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

is coming.” She glared at Bettina as if she conjured up the toad herself. “If my God ain’t given me enough to bear.”
    Kerra had told Bettina a few Cornish superstitions and a toad had to be on the ‘front’ step to bring bad luck, but she wouldn’t belabor the point. Ignoring her shabby appearance, she dried her hands on her apron and rushed into the inn. The place seemed strangely quiet this early Saturday, with Kerra and Maddie off on an errand. Dory was the only one in the taproom, and she smirked at her when she entered.
    A short man of about sixty years, built square and hard like a flagstone, stood near the front door. Bettina took in his fine black frock-coat and breeches. She stuffed at her hair under her cap. “Good afternoon, Sir. I am Miss Bettina Laurant.”
    The visitor’s sour expression didn’t soften, nor did he bother to conceal the twitch of his sharp nose. “Afternoon. I’m Mr. Slate. I am here to inquire as to what you charge for these lessons, and on your specific qualifications to teach them? But I think my employer has made a mistake.”
    “I would charge two shillings per lesson, lasting two hours, and I speak fluent French. I am well -educated and French is my native language.” Bettina spoke in dulcet tones in an effort to contain her excitement. She raised her preconceived price after noting his affluence, not to mention his disapproval.
    “It is evident you’re French. Very well, I have doubts, but first you must meet the master, to see if he’s in accord.” Their conversation appeared to be a burden to Mr. Slate.
    Bettina ran her fingers through the tangle of hair that fell back down on her shoulder. “The master?”
    “A coach will be here tomorrow afternoon at promptly four o’clock to pick you up. And do wear something … more suitable.” He crisply put on his hat and departed.
    Irritated by his attitude, Bettina’s spirits still soared over the impending interview. She turned to see Dory duck out of the room. Bettina tramped back outside for her bucket and decided not to mention anything to Maddie or Kerra, until certain of success.
     
    * * * *
     
    A man sat hunched in the driver’s seat of a small black coach when Bettina rushed outside the following day. Who in the village could own such fine equipage? With no footman to attend, she climbed in and slipped her hands over the buttery seats, breathing in the rich smell of leather. Then she stared in dismay at her chipped fingernails, even though she’d massaged Maddie’s hand-cream mixture into her cracked skin.
    The coach turned around, rambled down and entered a narrow road just south of the inn. Ascending the twisting steep grade that mounted the hill, she gazed out the window with a quickening pulse.
    Their destination could be none other than Bronnmargh.
     

 
    Chapter Eight
     
     
    The coach drove past a coppice of bare ash and beech, then down a long gravel drive. Bronnmargh loomed stark on the right. Massive and square, built of harsh brown stone, the manor’s roof was hipped at the corners, giving it a severe line. High sash windows and bold projecting cornices added to the effect.
    The driver stopped at the entrance, but no one came to open the coach door. Bettina waited a moment, perched on the edge of the seat, then alighted and walked up three steps to the carved double portal. It didn’t surprise her that they thought her beneath gracious treatment.
    With a deep breath, she pulled the bell cord and mildew rubbed off on her hand. She appraised the decay of the building, the crumbling neglect and cobwebs in the corners. The manor looked so impressive from the village below. Through the stark trees, she beheld a spectacular view of the sea. The wind moaned around the building and whipped her hair into her face.
    The massive door creaked open. “You should have been brought around to the back. Ah, well, come this way.”
    Bettina started at the appearance of the man she had spoken with yesterday.