To Hattie’s surprise, Mr. Smithson indeed stood beside her, smiling happily. “My best wishes, Miss Blackhouse.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and hoped he wouldn’t notice that she was a bit unsteady on her feet. “It is indeed a relief to know at long last.”
“Shall we begin?” asked Berry.
Glancing up, Hattie noted that the innkeeper stood within the room at a small distance, his expression wooden. Before she could gather her wits to make an inquiry, however, the vicar opened his Book of Common Prayer and intoned, “Dearly beloved…”
Chapter 36
“Ooooh no,” said Hattie in an ominous tone. “I will not hold—forever hold my peace.” She then ruined the effect by hiccupping.
Drawing her arm firmly under his, Berry said to Smithson, “Continue, if you please.”
Nonplussed, the vicar addressed Berry with an apologetic air. “If the lady has an objection, I’m afraid I must desist.”
“The lady has no objection—do you, Hattie?” Berry said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“I do have an objection,” insisted Hattie, who wondered why the room was so warm. “I told him not to marry me—I am going to be his mistress, instead. You are here under false pretenses.” She smiled so as not to hurt the clergyman’s feelings.
The vicar stared at her, his brows elevated. “But—my dear, if this man wishes honorable matrimony—”
“There would be nothing honorable about it,” Hattie explained kindly.
“Hush, Hattie,” said Berry, his other hand caressing hers on his arm. To Smithson, “Please proceed.”
“Please do not,” objected Hattie with a great deal of firmness. “I am sorry for the incon—for the conven—for your trouble.”
As Smithson closed the book in some confusion, Berry drew his pistol with a smooth movement and held it at arm’s length, pointed to the vicar’s head. “You will proceed.”
Smithson gaped, speechless.
“Now look what you’ve done, Daniel—or whatever your name is,” Hattie said crossly. “A man of God, for the love of heaven.”
“Proceed,” said Berry, his voice like steel. The innkeeper stood and observed as though the events unfolding before him were completely routine.
Ashen of face, Smithson nevertheless stood upon principle. “I’m afraid I cannot proceed without the lady’s consent.”
The pistol did not waiver. “Consent, Hattie.”
She stamped her foot. “I will not. You have run mad.”
“My arm grows tired.” Berry cocked the hammer back with a click.
Hattie hit upon an impediment. “You don’t have a ring—it doesn’t count unless there is a ring.”
“Yes it does. Tell her.” He gestured with the pistol.
Swallowing, Smithson explained, “Monsieur Berry is correct—technically it makes no difference.”
“I am trying to protect you,” Hattie said in an exasperated stage whisper to the vicar. “Look alive.”
Staring down the barrel of the pistol, the officiate tried a different tack. “If I may inquire, Miss Blackhouse, what is your objection?”
Drawing her brows together, Hattie thought about it carefully—although it was hard work to concentrate. “I love him too much to let him marry me.” Realizing this did not sound like a plausible objection, she added, “It is a long and sordid story.”
The barrel of the gun within inches of his eyes, the vicar offered, “He does seem very sincere in his affections, and if you love him—”
“He is not what he seems,” she hinted darkly. “And for that matter, neither am I.”
“Hush, Hattie. Give the man your consent.”
“I don’t know where the dogs live,” Hattie explained to Smithson in a wistful tone. “I don’t even know his name.”
“Dimitry,” Berry said.
Enrapt, Hattie turned to him, smiling mistily. “Oh—Dimitry. That is a fine, fine name.”
Berry lowered the gun and with his free hand, cradled her face and kissed her. She had forgotten how wonderful it was to be kissed by him, and clung to his neck because her knees had suddenly gone weak. He lifted his face and said to her, “I love you, Hattie. Do you love me?”
Gazing into his eyes, she nodded.
“Then do this for me.” His gaze held hers. “Please.”
“I do,” she said, and he smiled broadly then kissed her again, very thoroughly.
The vicar could be heard, speaking with some amusement. “I’m afraid we are not yet at this point in the ceremony.”
With some reluctance, Hattie disengaged from Berry but staggered a bit after losing his support. Discerning yet another impediment, the vicar asked with some delicacy, “Is the lady, er—impaired?”
“Proceed,” commanded both Berry and Hattie at the same time and in the same tone. With no further ado, Smithson saw to it that they were wed.
The papers were signed and witnessed, with Smithson enjoined to secrecy. “Although Bing would not be surprised,” Hattie informed him in a complacent tone. “She saw it from the first.”
“Yes,” agreed the vicar with a smile. “But mum’s the word—I understand in the present situation it would be best to keep this happy news sub rosa.”
He thinks we are keeping it quiet because my parents are missing, thought Hattie, and couldn’t restrain an inappropriate giggle. Small influence matters of mourning would have on the determined Monsieur Berry, or whatever his name was—her name, now. With this thought, she paused and tried to gather her wits. I should discover what the date is, she thought muzzily, and write it down somewhere.
After they said their thanks and farewells, Berry steered her into a well-appointed room, where he shut the door and resumed the kiss that had been interrupted by the ceremony, his mouth urgent upon hers and his arms holding her tightly against him. After a very satisfying space of time, she broke away to protest, “I am a drunken bride—and your fault entirely.”
“Nonsense; you are enchanting,” he murmured as his mouth traveled down her neck, his hands busy loosening the lacings down her back. As her yellow dress collapsed around her feet he steadied her arm. “Step out, please—we don’t want it to be wrinkled.”
She obeyed him, asking with some surprise, “Are we truly going to do this now?”
He laid her dress carefully over the back of a chair. “Yes, we are. Don’t be afraid, Hattie—if the way you kiss me is any indication you will have an easy time of it.”
“I am not afraid,” she assured him, her hands caressing his chest. “I asked Eugenie about it.”
He laughed aloud, and kissed her. “Pay no attention to anything she said.”
“She said when the heart is involved, it is simple.”
He paused, and kissed her mouth again. “There are times when Eugenie surprises me.” He gently slid his fingers beneath the straps of her linen shift so as to peel them off her shoulders, leaving her breasts exposed. He then made a sound in his throat that she interpreted as a compliment of the highest order.
“You have been impatient to see this,” she teased, pleased by his reaction.
While she watched in fascination, he leaned in to kiss the hollow between her breasts as he began unbuttoning his shirt. “I will show you how patient I can be. Come, we will lie down.”
He swung her up in his arms and laid her upon the simple bed, murmuring endearments in French and in his own undecipherable language as he divested them of any remaining clothing while trailing kisses across her collarbone and then downward to the peak of a breast, which made her gasp and arch against him in surprised pleasure. His warm hands stroked and caressed her hips as he fitted his body atop hers, necessarily arching due to the difference in height. Overwhelmed by the sensation of skin upon skin, she explored his body tentatively, then with more boldness as she assessed his increasingly heated reactions to her touch.
“Zhena,” he breathed.
“What does that mean?” She gasped against his mouth, her finger
s digging into his shoulders.
“Wife,” he muttered with his mouth buried in the side of her throat. “Zhena.”
“Dimitry—” she whispered, and then found she was no longer able to create words, English, French, or otherwise.
Chapter 37
The news that Hattie had discovered her parents’ final resting place was the central topic of conversation at the dinner table on the Priapus that evening. That the discovery paled in significance to other discoveries experienced that day only compounded Hattie’s headache. Nevertheless, she was expected to be a tragic figure and accept sympathetic overtures when she would so much rather be accepting her new husband’s overtures. Or taking a tincture; one or the other.
“I found their graves—or at least I’m fairly certain,” Robbie reported. “The groundskeeper said there were no records with respect to them—which is apparently not as unusual as one would think. He recalled that they were buried at the request of the British consul, but Mr. Drummond has no such recollection and he can’t imagine who would make such a request without having him informed; it was no secret the Blackhouses were missing and there was an intense interest in their fate.”
Frowning, Bing suggested, “Perhaps the man is mistaken—it was some months ago, after all.”
But Robbie was not dissuaded. “He seemed certain—he explained that he remarked on it in particular because they were a married couple; usually those who end up at the foreigner’s cemetery are without family.”
“Was he aware of their identities at the time?” This from Smithson, who had done a credible job of pretending nothing untoward had taken place amongst the other diners this fine day. For her part, Hattie had to resist the temptation to hold a glass of ice water to her aching head or sit and stare in bemusement at Dimitry. Eugenie was right—the process had been blissfully simple. Twice.
His expression skeptical, Robbie responded, “He claims he was not aware who they were, although this seems unlikely to me—especially when it became common knowledge that the Blackhouses were missing.”
“Did he mention the cause of death?” asked Bing with a sympathetic glance at Hattie.
“‘Accident,’ but nothing more specific than that.”
The diners sat in silence for a moment, assimilating what they had heard. Smithson ventured a theory. “A tragic accident—perhaps a cave-in caused by a worker’s carelessness. In a panic, they were buried and nothing was said so as to protect the miscreant.”
“It is a good theory,” agreed Dimitry.
Bing covered Hattie’s hand with her own. “We will visit tomorrow, if that is agreeable, Hathor.”
“Yes, Bing.” Hattie wished Bing wouldn’t speak quite so loudly; particularly because she was remembering that Dimitry didn’t trust anyone at the British consul’s office, and she would realize why this was important if only her head didn’t ache so. Among other places that ached. She slid a glance across the table at her new husband and found his gaze brimful of sympathetic amusement.
“I’m sorry for it, Hattie—this day has been hard on you,” offered Robbie.
“Very hard indeed,” she agreed in a grave tone and couldn’t resist another glance at Dimitry.
Robbie continued, “Mr. Drummond awaits your instruction—if you’d like them to be disinterred and transported home, he assures me the British government will see to it.”
Thinking on it, Hattie shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t. “I think it best they remain where they are; this was more a home to them than Cornwall.”
“Fitting,” agreed Bing. “They find eternal rest among the very ancients they studied.”
“You will go home, now, yes?” Eugenie could barely conceal her relief.
“Not just yet; I have much more to learn.” This time she refrained from glancing at Dimitry, which was just as well—it hurt her eyes to look at him sidelong.
Her smooth brow puckered, Eugenie glanced to Dimitry. “No? But you know of your parents, now—there is no reason to stay.”
As if on cue, their party was joined by Captain Clements, who bowed to the ladies and was met with their exclamations of surprise and pleasure. “Here’s a charming group—Miss Bing, Miss Blackhouse, Miss Valérie.”
“Leone,” Eugenie corrected him with much amusement.
He sank his grizzled head in mock chagrin. “I beg your pardon—how I could have misnamed such loveliness is a mystery.”
“De rien,” she smiled, and indicated he was to sit beside her.
Hattie watched the other woman interact with the captain and concluded—now that she was aware of such things—that Eugenie’s heart was involved.
The captain was introduced to Smithson and Robbie and after the men had exchanged pleasantries, Clements turned to Hattie and asked how her visit went. With a monumental effort, Hattie related the discovery of her parents’ grave site yet again, resisting an urge to press her fingertips to her temples in the process.
“I am sorry to hear of it,” the captain said with respectful sympathy. “And even though it was not entirely unexpected, there is an end to hope—which is not an easy thing.”
“You have the right of it, sir,” she agreed, and was aware that all trace of flirtatiousness had been erased from his manner toward her; that he knew about her marriage seemed evident, and she imagined he heard nothing about her parents he didn’t already know. He and Dimitry must have already shared this information, which was impressive as she had been with Dimitry for all but an hour this day. Obviously they had a network of people supporting them here, whoever they were.
Even with the windows opened, the dining room felt uncomfortably close and Hattie was considering a strategic retreat before she disgraced herself when Bing—with an assessing eye on her charge—put a stop to any further discussion in her brisk manner. “Would you like to retire, Hathor?”
“I believe I could use some air, Bing.” And an opportunity to speak to Berry—Dimitry, she corrected with a soft smile, remembering how he had responded when she whispered his name while they were abed. As she rose she gave him a glance to indicate she wished to speak with him, and then made her way out to the deck with Bing, stepping carefully so as not to jar her poor head.
The cooler air felt much better, although there was little breeze tonight, and Hattie walked over with Bing to lean on the railing, wishing she could lay her forehead on the cool wood and close her aching eyes. “Perhaps,” her companion offered with some delicacy, “—perhaps with this discovery today all matters have been resolved for the best.”
Bing was referring to the suspicion that her parents had been involved in purloining artifacts—if only that were indeed the case; a bit of theft was nothing as compared to a bit of treason. “Yes, I suppose. Although Monsieur Berry tells me he believes he knows the location of the secret chamber, thanks to you.” With any luck he would respond to her unspoken message and make an appearance soon—why on earth does anyone drink this vile stuff, she thought crossly; the repercussions surely outweigh the benefits—although I suppose I wouldn’t have married him sober, so there is that.
“Then perhaps any scandal—if there is one—could be scotched.”
Bringing her mind back to the topic, Hattie agreed. “That is to be devotedly hoped for.” Poor Bing—she was worried about Hattie’s reputation and Edward’s legacy and possibly Smithson’s reaction; she was unaware that her parents’ misdeeds would pale in comparison to other cataclysmic events if the Elban prisoner was to march again. And in such a case it seemed unlikely that the salacious circumstances of her birth could be kept quiet—it would be a disaster in every respect, although she supposed she should be more concerned about the fate of the world than her own paltry troubles.
Dimitry joined them, and with a dry smile Bing found something of interest to view on the shoreline so as to allow them to stand together at the railing undisturbed.
Looking up into his eyes, Hattie smiled a smile full of warmth and knowledge and he reciprocated with
a tender smile of his own. They stood together in silence for a moment, relishing the sensation, while Hattie forgot about her aching head and every other unsolvable problem.
He offered in a sympathetic tone, “You are a bit green, I think.”
“No longer,” she teased, arching a dark brow.
His white teeth flashed in the darkness. “Hattie—you shock me.”
“I am not going to your sister’s,” she said without preamble. “Tell the captain to go away.”
He tilted his head. “Do you not think I would rather you were here with me?”
“But it is so unfair,” she protested, then remembered not to raise her voice or suffer the consequences. “I have been so very useful.”
He ran a caressing hand over hers. “You have indeed—but it is necessary; I cannot conduct my business properly if I am worried about you.”
She paused, and reflected that—in theory at least—she was now enjoined to obey her husband, which was a novel idea to someone admittedly as headstrong as she. To take her mind off this inconvenient tenet, she asked, “Why did you insist on British guards but at the same time you do not trust the consul’s office?”
“That is impressive,” he conceded, his eyes alight with admiration. “But I cannot say.”
After deciding with some reluctance that he had the right of it—it was time to relinquish the field—she asked quietly, “You will be very careful, Dimitry?” Aware that she sounded fretful and clinging, she explained with an apologetic air, “My head hurts and I am past being brave.”
“I love you.” He lifted her hand to kiss it, even though Bing could probably see the gesture. “I will be careful.”
In an attempt to take advantage of his soft mood, she wheedled, “May I stay a few days longer? Think of poor Bing and her new romance—it is the least you can do after encouraging her other beau to vanish. And perhaps we can find another free afternoon.” This said with a meaningful look.
Daughter of the God-King Page 24
