“Yes,” he agreed, and offered nothing further, which was maddening but to be expected; he gave little away, this self-assured gentleman, which made it all the more interesting that she could sense he was wrestling to resist the attraction between them—wrestling and not necessarily succeeding.
In a steady voice, she asked, “Tell me honestly; do you believe I am in danger?”
“No,” he said immediately and looked up into her eyes. “No, mademoiselle, you are not in danger.”
Almost apologetically she pointed out, “The comte who gave me the warning last night seemed to think so—and there are a great many corpses piling up. It does give one pause.”
The brown eyes were intent upon hers and she could see that he was wrestling again, an undefined emotion simmering just below the surface. “You will not be one of them—my promise on it.”
That she apparently now had a champion was much appreciated, and so she smiled upon him in the soft candlelight. Immediately, his expression became shuttered and she could sense his withdrawal. His mighty resistance had been raised again, and truly, it was just as well that one of them was resisting this magic; she was already regretting that she had not worn her pretty nightdress. To cover the moment she teased him, “You shouldn’t pour the butter boat over Bing—she’ll be expecting an offer of her own.”
He bowed his head in amused acknowledgment. “Mademoiselle Bing is very capable, I think.”
“Indeed she is. But she does not think Edward’s death was anything more than an accident, while you apparently do.”
He hesitated, weighing his words again, so she chided with a hint of impatience, “For the love of heaven, monsieur; you expect much from me but give little in return.”
The rebuke seemed to have the desired effect and he relented. “Yes, I believe there is a connection; that his death was not an accident.”
“But you don’t think there is a curse, do you?” In the quiet darkness of night, the idea seemed less fantastic.
“No; but there are those who would encourage such thinking.”
“Who?” she asked, her brows knit. “And why? Who are you, exactly?”
Bending his head for a moment, he touched her hand, quickly. “I am afraid I cannot say. But if you know anything of these matters, Mademoiselle Blackhouse, you must tell me—and tell me immediately. You must withhold nothing.” The brown eyes were raised once more to hers, the timbre of his voice very serious.
Hattie nodded, serious in her own turn. “I understand.”
There was a pause while it seemed to Hattie that he awaited a full confession. As she did not give him one, he continued, “I would ask that you be wary of Monsieur le Baron.”
“Readily. Do I fend him off with my hatpin?”
But he would not joke, and chose his words carefully. “He may contrive a situation where you would have little choice but to accept an offer.”
“Not with me, he won’t.”
Despite himself, he smiled. “Nevertheless, be wary, if you please.”
She assured him she would do so, and then felt a small pang at the realization she would avoid all such problems by stealing out of town tomorrow. She wondered at Berry’s reaction, and then consoled herself with the certain conviction—unless she had completely misjudged the situation—that she would see him again, and sooner rather than later. “Now, if you don’t mind I do have a question, if you will condescend to give me an answer.”
“Cela fait trembler,” he teased in mock apprehension, the planes of his face softening in the candlelight as he gazed up at her.
“Why did you refer to me as the god-king’s daughter last night? Since you have worked with my parents, you couldn’t have confused the meaning.” Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to come up with a plausible explanation.
He answered easily, “Your likeness was used to depict the princess.”
She stared in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Tilting his head, he explained, “It was your parents’ idea. After the find, there was a great deal of publicity—it was astonishing that a nameless princess would be buried in the Valley of the Kings. A fanciful likeness was printed up and distributed—it bears a resemblance to you.”
“Oh,” she said, rather pleased and surprised by the implied compliment. “I see.”
“You were not aware of this, it seems.”
“No. But my parents always loved a good jest.”
He dropped his gaze for a moment and she remembered that her parents were missing and presumed dead, and she probably shouldn’t be making light of the situation by flirting with their very appealing agent—who was no more a clerk than she was the stupid princess.
As though coming to the same realization, Berry brought all flirtations to a close by rising to his feet and she rose with him, her heart beating in her ears; half hoping he would attempt an advance and half hoping he would not, as she was not certain she would make a whole-hearted attempt to thwart him.
He bowed his head to whisper, “Lock the door after me, if you please.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice as she followed him to the door. Just before he slipped out, he turned and put a finger under her chin to lift her face to his. “You must make me a promise, mademoiselle,” he said in a low voice, his face in the shadows.
She waited, nearly suffocating on a pleasurable precipice.
He leaned in and spoke in a tender tone. “You will not look upon Monsieur Tremaine in such a way.”
Blushing hotly, she ducked her chin and closed the door on him with a firm click, hearing a soft chuckle as she did so.
After washing in the now-tepid water and climbing into bed, Hattie lay with her arms behind her head and contemplated the soft moonlight coming in through the window—she had much to think about. Her parents paid little attention to their only child but there had always been the conviction that this circumstance would change—that as soon as she was old enough to help them in their life’s work she would be summoned. Now it seemed the summons would never come—and despite their failings, they were her parents and didn’t deserve to die, unmarked and ungrieved in a foreign land.
She twisted a dark ringlet around her finger and thought about her three visits this day, and the general misapprehension that she knew the location of the all-important strongbox. Robbie had not behaved as though he were a man about to be married. The Baron believed her an heiress and was apparently hoping to secure a fortune by fair means or foul. Berry claimed to be her parents’ agent in Egypt, yet he did not know that Hathor was the name of a prominent Egyptian goddess. He also had searched her house uninvited and had locked horns with her parents’ solicitor, and—if she were guessing—it would not be beyond the realm of possibility to believe that he was some sort of spy; it would explain his penchant for doing whatever he wished even though he had adopted the persona of a clerk. This led her to draw a similar conclusion when it came to Robbie and his grey-eyed superior; try as she might, she didn’t see how the diplomatic doings at the Congress of Vienna could have instigated this hotly contested search for her parents’ strongbox. Something untoward was going forward, and whatever it was, apparently it was dangerous; many were dead and the Comte—whatever his name was—had urged her to flee back to England with all speed.
Pulling gently on a fine chain she wore around her neck, she withdrew the golden disk that was suspended upon it. Frowning in concentration, she contemplated the unintelligible markings engraved upon the disk for the thousandth time. I have no idea whom I can trust, she thought. And so I will trust no one.
Chapter 9
“We sail upon the Sophia, which will depart from Le Havre on the tide day after next.” Bing was thinking about practicalities as they sat for breakfast the next morning, Hattie a bit heavy-eyed from her late night. “Do we fold up our tent and depart without comment, Hathor? Will you miss Mr. Tremaine’s wedding festivities?”
“With great pleasure.” Hattie buttered her bre
ad with more force than was necessary. “And for the record, the gentleman was disinclined to discuss the event, and turned the subject at every opportunity.” The two women exchanged a significant look in the manner of women everywhere who predict a mismatch, and a small silence fell as they continued their repast. A bit guiltily, Hattie realized that she would have to tell Bing something of what was going forward—although thus far she’d been an exemplary cohort—and so she decided to speak only in cautious generalities, for the time being. “I know my parents had a solicitor in Cairo—a Mr. Bahur—and given recent events I think it is important that I meet with him in person.”
Bing nodded. “Certainly understandable—I imagine he would want to speak to you, also; one may presume he awaits instruction.”
Hattie thought about what Berry had told her. “Do you think I am the executrix, then?”
“I have no idea, I’m afraid, but it is another reason to seek him out; if you are not the executrix you will need to speak to whoever is fulfilling that role.”
“I suppose I shall need to draw upon their funds.” Hattie had never considered such mundane matters in the past, mainly because she’d never gone anywhere nor done anything remotely interesting.
But Bing shook her head slightly in disagreement. “Your accounts are yours outright, Hathor—to draw upon as you wish. This was made very clear to me.”
Thinking on this, Hattie smiled at her companion and reflected without rancor, “How strange that they were so generous with their money but not with their attention.”
“I shall say nothing on the subject,” said Bing, and pressed her lips into a thin disapproving line before she took another bite of dry toast.
But Hattie was not one to dwell on the past—particularly now that the future seemed to hold a hint of promise, given the glimpse of that simmering emotion—and replied, “Come, now, Bing—they were bringing the wonders of the ancients to the world and I—well, I would have been underfoot. And,” Hattie teased her, “I would never have met you, else. Promise you will not up and marry some no-account suitor, as did Miss Swansea.”
“I’m afraid I am not the marrying kind,” Bing disclaimed with her slight smile.
“Well then, this will be as close to an elopement as we’ll come, I imagine. I’d rather not trust the servants with our plans, so please pack a few essential things discreetly—we’ll need to purchase more appropriate clothing once in Cairo, anyway—and we’ll hire a hackney and be well away before anyone has a chance to plague me further.”
“I cannot blame you for your caution, Hathor. It does seem…” Bing paused, her thin wrists resting on the table. “It does seem that there are powerful forces at play.”
Hattie was reminded that Bing was no fool, and was obviously drawing her own conclusions. “Yes. And I cannot like the feeling that I am playing blind man’s bluff while everyone else refuses to give me an inch of useful information.”
“And you mistrust the British authorities.” The statement hung in the air, a hint of a question contained therein.
Hattie could only reply with all sincerity, “I’m afraid I do, Bing; I have good reason, believe me.”
Her companion seemed satisfied with this assurance, and returned her attention to her tea and toast. “Then it is settled. I have always wanted to see Egypt, and quite look forward.”
The bell rang, and Hattie looked up in surprise as it was too early for morning calls. She heard a man’s voice—not Robbie’s—and then the maid came in to announce a visitor who was revealed to be the grey-eyed man, Robbie’s superior. That worthy did not stand on ceremony but strode directly into the breakfast room, his hat in his hand and his expression grave as the women hastily rose. “Miss Blackhouse, Miss Bing—please forgive my intrusion but I am afraid I have unsettling news.”
“Robbie?” asked Hattie in alarm.
Contrite, the man paused and held out a reassuring hand. “No—I am sorry to have alarmed you but instead it is Mr. Tremaine’s fiancée—I’m afraid there has been a terrible accident.”
Hattie stared at him, and then realized she was not, after all, very much surprised. “Madame Auguste? Why, what has happened?”
The gentleman’s gaze did not waver. “I am sorry to report she has met with a fatal accident; Mr. Tremaine has asked that I fetch you to the embassy so that you can support him at this time—”
Hattie interrupted with a touch of impatience, “Can you not tell us what has happened?”
Their visitor shook his head in a regretful disclaimer. “I do not know the particulars, Miss Blackhouse. But Mr. Tremaine has urgently requested your assistance.”
Hattie found it rather ominous that the man wouldn’t tell her, even though she would bet her teeth that he knew exactly what had happened to Robbie’s wretched bride—and it didn’t help that she felt a bit remorseful for being so short with the poor, doomed, aged woman. The British must be worried that Hattie was next on the list of victims, despite Berry’s assurance that she was in no danger; otherwise there was truly no reason for this exigency—or for this particular man to come fetch her—if her only role was to comfort the bereaved. Unless, of course, they wished to torture her secrets from her in the embassy basement, and the British usually frowned upon such procedures—or one would think, anyway. In any event, she wasn’t going to allow the gentleman to think she wasn’t aware that he was prevaricating, and so she bluntly concluded, “You must believe that I am in danger, then.”
She could hear Bing’s soft intake of breath at such plain speaking, but their visitor only bowed his head in acknowledgment. “All the more reason to come to the embassy, miss.”
“Of course; we will come, then.” Hattie turned to Bing. “Do you have any mourning bands, Bing?”
Bing shrugged her spare, black-clad shoulders with regret. “I am afraid not, Hathor, as I remain in full mourning for my dear brother.”
Hattie turned to the grey-eyed man and said briskly, “If you would allow me step into the draper’s for a moment on our journey to the embassy—it is just up the street—I can purchase mourning bands for poor Robbie and myself.”
The grey eyes regarded her without expression. “Perhaps such a purchase can wait—”
But Hattie quirked her mouth, and interrupted candidly, “I was unkind to the decedent on the one occasion when I met her, and so I feel obligated to show every consideration, to try to make up for it. I don’t want Robbie to feel I do not share in his sorrow.”
As expected, the gentleman assented, having little choice in the matter. “Very well, then.”
As the women fetched their gloves and hats, Hattie murmured to the hovering Bing, “Stand ready; we are going out yet another window. Bring along the passage vouchers.”
“Do we leave out the back?” asked Bing in tone that indicated she was willing but uncertain of the success of such a tactic.
“No—I imagine they are watching the house to make certain no one seizes me before they do. Good God, Bing; was there never such a place for dark doings? City of Light, my eye. Come with me and stay close.”
With all appearance of complicity, they accompanied their escort to the waiting carriage, Hattie noting with a quick glance that the embassy driver was the same as the hackney driver from the first night—which came as no surprise whatsoever. “Poor Robbie,” remarked Hattie aloud. She meant it, too—it would be embarrassing to act as chief mourner when one had hardly time to act as bare acquaintance. “Did Madame Auguste have family in Paris?”
“I am unaware,” replied the gentleman as the carriage began to move.
Knitting her brow, Hattie watched out the window for a few moments as the city’s inhabitants stirred to life. “We must purchase mourning cards, also, Bing. We can send the announcements to those who must be informed—Robbie never had a good hand.”
“Very good,” agreed Bing. “He will no doubt be too upset to think of such things.”
Hattie sat back in the seat, counting off tasks on her fingers. �
��Yes—we’ll speak with him, and discover what needs to be done, and how many cards will be needed. Perhaps we’ll have to help make funeral arrangements, also, although I have no idea how such a thing is handled over here—I imagine she was Roman Catholic.”
“We shall see,” Bing assured her. “Every propriety must be observed.”
“Here we are at the draper’s,” the grey-eyed man announced as the carriage pulled up to the curb. With a deferential air, he added, “I will escort you ladies within, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” said Hattie, who then added with an amused sidelong glance, “I am counting on you to stand the ready, on account of my reticule having been unaccountably stolen.”
“Say no more, Miss Blackhouse,” the other assured her in a wooden voice as he handed her down. “I shall be honored.”
“Have Robbie pay you back,” she suggested.
“No need.”
“You are very kind.” I shouldn’t bait him, she thought, but I cannot allow him to believe I am as stupid as he thinks.
Once within the shop’s interior, Hattie sized up the two women within and approached the younger. “We will need blacks, I’m afraid,” Hattie explained in French, and began walking to the back of the shop where, in the time-honored tradition of draper’s shops, there were rolls of all variety of fabrics, stacked high on tables and shelves.
The girl assumed a sympathetic expression, her pretty mouth drawn down. “Quel dommage, mademoiselle.”
“That’s as may be,” replied Hattie, who walked behind the stacks and straight toward the back door—she thought it best to strike quickly, whilst her keeper was carefully viewing the street out the front window. “Say nothing,” she whispered to the surprised girl with a smile. “I go to meet my sweetheart, and mon oncle disapproves.”
“Ah! Oui, mademoiselle,” the girl answered, and lingered behind the stacks, looking self-conscious, as she watched them slip out the door.
“Quickly, Bing; we’ll find a hackney on the next street up; I’m afraid we will have to lie on the floor for a time.”
Daughter of the God-King Page 6
