The other man’s gaze met hers in all seriousness. “When was the last time you heard from your parents, Miss Blackhouse?”
It was a strange question—Robbie was certainly well aware of her parents’ tepid interest. “I hear from them occasionally,” she answered cautiously. “Why?”
“Anything of late?”
Something in his tone made her search his face, her brow knit. “What has happened?”
He paused, the expression in the grey eyes grave. “Apparently no one has heard from them in a long while.”
Dismayed by the innuendo, she reasoned slowly, “And because you are concerned, you must not think it the usual case when they are at a dig and do not communicate for weeks at a time.”
“I fear for their safety,” the gentleman confirmed with a nod. It seemed to Hattie, though, that he was watching her very closely and didn’t seem all that distraught, given the subject.
Robbie, on the other hand, offered gentle sympathy as he reached to cover her hand with his own. “I am sorry, Hattie.”
There was a pause while they allowed her to assimilate this alarming news, but her mind instead leapt to the theft of her reticule, as well as the mysterious gentleman’s warning to return home, which was in stark contrast to Monsieur Barry’s warning not to leave until she had spoken with him. “I see,” she said rather inadequately, and stalled for time, carefully wary.
“Nothing has been verified,” the grey-eyed man continued. “But it does not look well.”
There was another pause in the conversation and Hattie did nothing to fill the silence, thinking instead about Robbie’s unexpected betrothal and his sincere sympathy, beside her—she knew him too well to pretend he did not fear the worst about her parents. She wondered for a moment if the two events were connected in some way—he was certainly not behaving like a bridegroom on the cusp of marriage—but this seemed implausible. On the other hand, everything seemed implausible from the moment she had first set foot in this stupid country.
When the grey-eyed man spoke again, the topic seemed anticlimactic, given their previous discussion. “Did your parents come often to their residence here in Paris?”
Hattie looked at him a bit blankly. “Yes—they do.” She deliberately used the present tense in contrast to his use of the past tense. “They come to Paris to arrange for exhibitions at the museum.”
He persisted, watching her carefully, “Your parents own no other property in town?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea,” she confessed. “They did not discuss such things with me.”
Almost diffidently, he continued, “Do you know if they had a strongbox—something in which they kept important documents?”
Bemused, she shook her head. “A strongbox? No—I’ve never known of such a thing.” She made a slight gesture toward Robbie. “Although Mr. Tremaine can verify that I was not in their confidence, so it truly doesn’t mean much.” Unbidden, she remembered the mysterious gentleman’s warning to tell Robbie nothing—which seemed ludicrous; she would trust Robbie with her life. Except for the persistent and annoying fact that the British embassy had apparently decided to steal her reticule. Lifting her chin, she demanded, “What is this about? Why this interest in their property?”
“It is unclear what will happen with their estate.”
Hattie could not quite keep the edge from her voice. “It has not yet been established that my parents are dead—or has it?”
Reacting to her tone, Robbie ducked his chin in the apologetic gesture he had made since they were small children and squeezed the hand he held. “Sorry, Hattie; we are thinking of your welfare—how you will go on if they continue missing.”
Hattie abruptly rose to her feet, and the surprised gentlemen hastily rose also. “Please keep me informed of any further news, and I thank you for your concern.” She could sense the men exchange a glance as she turned on her heel to go, but she had decided, sitting there, that she was not to be trifled with. Apparently there was a connection between Robbie’s work at the Congress and her parent’s work—although no one wished to tell her what it was and indeed, the basis for any such link was unclear; her parents had little interest in anything less than three thousand years old, after all. In any event, she had heard her fill of equivocations, and was leaving.
Chapter 5
On the carriage ride home, Robbie made a mighty effort to coax Hattie out of her temper and was largely successful, only because Hattie had resolved on a course of action, which always tended to calm her down. “I’m sorry if I was rude, Robbie, or if I’ve made trouble for you, but I thought he was rather rude to me in the first place.”
“He’s not one to be accommodating,” Robbie disclosed with an apologetic shrug. “I am dashed sorry you heard the news in such a way, Hattie; my fault—I should have broken it to you myself.”
At Bing’s glance of inquiry, Hattie apprised her of the unsettling silence from her parents, but Bing, as was her wont, did not become distressed and instead reminded Hattie that it was not so very unusual, after all. “Edward always said they were all-consumed; particularly when they came across a new find. I have no doubt they are not aware they have raised alarm, and will soon reveal another extraordinary wonder to the world.”
But Hattie was not convinced by this pragmatic advice, having gained the impression that the grey-eyed man was not to be trifled with in his own turn. She asked Robbie, “Is the gentleman your superior? He did not mention his position.”
“In a manner of speaking.” Robbie offered a rueful smile. “He’s rather a hard taskmaster, as you can imagine.”
“He can’t be worse than the Irish schoolmaster, I’ll not believe it.” The conversation then turned to a lively reminiscence of that gentleman’s short but memorable tenure at the Tremaine manor while Hattie noted well that her lifelong friend was not going to tell her what he knew about her parents and this very strange situation. All the more reason for Hattie to keep her plans close to the vest, and so she carefully avoided any inquiries about why the British authorities were so interested in her Egyptologist parents or why Robbie was to marry a woman he never bothered to mention. When she had a chance to have a private word with Bing as they took off their hats back at the townhouse, Hattie asked quietly, “How well do you speak French, Bing?”
“Passably,” Bing responded, considering it. “I couldn’t write a book.”
“I would like to sail for Cairo as soon as possible, and I’d like you to slip away and book passage while I distract Mr. Tremaine in the parlor.”
“Certainly; it seems the best course to take, given the circumstances.” Without a blink, Bing began buttoning up her pelisse once again.
“Don’t mention it to anyone, please.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” her companion replied, and exited toward the kitchen.
Robbie was standing at the bow window with his hands clasped behind his back as Hattie joined him and called for tea. He held out a hand, and with easy familiarity, she placed hers in his. “I’m wretchedly sorry about all this, Hattie—shall I take you for a tour of the city, to take your mind off it?” He brought his other hand to cover hers, and regarded her with a warm and rather tender expression that was very unlike his customary casual treatment.
“Will your fiancée come along?” Mainly, she asked just to discomfit him; someone should make an effort to mention the poor woman.
But he was not to be thrown off in his attempt to sweeten her up. “I believe she is otherwise occupied—it would be just you and me.”
“And Bing,” Hattie reminded him—just to make it clear she was no longer in short skirts, tagging along behind him. She wondered what he was about, making up to her like this, and was curious enough to resist an impulse to cuff him; instead awaiting his next move with interest.
“—and Bing,” he agreed, smiling. “Lord, it is good to see you, Hattie—you remind me of home, and of a simpler time.”
“A bit too simple for my taste,” she admi
tted. Robbie dropped his gaze to finger her hand, and Hattie wondered if she would have the wherewithal to spurn an advance if he proceeded to make one. She was not to find out.
“Mademoiselle Blackhouse; forgive me if I intrude.” Berry stood at the entry to the parlor, completely at his ease. “The door was open and there was no servant.”
For whatever reason, Hattie did not believe him and allowed her skepticism to show in her glance as she introduced the two men. There was no answering gleam today; instead the Frenchman’s expression was politely correct. “Tremaine? Then you must be the gentleman who was in Thebes—the neighbor to Monsieur and Madame Blackhouse.”
“Indeed. And you are—?”
Hattie awaited the reply with interest, thinking it unlikely they were to hear the truth, but with a small bow, the visitor explained, “I was the Blackhouse agent in Cairo.”
While Hattie endeavored to hide her astonishment, Robbie addressed the man with renewed interest. “Yes; we—the British consulate—we were trying to reach you, to discover if you could cast any light on their whereabouts.”
She could see from Berry’s expression that he was not best pleased that Robbie had already raised the subject of her missing parents, and for a moment his enigmatic gaze rested on her face with a trace of concern. “If you do not mind, monsieur, I should discuss the matter in private with Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”
If Robbie were a dog, thought Hattie, he would have bristled. “I assure you I am in Miss Blackhouse’s confidence.”
But the other man seemed discreetly perplexed. “Indeed? Last night at the Ambassador’s reception I did not have such an impression—”
It was masterfully done, and the subtle but barbed reminder of the contretemps involving Madame Auguste made Robbie press his lips together and curl his hands into fists as the silence stretched out. Recognizing the warning signs, Hattie hastily stepped in. “Robbie, I should speak to Monsieur Berry and discover what he has to relate.”
Thus dismissed, Robbie could only bow over her hand with as much grace as he could muster, shooting her an admonitory look that only annoyed Hattie to no end. Who was he to admonish her—with all his talk of strongboxes and attempts to turn her up sweet—the non-forthcoming thiever of reticules. “Good day,” she said firmly, and watched his reluctant exit.
She turned to face Berry, who was doing only a fair job of hiding his own annoyance. In a completely different tone than he had used with Robbie, he pronounced with scorn, “There is a man who seeks one wife too many.”
“How many have you?” The words were out before she could stop them.
“None.” He turned his head to meet her eyes, and there was a long moment while time seemed to stand still as they faced one another, their gazes locked. Hattie was able to hear her heartbeat in her ears for an entirely different reason than the usual, and finally broke the silence. “Then I suppose you are not the best judge of how many is too many.”
“As you say.” He nodded a bit stiffly.
Ah, she thought—he is unhappy he let the mask slip once again but he cannot help himself, it seems. The knowledge was exhilarating, and she had to resist a strange and compelling urge to place her palms upon his chest. Take hold of yourself, she thought in alarm, and turned aside to break the spell. “Shall we be seated in the parlor so that I may hear your news?”
“Or the garden, instead,” he suggested politely. “It is a fine day.”
As it was now threatening rain, she concluded he was concerned they would be overheard, and willing to humor him, she walked toward the French doors at the back without demur. “I have no chaperone at present, but I promise I will not try to compromise my way into becoming your first wife.”
But his guard was now firmly in place and he would not be teased. “As you wish, mademoiselle.”
Hattie led him into the small, walled garden in the back that featured a wrought-iron tea table and two chairs alongside a flower bed. As he pulled out her chair, she noted he was once again dressed in understated clothing and not from the finest of tailors. Nevertheless, Hattie had an impression of strength and assurance that could not be concealed by subterfuge—that he was merely an agent for her parents seemed unlikely. Another mystery—and I’ve only been here a day, she thought as she allowed her gaze to dwell on the fine set of his shoulders. He was perhaps thirty, she guessed, and if he was indeed unmarried it was not for lack of opportunity, despite his efforts to hide his light beneath a bushel. Resolving to appear older than her years, she folded her hands in her lap and wished she had thought to bring a wrap as it was turning quite cool.
Berry sat across from her and began in a low tone, “Did you bring any servants from England, mademoiselle?”
Hattie blinked, as this seemed an unlikely opening. “No, we hired them from the local service. Should I fear poison in my soup?”
In response, he met her eyes in all seriousness. “You must be cautious—particularly in what you say when they are about.”
This comment made her reply in a tart tone, “There seems little point; I obviously know less of what is going forward than apparently everyone else in Paris.”
But he would not be goaded, and said only, “That is as may be, but others suspect you hold secrets; therefore you must be careful.”
“I am already aware—the British arranged for my reticule to be snatched last night.” She wasn’t certain why she told him, except that she wanted to show him she was not a complete fool.
“Yes,” he replied as though this was the merest commonplace. “And then you were approached by the Comte deFabry.”
Hattie digested the interesting fact that despite being some sort of clerk, Monsieur Berry was very well informed. “Is that who it was? He never mentioned his name but he seemed rather harmless.”
“What did he say to you?”
Once again, Hattie was answering questions without obtaining any answers in return—this was how things were done in France, apparently. She countered, “Why—do you think he is not as harmless as he seemed?”
“I cannot know,” he explained patiently, “until you tell me what he said, mademoiselle.”
This seemed irrefutable, so she complied, as best she could. “He kept apologizing,” she concluded. “He was very polite and deferential.”
“I would ask that you not speak with him any further.”
Exasperated, she pointed out, “I imagine he would say the same thing about you, and I have no reason to obey either one of you. What has happened to my parents?”
If she thought the bald question would discomfit him, she had misjudged her man. “They were last known to be at the new tomb in Thebes, making an inventory of the excavations. Other than that, I have very little information—even from those who assisted them with logistics. They have literally vanished without a trace.”
Her brow knit, Hattie stared at him and tried to assimilate this bleak assessment. Berry held her gaze with his own level one, a trace of sympathy contained therein. Made uneasy by its presence, she pointed out, “I often have no communication from my parents for months on end.”
“No one knows this better than I,” he agreed. “However, for three months they have been unaccounted for.”
“Three months?” Hattie tried to hide her dismay. They wouldn’t willingly be away from the site for that length of time—it was indeed as everyone thought; something was very wrong.
Berry tilted his head in apology. “I visited your home in England and found that you had traveled here. It caused a delay, which is unfortunate.”
She hated to say the words but found she was compelled. “Do you believe they are dead?”
“I fear so.”
Dropping her gaze for a moment, she regarded her hands in her lap. “I see.” She wasn’t certain how she felt—she hadn’t known them very well, after all. On the other hand, it was one thing to feel an orphan and another to actually be one.
“I am so sorry,” he offered. “I was hoping you may be of assis
tance. Have you any information? Did they inform you of their plans?”
“No,” she responded, her gaze raised to his again. “They did not.”
He persisted, leaning forward, his expression intent. “Was there any recent correspondence? Any items entrusted?”
A silence fell, and into it Hattie asked, “What is it you were searching for, upstairs?”
Chapter 6
If Hattie expected Berry to disclaim, she was to be disappointed. “It is their house,” he pointed out in a reasonable tone, “and I am their agent.”
They regarded each other across the table for a long moment. You are a foolish, foolish girl, she chided herself, to be taken in by this so-capable gentleman. “What color are my mother’s eyes?”
“I don’t know what you call it,” he replied as though the question was not unusual in the least. “Vert-brun; green with brown. Hazel.”
“It is the same word in English.” And it was true—her mother was pale and attractive in the best English tradition. Vain about her skin, she was always swathed in hats and veils when in the sun. Hattie’s eyes, by contrast, were so dark as to seem almost black. “And my father?”
“I don’t remember.” Indicating with a gesture, he raised a hand. “He is missing the little finger from his left hand.”
This was true—it was crushed by a cornerstone, years ago. “What did my father call my mother?”
“Neph,” he said immediately.
The knot in Hattie’s breast dissipated. The nickname was an abbreviated version of Nephthys, an Egyptian goddess who was notoriously unfaithful. Her parents’ sense of humor—along with everything else—stemmed from their only passion. It seemed unlikely Berry would know these details unless he had indeed spent considerable time with them. Feeling an inappropriate stab of envy, she asked, “Did they ever speak of me?” Horrified, she wished she could pull the words back; the last thing she wanted was to appear pathetic before this man.
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