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

who ironed her gowns, the laundress who scrubbed her clothes … had she once worried about what kind of life these women went home to? Or if they lived in her home, did she ever speculate on the condition of their quarters? She splayed out her red, rough hands, the nails broken and creased with dirt. Now that she toiled as the laundress and the servant, the reasons behind the revolution began to make sense.
    Ann stirred a pot of stew over the kitchen fire. When she looked away, Bettina swiped a slice of cheese from a tray and stuffed it in her mouth. Part of her didn’t want the revolution to make sense. It crumbled away everything she’d been raised to believe in.
    Bettina savored and swallowed the cheese, resigned to smile, to cajole, no matter how distasteful, if it was the only way to earn the money for a coach ticket out of here.
     

 
    Chapter Six
     
     
    The town of Port Isaac, three miles south of Sidwell, charmed Bettina with its quaint pastel cottages gathered in clefts along the jagged shoreline and in the folded slopes. Kerra clung on behind her, and Bettina directed Shevall down the steep lane, that first veered inland, and then switched back to the harbor. The horse clopped and slid on the slick cobbles, dampened by sea spray.
    “See them cottages there. Beneath they has the fish cellars.” Kerra pointed to a clump of slate hovels near the harbor. “There women prepare the catch from the fishing boats, for saltin’ or selling.” Several boats were moored in the narrow bay, bobbing on slate-blue water.
    At the draper’s tiny shop, Bettina settled for the cheapest plum-colored wool. Her money, even after another month’s wages, wouldn’t stretch any further. She gazed wistfully at the array of lace and ribbons, items now too extravagant for her to purchase. With hesitant fingers, she stroked a piece of satin, so smooth, and recalled shopping at the modistes on the rue Saint-Honoré in Paris. She’d asked for whatever she wished— robe à la Turque ; robe à la française —never caring about the cost. She clenched her fingers. If she wasn’t desperate for clothing, she wouldn’t waste the money she intended to finance her way to London.
    Riding back up the coast road, they passed a young man on foot wearing a canvas hat and smock. He removed his hat to reveal bright, copper hair over a sallow face. Head lowered, he mumbled a greeting and proceeded on his way.
    “Did you see how he smiled at you?” Kerra asked with an amused snort, poking her from behind. “I think he’s taken a fancy to you.”
    “I saw no smile. If true, he smiled for us both,” Bettina said, embarrassed by her remark. The last thing she needed was anyone taking a fancy to her. “Who is he?”
    “Newlyn Tremayne. His father’s a tenant farmer on Squire Trethewy’s estate, a far pace out of town. He’s Stephen’s brother. ’Course, he ain’t nothing like him.”
    “You Cornish have so many names that begin with ‘Tre ’. Why is that?” Bettina changed the subject, loath to discuss Stephen.
    “Means ‘farm ’, or something like that. We must’ve been all farmers once round here. But I’ve seen Newlyn giving you the eye in the taproom afore. Oh, fie, here comes the other squire.” Kerra fidgeted and grew silent.
    The man riding in the opposite direction on a brilliant black horse drew Bettina’s attention. He sat very tall, wearing a dark flowing cape and a round hat, his face obscured in shadow. His horse held its noble head erect as it moved down the road with a fluid grace. Both rider and mount looked majestic and out of place in this rural setting.
    “Who did you say he is?” Bettina asked in a whisper after he passed.
    “Everett Camborne, the local quality. I told you ’bout him.”
    “Tell me more about him.” Bettina couldn’t help glancing back to keep the man in sight.
    “It be claimed he killed his own wife in that manor house up the hill behind us. Heard she be a woman fond o’ sleeping