory left her miner, pulled a chamber pot from the back corner and handed it to him. She hung over him, her breasts bulging over her bodice. “Do it quick, Will, you know Maddie don’t like it.”
    Bettina thought she’d faint—if the fainting type—when Will began to unbutton his breeches. She closed her eyes but still heard the stream of spray hitting the bottom of the pot.
    “ C’est odieux ,” Bettina muttered under her breath. She rushed toward the kitchen. Old Milt caught her arm, his puckered face in a grin.
    “We English just ain’t up to your lofty standards, I s’pose?” He cackled his grating laugh as her cheeks flamed. “Maybe ’ee be better than you seem. Any of your family with heads on bloody pikes yet?”
    “That is none of your business.” Bettina pushed his hand away and entered the kitchen. Refugees in London? Perhaps her mother might be one of them. That reaffirmed her need to travel there. She wiped sticky fingers on her apron and heaved a sigh.
    In her naive youth, she’d assumed that everyone lived a decent existence, with enough to eat and clothes to wear. The servant