Daughter of the God-King

by Anne Cleeland

  Hattie didn’t need to look at Bing to feel her companion’s surprise. It appeared the vice-consul was indeed lately come from the excavation at Thebes, and he was very well informed. Bing’s brother had indicated in his letters that the discovery of the mythical sword was a well-kept secret.

  With an attitude that bordered on the rapturous, the ambassador looked to Hattie, wide of eye. “Such a mystery! How could such a wonder have been bestowed upon a mere female? And how could she have warranted a tomb in the Valley of the Kings?”

  Hattie did her best to come up with an answer, wishing she had paid more attention when Bing was speaking of such things. “We must suppose that she performed some extraordinary service so as to be a heroine in the eyes of the Eighteenth Dynasty.”

  Bing made a small sound behind her that indicated Hattie was mixing her dynasties again—but honestly, who could keep them straight? It was three thousand years ago, for the love of heaven. But correction was to come from the blond woman, who announced in an indulgent tone, “Seti was Nineteenth Dynasty, I believe.”

  Curbing an urgent desire to make a cutting remark, Hattie recalled her circumstances and subsided. “Yes—yes I am sorry; I misspoke.” She then caught the self-assured gentleman’s gaze upon her again and realized he was amused. Why, he is laughing at me, the wretch; I should spill my punch on him, just to show how little I appreciate being the object of his amusement—or being exposed as ignorant in matters Egyptian. The man turned away as Hattie sipped her punch, thinking that this was an odd sort of party—and Robbie was making no effort to have a private word, which was perplexing in itself; if nothing else, he should want to take her aside to give her a bear-garden jawing for surprising him in such a way.

  But he had his own surprise that, as it turned out, would trump hers. Robbie turned to the woman in warm approval, and pulled her hand through his arm. “Madame Auguste knows a great deal about the excavations—she lived in Egypt for years.”

  “No more,” she laughed. “Now I will be an Englishwoman.”

  “England’s gain,” offered the ambassador gallantly, and sketched a small bow.

  With a smile that bordered on the patronizing, the woman addressed Hattie. “Only think, Mademoiselle Blackhouse, we shall be neighbors, you and I.”

  With dawning horror, Hattie found she was having trouble putting together a coherent thought. “Is that so?” she managed, and almost dispassionately noted that she could now hear her heartbeat in her ears—never a good sign.

  “Wish me happy, Hattie,” Robbie revealed with his easy smile. “Madame has agreed to marry me, and I am the luckiest of men.”

  Chapter 2

  With a discreet movement, Bing removed Hattie’s cup of punch from her nerveless hand—apparently afraid her charge would drop it or perhaps even throw it—but Hattie was made of sterner stuff and with a monumental effort, righted her ship and pinned a smile to her lips. “Why, that is wonderful news. My best wishes, Madame.”

  “A whirlwind romance,” the baron observed, and there was an edge to the comment that made Hattie slide her gaze to him, wondering if the baron was winding up to throw a cup, himself.

  “And a timely one,” the woman riposted with a touch of rancor, her eyes narrowed.

  The ambassador was nothing if not a diplomat, and hastily turned to Hattie before blows could be exchanged. “Do you enjoy your stay in Paris, Miss Blackhouse?”

  Paris is hideous, thought Hattie. Aloud, she managed, “Very much—although we are just arrived, and have still to settle in.”

  “Will you meet up with your parents in Egypt?” The slight smile was not reflected in the baron’s unblinking pale eyes and Hattie again had the sense there was an undercurrent whose import was lost upon her—Lord, but this was a joyless group—and Robbie as joyless as the rest of them, despite his genial mien; she knew him better than most.

  “I’m afraid my plans are as yet unformed,” she replied vaguely. Even if she had any sort of plan—which she did not—Hattie would not have confided in him, having lately decided that men should not be trusted. Very lately.

  “May I assume that you stay here in town, mademoiselle?”

  Hattie wondered for one horrified moment if the baron thought to call upon her, then decided she was misinterpreting the situation—the man was old enough to be her father, for heaven’s sake. “Yes—we stay at my parents’ townhouse off the Rue de Rivoli.”

  “Perhaps you will allow me to provide an escort on those occasions when one is needed.” The vice-consul tilted his head slightly to the side in Gallic supplication.

  Good God, she thought in alarm—the old roué is indeed going to call upon me. “That would be delightful,” she replied politely, and wished him away. For reasons she could not name, she took a quick glance to ascertain the whereabouts of the self-assured gentleman and saw that he no longer held his position behind the baron, but was aligned along the wall at a small distance, viewing the crowd with an air of disinterest.

  “So—you have been to the tomb itself, madam?” To add insult to injury, the ambassador had apparently decided that Hattie was a less-than-satisfactory source of information, and so now appealed to the blond usurper. “You must tell us what you observed.”

  “I understand it is cursed,” Hattie offered in a brittle tone. Robbie, long familiar with the warning signs, shot her an admonitory look.

  “There are many secrets in the Valley of the Kings,” the woman replied with an air of defiance as she clung to Robbie’s arm. “One can understand why the former emperor was fascinant.” Hattie was vaguely aware that Napoleon had fought a battle in Egypt but it seemed of little relevance now as he no longer held sway there—or anywhere else for that matter—being safely secured in exile on the Island of Elba. A good riddance, she thought; even though she had been tucked away in the wilds of Cornwall she was aware that the Congress of Vienna was trying to determine how to reassemble the shambles that the French emperor had made of Europe. Robbie had abruptly left home—being attached to the British contingent in some unexplained way—and so had set in train this series of events that had resulted in Hattie’s current humiliation on the floor of the Prussian embassy in Paris. When you thought about it, the former emperor had much to answer for, the wretched tyrant. And it didn’t help her frame of mind to admit she had thought no further ahead than meeting up with Robbie and living happily ever after—although it appeared that this plan was now in as much a shambles as was Europe after Napoleon.

  With a thoughtful air, the baron crossed his arms and considered the floor for a moment. “I suppose Napoleon saw his own actions through the prism of history, and tried to incite a comparison to the pharaohs—at least in the minds of his followers.”

  “And he is now relegated to the dustbin of history.” The Prussian ambassador emphasized the words with unabashed relish.

  The baron tilted his head in acknowledgment. “De vrai; but say what you will, he did have a rare talent for inspiring his followers.”

  But even this tepid praise could not be borne with equanimity by Hattie’s host, who drew his bushy grey eyebrows together in extreme disapproval. “He had a talent for causing a great many casualties—and destroying lives. Bah! They should have executed him forthwith—one such as he will never be contained on Elba—it is sheer folly.”

  Impressed by this impassioned speech, Hattie reassessed her opinion of the ambassador—he was much more palatable when he wasn’t fawning over the long-dead princess.

  “We must not speak of war; the ladies will disavow us.” The baron turned to Hattie yet again with a polite smile. “Mademoiselle, could I interest you in a tour of the Tuileries tomorrow, if the weather holds?”

  Before Hattie could scramble for an excuse, Robbie interjected, “I must claim priority, Monsieur le Baron; allow me to catch up with my old neighbor while I give her a tour of the British embassy.”

  Perversely, Hattie found she was inclined to cut the ground from under Robbie’s feet as a turna
bout, and turned to Bing. “Have we any plans tomorrow, Miss Bing?”

  Without hesitation, Bing prevaricated, “We do have several cards of invitation—”

  But Madame Auguste interrupted to tug playfully on Robbie’s arm in mock chagrin. “Mon cher, tomorrow we must meet with the curé about the wedding—have you forgotten?”

  “After we meet with him, then,” he reassured her with a smile, fondly placing his hand over hers.

  This seemed rather ominous to Hattie, who felt compelled to ask despite her better judgment, “The wedding is imminent?”

  “Friday,” replied the woman, who then added graciously, “You must come—please.”

  “I would be delighted,” said Hattie, and then bestowed a dimpled smile on the group. “If you will excuse me for a moment?”

  After taking her leave, Hattie retreated to the ladies’ retiring room, only barely resisting an impulse to stalk because she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that there was more than one pair of eyes watching her. “Well, Bing; that did not go at all as expected.”

  Bing offered ready sympathy, bending her taller head down to Hattie’s. “I am terribly sorry, Hathor, and I can easily see why you were misled; he certainly doesn’t seem a jilt.”

  But Hattie was compelled to come to Robbie’s defense, and so confessed, “It is not as bad as it appears, Bing; we were never engaged—I said it only so you would make no protest about the trip.”

  “Ah,” said Bing without real surprise. “You cannot be blamed, but I confess that I have always wanted to travel, and any excuse would have done.”

  Despite everything, Hattie had to smile at her companion’s unflappable mien. “I will keep that to mind, then.” As soon as they passed into the privacy of the retiring room, Hattie paused and let out a long breath. “There is something very odd going on, did you see?”

  “I did,” Bing agreed.

  “And Robbie—” Hattie frowned, and shook her head. “I can’t imagine what he is thinking—it is very unlike him; he is not one to fall head over heels.”

  “Sometimes—sometimes young men fall prey to older, more experienced women.” Bing said it delicately, so as not to make an innuendo that might shock her charge, but Hattie disagreed, and shook her head. “Not Robbie, Bing; he is not one to be enthralled in such a way. Something strange is afoot—did you see how they were all barely civil?”

  “The French and the English are rivals in Egypt,” Bing suggested. “Perhaps a quarrel erupted over there that has carried over here.”

  But Hattie was not willing to speculate, and instead decided to take action. “I’ll not endure another minute, so I am going out the window, Bing. Pray exit discreetly and meet me around the back.”

  Bing considered this for a moment, her arms crossed across her bony chest. “We are on the second floor, I believe.”

  Hattie strode over to lift the casement with a jerk and peered outside, the cool evening air like a balm on her overheated face. “There is a wisteria vine—I will contrive.”

  Bing stepped to the window after Hattie, slinging her reticule over a shoulder. “I shall follow, then.”

  Hattie paused, one slippered foot over the sill. “There is no need, Bing—only come around and meet me below.”

  “I will come—I climbed many a vine with my dear brother.”

  Smiling at the reference, Hattie relented. “All right—in honor of Edward, then.”

  “Somewhere, he is very pleased.” With an efficient movement, Bing hoisted up her black skirts, exposing practical white-thread stockings. “Perhaps I should go first in the event I am needed to catch you.”

  Much on her mettle, Hattie assured her she would not fall and within a few moments was clambering down the vine, skillfully testing the branches as she went. She was a first-rate climber stretching back many years and indeed, some of her best climbing adventures had been performed at the side of the newly affianced. The fact that she wore a full plethora of petticoats scarcely slowed her, and in a matter of minutes her uncertain mood was much improved—there was nothing like making a daring escape to lift one’s spirits.

  Easily outpacing Bing, Hattie reached the vine’s trunk and determined there were no more branches upon which to gain a foothold. There was nothing for it—she would have to leap down for the remainder. As she steeled herself to jump, a voice floated up: “Allow me to be of assistance, mademoiselle.”

  Hattie knew who it was without looking, even though he had never spoken to her. “If you would,” she replied calmly. She felt a hand beneath her foot, and then leapt outward, her slipper in his hands as though he was helping her down from a very tall horse.

  Mid-leap, he caught her at the waist and then placed her carefully on the ground. She looked up into the face so close to her own and noted that his neutral expression was belied by the lurking gleam in the brown eyes. His face was rather appealing—the nose slightly curved and the brows darker than his hair.

  “I thank you.” She stepped away from the hands that lingered on her waist.

  “A lovely evening,” he commented, as though the situation was the merest commonplace. He spoke English but his accent was French.

  “Hathor?” Bing’s voice floated down. “Is someone there?”

  “Not to worry,” Hattie called to her. “It is merely—”

  “Monsieur Berry,” he supplied.

  “—Monsieur Berry,” she concluded. They stood in silence for a moment and watched Bing’s careful descent. “You mustn’t peek up her skirts as you did with me.”

  “I was unable to resist,” he replied, unrepentant. “Such an opportunity cannot be passed by.”

  She could not restrain a chuckle, but shook her head. “I am in no mood to banter with you, my friend.”

  “I am aware—I was afraid for a moment it would come to blows, upstairs.”

  Hattie glanced up at him, chagrined. “I had to retreat—she outweighed me by a stone.”

  But the gentleman met her eye and rallied her, “Never—I would wager my last penny on you; you have not her weight but you have guile—always the advantage.”

  Laughing, she felt immeasurably better, and raised her face to his. For a second he stilled, an arrested expression in his eyes. Ah, she thought. The mask slips a bit—and he thinks me charming, despite himself. There was little time before Bing landed, so she asked a direct question. “Who are you that you follow me about?”

  He did not miss a beat. “I must speak with you.”

  “No need to skulk, then,” she chided him. “I so dislike skulkers.”

  “I must speak with you unobserved,” he amended.

  Arching a brow, she shot him a look. “Unobserved by whom?”

  “Ah, your companion formidable alights.” He moved to assist Bing, who was understandably a bit flustered by his attentions.

  Hattie bent to brush the leaves off Bing’s skirt while Berry stood at a discreet distance. “Don’t ask,” Hattie said under her breath.

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” replied Bing in the same tone.

  “May I call for a haquenee?” asked Berry, making a gesture toward the street.

  “If you would,” Hattie agreed, thinking the situation a farce and very much in keeping with the tenor of this miserable, miserable evening.

  Hailing a horse-drawn transport, he recited her address to the driver without asking her for it, which put him on the receiving end of another assessing glance. As he handed Bing into the conveyance he turned to Hattie. “I will call on you tomorrow, if you will permit.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “It is important you do not leave before I have spoken to you.”

  Hattie shook her head slightly in bemusement. “Why on earth would I retreat? I cannot allow Robbie to think I am crushed; I am not such a sap-skull.”

  He ducked his chin at her, his eyes gleaming in amusement. “You are forthright.”

  “And you are a master at avoiding questions you’d rather not answer—it appears I
am no match for you in guile.”

  He teased her with a charming smile, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Come, come—such modesty; you are the god-king’s daughter, after all.”

  Surprised, she met his eyes to find his gaze suddenly sharp upon hers. The gentleman did not appear crazed—he must have misconstrued a chance comment. “You misunderstand—the new tomb contains the remains of the god-king’s daughter.”

  “Your pardon,” he said, and bowed.

  Chapter 3

  On the carriage ride home, Hattie frowned out the window, thinking over the odd and convergent events of the evening. “I will need to purchase some new clothes.” Unspoken was the desire to have something rather low in the décolleté, as she had an impressive figure for one so petite and had noted that she’d best look lively—the Frenchwomen she had met thus far were very well turned out, and he seemed like the kind of man who would take notice of such things.

  “That’s the spirit, Hathor,” offered Bing with approval. “One need only inspire second thoughts.”

  With a guilty start, Hattie realized they were speaking at cross purposes and pulled her attention back to Robbie’s strange situation. “It does defy credulity, Bing—I am certain his parents know nothing of this engagement. It seems so unlike him; and to have chosen such a woman—”

  “Infamous,” agreed Bing. “There is no choosing between you.”

  “I am unlucky in love,” she teased. “Recall that I lost the curate, too.”

  “Well then; I wash my hands of the sterner sex,” pronounced her supporter with equanimity. “Although the Baron seemed rather épris, if I may say so.”

  Hattie shuddered. “I’d as lief retreat back to Cornwall—whatever is he thinking?”

  “May-December,” sniffed Bing. “A shame we cannot arrange to switch with Mr. Tremaine.”

  Hattie chuckled and decided that all in all, she was not as devastated as she should be with the ruination of her latest plan to escape her dull day-to-day existence in the Cornish countryside. The only child of world-renowned Egyptologists, she had spent a solitary childhood because her parents were more often in Thebes than in England, digging around in the sand and in the process catching the imagination of their countrymen, who were looking for any distraction from the never-ending war. Chafing at this state of affairs, Hattie had grown up to be independent-minded and scornful of the restraints imposed upon young females, although there was little point in challenging authority as there was little authority exerted over her in the first place. Fortunately, her tendency toward recklessness had been tempered by Miss Swansea, Hattie’s gentle governess who was more friend than mentor and had dutifully remained at her post even after Hattie reached the august age of eighteen years—her parents apparently unaware that this milestone had been achieved.