Daughter of the God-King

by Anne Cleeland

  “Yes,” Hattie assured him. “In fact, he wanted me to take control immediately, even though we are not yet certain they are no longer alive—it was a little strange.” Prudently, she didn’t mention the contretemps about the password—although now that Robbie was here, perhaps he should be the person she trusted with the golden disk, instead of Berry. She wanted to trust Berry, but the fact that he had stolen a key to the consulate gave her pause.

  “Are you certain you have enough money, Hattie? If you are in need I can stand the ready.”

  Although he meant well, Hattie was a bit embarrassed by his heavy-handedness. “Thank you, Robbie, but my parents have provided a bank account for which I am the sole signatory—indeed they have been surprisingly generous.”

  A small silence greeted this remark, and Hattie thought they all seemed struck by this arrangement—which certainly wasn’t that unusual, after all. Robbie addressed his plate again and replied, “That is to the good, then. Where is Miss Bing this evening?”

  “Suffering from happy exhaustion in our room. She visited the pyramids today with the Minister of Antiquities, and took to her bed upon their return.”

  “Mr. Hafez?” asked Robbie, his interest piqued.

  “Yes, Mr. Hafez.” Hattie was reminded that Robbie’s late bride’s late husband—honestly, it was all so very confusing—had worked with Hafez. “Do you know him?”

  “We met briefly when I visited the site with Madame Auguste. Has he cultivated an acquaintanceship with you?”

  Hattie found the choice of words strange, and wondered if Robbie was another who didn’t trust the seemingly innocuous official. “I suppose you could call it that—he and Bing discuss treasures from Abu Simbel and compare cat’s-eye sapphires.”

  “Interesting.” Robbie finished up his beefsteak and began in on the stewed figs.

  “It is of all things incroyable,” offered Eugenie, miffed.

  “Never say you are not included in such discussions, Mademoiselle Valérie,” Robbie teased with a grin.

  “Leone,” she corrected him again. “You confuse me with another, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Undoubtedly,” he agreed, his blue eyes amused as he drank his wine.

  Hattie decided she felt as though she were a child at a table with adults, trying to follow along in the conversation. To turn the subject, she described that day’s visit to the consulate and the procurement of the safe passage, leaving out those incidents of theft which seemed extraneous to the story.

  “A good idea, monsieur,” Tremaine turned to compliment Berry in a sincere tone. “I am dashed grateful that you’ve been seeing to Miss Blackhouse in my absence.”

  Berry studied his wineglass, his fingers showing white where they were pressed against the stem. “I am happy to be of service.”

  Hurriedly, Hattie sought to change the subject and found an object to accomplish this aim. “Why, here is Mr. Hafez, now.”

  The minister approached in a distracted fashion, perspiring with the effort of moving his portly frame with as much speed as he could muster. “Miss Blackhouse—forgive my interruption but I am afraid I have most disturbing news.”

  Alarmed, Hattie bade him to sit but he declined, saying, “I am afraid I cannot stay. But your status must remain unsettled for the time being; I regret to report your parents’ solicitor—Mr. Bahur—has been killed.”

  Hattie stared and was aware, for reasons she could not state, that this was not news to Berry. “Why—how terrible,” she exclaimed, thinking of the earnest clerk—her would-be suitor—and hoping he would not suffer any hardship as a result. Oh, she thought suddenly—oh, God in heaven—the parcel. “Do we know what happened?”

  Mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, the minister lamented, “He stayed late at his offices last night and was assaulted—the premises ransacked. It will be nearly impossible to piece together the contents so as to discover what is missing, if anything.”

  “A tragedy,” said Eugenie, placing a slender hand on the minister’s sleeve. For the first time, Hafez seemed to notice her. “Mademoiselle Leone,” offered Hattie in introduction. “And I believe you have already met Mr. Tremaine.”

  “How do you do?” he bowed to Eugenie, then nodded to Robbie. “May I leave a note for Miss Bing, Miss Blackhouse? I fear I will be busy on the morrow and cannot escort her to the Priapus as planned.”

  “Please—I shall see to it that she receives it.”

  After he performed this service, Hattie noted that her fellow diners seemed disinclined to discuss this latest development, which seemed a bit odd, and so she ventured, “I had no idea that Cairo was such a dangerous place.”

  “I will book a passage to Thebes tomorrow,” Robbie announced, and placed his hand over Hattie’s on the table to reassure her. “Rest easy, Hattie; I will see to your safety.”

  “I appreciate it, Robbie.” Hattie slid her hand away, fearing Berry’s wineglass would be snapped in two.

  The dinner party broke up and Hattie slowly ascended to her room, thinking about Robbie’s arrival along with this latest death and hoping that her poor clerk would not meet a similar fate. There seemed little doubt that someone sinister was after her parcel—after all, nearly everyone she met coveted the miserable strongbox; whatever could it contain to inspire such bloodlust? Hopefully, even if he were questioned it wouldn’t occur to the clerk to mention the parcel, as he believed it to be an innocent set of books. I must discover what is inside, she thought, and that will determine what I am to do.

  Deep in her abstraction, she didn’t realize Berry had followed her down the hallway until he appeared at her side. “Bonne nuit,” he said, taking her hand and holding it in his.

  “Bonne nuit,” she replied, smiling despite her worries.

  “Come—walk with me.” There was a world of promise in the invitation; the brown eyes intent upon hers.

  Feeling reckless, she took his arm. “Only for a few minutes,” she warned, thinking of her chaperone, who undoubtedly had the lamp lit against her return. After escorting her to the far end of the hallway, Berry then led her down the servants’ stairs and into an alcove located beneath the stairway that afforded some measure of privacy. It was dimly lit by a sconce burning on the wall, and Hattie’s heartbeat accelerated in pleasurable anticipation—at long last they would be alone and undisturbed.

  Turning to take hold of both her hands in his, he bent his head and confessed in a low voice, “I seek a private moment with you, Hattie—as of tomorrow we will not have many opportunities.”

  Anticipating a declaration, she met his gaze, enrapt, then heard whispered voices approaching. Berry drew her back into the shadows and they beheld Robbie and Eugenie, arm in arm, coming to the back stairway in a breathless hurry. Robbie paused to kiss his companion thoroughly and Eugenie wholeheartedly complied, giggling when he released her. They then ascended upward, presumably to the privacy of a room.

  Hattie stood with Berry for a moment in the ensuing silence. “That was not well done of you,” she said quietly.

  Chapter 23

  There was a pause. Berry did not deny the machination, but said only, “He was not unwilling.”

  “I should go.” She turned to leave.

  His expression intent, he caught her arm to stop her. “Look, I am sorry; I was angry because he pretends that you belong to him.”

  She lifted her chin. “I belong to no one.”

  His jaw clenched, he lowered his gaze to the floor and did not respond. Half hoping for an argument, Hattie saw she was not going to get one and to cover her disappointment, she explained in a constrained voice, “He is my oldest friend and I will not allow you to disparage him. His family”—she paused; you are not going to cry, she assured herself—“his family allowed me to join in with them.”

  He raised his gaze to hers. Gently, his fingers touched her arm. “Forgive me,” he said. “Please.”

  “What is it?” she demanded angrily, trying to control her emotions. “What is it
about women like her that makes men behave like imbeciles?”

  Tentatively, he raised his hand and drew a finger along her cheek, gauging her reaction to his touch; she did not flinch. “It can be useful; men cannot resist beautiful women. Most men,” he corrected.

  “You are not helping,” she said crossly, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “It is a powerful weapon.” His hand moved from her cheek to stroke the hair back from her temple with a gentle thumb. “I am something of an imbecile, myself.” Thus encouraged, his hand then came to rest on the nape of her neck and he began to apply gentle pressure, pulling her toward him as he leaned down, his eyes meeting hers as his mouth descended, watching for an objection.

  I will let him do his penance, she decided as she lifted her face to meet his kiss—it is only sporting. As the kiss deepened, his arms came around her and the heat leapt between them—it seemed that every time he kissed her, matters escalated more rapidly—and she lost her will to resist just as rapidly. Making a soft, surrendering sound in her throat, she responded to the openmouthed kiss, wondering what it would be like to be abed with him in the way Robbie and Eugenie were undoubtedly abed—to feel his skin beneath her mouth and hands. After he caressed the contours of her breasts, one arm came around her waist while his mouth and tongue moved down her neck; he tugged at the neckline of her blouse to kiss the upper globe of her breasts with increasing urgency. More thrilled than scandalized, she pressed against him and gave in to the sheer pleasure of it until suddenly a small alert sounded in her mind. With a quick movement, she grasped his wrist and twisted away. He was removing her necklace; he had broken the chain and was in the process of pulling it off.

  There was a long pause while they stared at each other, breathing heavily. “Give it to me.” Her voice was icy.

  Holding her eyes with his, he did not relinquish it. “I cannot.”

  They stood, unmoving for a frozen moment while Hattie felt as though her breast was suddenly numb with misery. “If you do not give it back to me”—her voice broke and she struggled on—“I swear I will never speak to you again.” It would have been more forceful if she weren’t going to cry, but there was nothing she could do—her heart was broken and her throat was thick with misery. As she took a shuddering breath, the bitter tears came.

  His gaze did not waver but he turned his wrist and poured the necklace into her hand. Clenching it, she wept while they stood, silent. Unable to look at him, she wiped away tears with the palm of her free hand. “Go away.”

  “Hattie,” he said gently. “I must see what it says.”

  “No,” she managed between sobs.

  “Please do not cry—it is important or I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Important for whom?” She tried to sound angry but was mainly sick with despair.

  There was a pause. “Everyone. Everyone in the world.”

  This seemed overdramatic, and she stifled a sob and met his eyes. “That is nonsense. And why should I trust you?” With a mighty effort, she tried to put a stop to the waterworks. “I wish you hadn’t been so—so duplicitous. I’d so much rather you had simply coshed me and stolen it.” Pretending as though he was enthralled and nibbling on her neck—oh, she was a complete and utter fool.

  “I had little choice—you told me you did not know of the disk.”

  Stung, she retorted, “And why should I tell you anything? Because you pretend to admire me?” Unable to stop a renewed rush of tears, she covered her eyes in shame with her free hand, the other wrapped tightly around the broken necklace.

  Taking her carefully by the shoulders, he moved her into a loose embrace that she did not resist. “I do admire you, Hattie.”

  “You don’t have to pretend anymore—is stupid Eugenie your stupid mistress?”

  “Hat-tie,” he remonstrated gently near her ear, emphasizing each syllable. “She is nothing to me.”

  “Are you married?” Hattie asked, her voice muffled by his waistcoat.

  “No. As I told you before—it is the truth.”

  Lifting her head, she looked out toward the hallway and took a deep, shuddering breath in an effort to regain her composure. “You seem to be suffering under a constraint of some sort.”

  He did not deny it. “That is not the constraint.”

  “Then what is this about? Why do I feel as though I am being treated like a child?” Unable to control it, she bent her head into his chest and began to weep again.

  In response, he cradled her head in his hands and placed his forehead against hers. “You are tearing my heart out.”

  “Good,” she retorted.

  He came to a decision. “I will tell you what this is about but you will not thank me.”

  Raising her face to his, she declared with some defiance, “I have no intention of ever thanking you for anything.”

  “Your parents were aiding Napoleon.”

  She stared at him while he watched her. It took several seconds to assimilate what he had said, it was so outlandish. “Napoleon Bonaparte?”

  “The very same.”

  Frowning, she scoffed, “That is absurd.”

  He tilted his head. “I’m afraid it is irrefutable.”

  Stepping back, she sought to think without the distraction his nearness provided. “Why would you say this? They were English—why, they had no French connections at all.”

  His gaze held hers. “It is believed they were beholden to him when they were first given permission to excavate in Egypt.”

  Knitting her brow, Hattie thought about this shocking revelation while he watched her with a grave expression. Unfortunately, she could see all too well how such a thing could come to pass—her parents cared for nothing but their all-encompassing pursuit, and when they had first begun, Napoleon held Egypt. They were not inclined to be loyal to their country if circumstances didn’t warrant—after all, they had abandoned their only child in pursuit of their life’s work—small wonder if they abandoned their country, too. “Infamous,” she breathed in acute horror.

  “Yes,” he agreed in a grave tone. “Infamous.”

  But it made little sense—even if the bargain had indeed been made, long ago. “Surely there was no reason to continue—whatever it was they did for him—after he lost Egypt to Nelson.”

  Moving his hands gently on her arms he explained, “A portion of their finds—and their earnings—went to finance his war effort. It still does.”

  God in heaven—all this time—it was almost unthinkable. Casting about for an argument, she returned to her original point. “But surely that stopped when he was exiled to Elba—there is no longer any war to fund.”

  But he could offer no comfort and said quietly, “There is a persistent belief that Napoleon will escape Elba and attempt to return to power.”

  Staring at him, Hattie wondered how many more shocks she would be required to absorb this night. The very idea was unfathomable—not with everyone sick of war and the Congress working to restore some order. “And you believe such a thing could happen?”

  He ducked his chin for a moment, weighing what to tell her. “I am afraid such an attempt is inevitable. Your parents were asked to secretly store weapons and treasure toward his planned escape before they disappeared.”

  “The secret chamber,” she breathed in dawning comprehension. “Edward was looking for the secret chamber and was killed for his troubles.” She looked up at him, her heartache forgotten in the press of other disasters. “Did you know of it?”

  He bowed his head. “I knew it existed—I am afraid I encouraged Monsieur Bing to discover its location.”

  “Oh,” said Hattie, acutely dismayed. “Don’t tell Bing.”

  He continued, “Your parents were shocked by his death; it is what caused their change of heart, I believe.”

  This was of interest, and Hattie grasped at it. “They repented of their treachery?”

  Reluctant to disillusion her, he shook his head. “I’m afraid it was not that simple. They began to make
overtures to the British, believing the British would soon control the site. They were hedging their bets.”

  Hattie thought this over. “And someone must have found out.”

  “Yes—someone must have found out. And those who work for Napoleon could not take the chance your parents would reveal what they knew to the British—just as they could not take the chance that Edward would discover the chamber.”

  She met his eyes. “And what is your role?”

  He shook his head slightly with regret. “I cannot say, Hattie—you mustn’t ask.”

  Exquisitely frustrated, she stared at him. “Why? Are you in danger? Am I? I don’t understand.”

  He cradled her head so that his thumb caressed her cheek. “The less you know of this, the better—believe me.”

  Stepping back from his embrace, she crossed her arms before her, in part to guard herself from him because she was very much inclined to seek out the comfort of his embrace and she needed to think. “You must see that I have no reason to believe you—you stole the key to the British consulate and you were trying to steal my necklace.”

  But he was unrepentant. “You had the disk but did not tell me—I could not rule out the possibility that you were aware of its significance.”

  “I am no traitor.”

  He tilted his head. “I could not be certain—and you were not honest with me.”

  Eyes flashing, she retorted, “That’s rich, coming from you.” With a monumental effort, she barely refrained from stamping her foot.

  He stood silent while she tried to calm herself; it did appear as though he had a point—and that he had been acting in a consistent manner throughout, now that she knew his motivation. With a deep breath, she controlled her temper and asked, “How did you know I had it?”

  “When the intruder came in—I saw it.”

  She made a wry mouth. “And here I thought you were admiring my nightdress.”

  “It is a most excellent nightdress.” His gaze rested ever so briefly on her breasts.