“What is it, Hattie?” he asked, and Bing moved away to light a candle, although Hattie knew she wasn’t popish. Small matter, she thought; I would light a candle myself if I thought it would help.
Taking a breath, Hattie confessed, “I may have torn it, Dimitry, but I am not certain, and I need your advice.”
He watched her profile for a moment, his own expression grave. “Tell me.”
With a mighty effort, she kept her voice level. “Mr. Drummond’s associate—the one with the scar—”
“Yes,” he said.
“He works for Napoleon.”
“Yes.” He waited, knowing there was more to come.
“He seems to think you do, also.”
There was a pause. “What did he say to you?”
She bit her lip for a moment, then decided there was nothing for it. Unable to face him, she continued to speak in an even tone, looking toward the altarpiece. “He carried a warning from—from the prisoner, who wishes me away from here and back to Cornwall.”
He was quiet, and she concluded after a breath, “I’m afraid I mentioned that we had married.”
“Did you indeed?”
“I wasn’t thinking—I am worried that I caused you trouble, by telling him.”
“No matter, Hattie.” He took her hand and after the barest hesitation, she folded her hand around his. Perhaps she could rehabilitate him—he needed only to see the error of his imperialist ways; surely there was hope for it, he was a good man—he must be.
Suddenly, she realized what had caught her attention. “I think that the Baron du Pays—from Paris—remember? I think he killed my parents. He let slip that they had been attacked, but everyone else thinks it was an accident.”
“Yes, although the assassin was Monsieur Chauvelin.”
She looked up at him. “I see. I confess I am not surprised; he’s a nasty piece of goods. The Baron is here—do you know?”
“Yes.”
She assimilated his quiet comment. “He wanted me and Bing to stay at the French consulate, but I declined the invitation.”
They sat together for a moment or two. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, clinging to his hand and wishing the two of them could walk away from all of it, forever.
But Dimitry began giving instruction in a low voice. “It is important that you be away, and quickly. You must return to the Priapus; I will see to it that the others from the consul’s offices are kept busy this afternoon. A boy with a boat will ask for you; you will leave with him. Take no luggage, and Mademoiselle Bing must stay behind to say you are ill in your cabin. The boy will take you to Clements’s ship. Tell Mademoiselle Bing you will need at least five or six hours’ head start.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She took a ragged breath. “You should leave with me.” Turning to meet his eyes she continued, “I cannot allow you to go through with this.”
He tilted his head to touch her forehead with his, the same gesture as the night he took her necklace—the first time he told her that he loved her. “I am not your enemy, Hattie. Can you trust me?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, trying to control a quaver.
“I have not lied to you since Paris,” he continued in an intense tone. “I swear it, Hattie.”
“When will I see you again?”
He squeezed her hand. “I know not. But you will be in my heart, every moment.”
Ducking her chin, she nodded, miserable.
“I will go; wait another half hour before you leave and do not hurry.”
Unable to speak, she nodded again and he was gone. Examining her hands in her lap, she decided she had little choice—she was married to the man and she loved him. She could report to the British consul, but that course seemed fraught with peril since Drummond’s associate was an enemy agent and therefore she probably shouldn’t trust Drummond—or anyone else there, either. She could apply to Robbie, but he would presumably turn the matter over to the authorities, unable to believe they couldn’t be trusted. I hate Egypt, she thought bitterly—it has brought me nothing but heartache. Unbidden, she remembered her unconventional wedding and the blissful afternoon abed with her new husband. It doesn’t matter, she thought with defiance—I still hate Egypt.
Hattie raised her head and signaled to Bing, who dutifully approached and slid in next to her. “Bing, would you mind if I borrowed your pistol?”
“Not at all, Hathor.” Bing calmly fished in her reticule, and then taking a look around, slipped it to Hattie, who studied it for a moment. “Do you require instruction?”
“Yes, to refresh me; Robbie taught me but it was some time ago.”
“It can fire two rounds before it must be reloaded.” Bing gave an impromptu lesson and Hattie listened carefully, hoping that it wasn’t a grave sin to be exchanging firearms in a church. Hattie then slipped it into the glove pocket sewn into the seam of her dress. “Now I will astonish you and tell you that I have married Monsieur Berry.”
Bing raised her eyebrows and considered this bit of news. “My best wishes, Hathor.”
Taking her companion’s thin hand, Hattie explained, “I am sorry I did not invite you, but I was not invited, myself.”
Bing glanced at her in alarm. “Never say he took advantage of you?”
Definitely, Hattie thought, but instead she said, “No, of course not—Mr. Smithson did the honors, and you may tell him I give my permission to tell you the story—it is a round tale.”
“Well,” said Bing, leaning back into the pew. “That is a wrinkle.”
“Brace yourself; there are more shocks to come.”
“We are leaving posthaste,” Bing guessed.
“You are half right. I am leaving whilst you defend the fort.” She recited Berry’s instructions while Bing put her chin to her chest and listened.
Unable to make an adequate explanation to her companion, Hattie offered, “I am wretchedly sorry, Bing—apparently there are dark forces at play.”
Bing sighed. “Perhaps the treasure is indeed cursed.”
No, thought Hattie; the only curse at work here is ambition—ambition and greed. “I would suggest you think twice before reposing your trust in the Baron du Pays or in anyone at the British consulate.”
“Heavens,” remarked Bing in a dry tone. “You alarm me, Hathor.”
“I am alarmed, myself,” Hattie admitted. “I am sorry to leave you to make the explanations.”
“Never fear—I shall think of something. May I suggest there has been an elopement?”
Hattie considered. “Best not. I’m not certain it is meant to be common knowledge, and I would not be surprised if Monsieur Berry remains here.”
“I understand,” her companion replied, but it seemed to Hattie that this was unlikely.
“I am so sorry, Bing.”
“Hathor,” said Bing, taking her hand with all sincerity. “I have never experienced such an adventure in my life, and I owe it all to you. I would not have missed it for the world.”
Hattie faced the altarpiece again. “Don’t make me cry, Bing—if I start I won’t stop.”
“Very well,” said Bing briskly. “Shall we go?”
Chapter 40
“Lady, lady—come look.”
It wants only this, thought Hattie in annoyance as they made their way to the quay to secure passage by felucca back to the Priapus. A vendor had blocked her progress, imploring her to examine his wares which consisted mainly of very poor replicas of the Temple of Arum.
“Lady,” the man implored, closing his fingers around her arm with one hand as he gestured with the other toward the makeshift table.
He was a bit too aggressive and Hattie pulled her arm away. “No,” she said firmly, but he only grasped both her hands in his and began to pull her into the crowd. Now thoroughly alarmed, Hattie crouched and pulled back with all her strength, her feet sliding over the gravel path as she turned to call for Bing. Instead, a rough-hewn sack was lowere
d over her head and she could feel an unknown accomplice pin her arms down from behind. She shouted, only to feel a hand cover her mouth over the sack as she was lifted off her feet. Struggling, she was powerless to raise much of a resistance but as she kicked out she made contact and had the pleasure of hearing a man grunt as she was hustled away. She fought to breathe, and thought she could hear Bing shouting from a distance.
Her abductors slowed, and she could hear them speaking in Arabic to one another as she was lowered with relative care onto a hard surface. She was finding it difficult to breathe through the sack and just as she began to fight panic, the sack was slid off her head. Panting, she squinted against the sunlight and saw three men crouching in a cart around her while a fourth acted as the driver, urging the donkeys to move along. One man grasped her hands as another brandished a length of rope to bind them. Gauging her moment, Hattie struck both her hands up in a blow to his chin, then scrambled toward the side of the cart. Exclaiming in annoyance, the three pulled her back but not before she implored the startled faces who lined the streets, “Help—get help!”
This time, she was firmly pinned on her back on the floor of the cart by the others whilst her hands were bound. The vendor leaned in so that she could feel his breath on her face, and said in broken English, “Lady—quiet please.”
In response she screamed as loudly as she was able, and he quickly put his hand over her mouth. Just as quickly, she bit down hard on his hand and between the three men, they managed to insert a gag into her mouth. For the remainder of her journey she lay on her back, fuming, while the men kept a careful watch around them. Trying to breathe evenly, she assessed the situation. Not good, she concluded—although it appeared they were instructed not to cosh her, which was a hopeful sign. For a wild moment she wondered if the prisoner was behind this abduction but rejected the idea—there would have been no need to have the associate warn her off. For the same reason, it seemed equally unlikely that the associate had masterminded this insult; his manner toward her had been deferential. The baron, then, she guessed; unhappy that she had not willingly come to the French consulate. Or Drummond, perhaps—but to what end? None knew she intended to slip away except Dimitry and Bing. Frowning, she gave it up and awaited events—she had every confidence that Bing would marshal her allies; she had been warned about the British consul but she would certainly seek out Robbie and with any luck, find Dimitry—perhaps even return to the Osiris Inn. Hattie had only to be patient, matters were not as grim as they seemed, and she had Bing’s pistol.
The cart finally came to a halt and the sack was once again shimmied down over her head. The vendor counted under his breath, and the three lifted her and unloaded her out the back. Kicking and twisting furiously, Hattie hoped that since it was still daylight she could draw enough attention so as to allow her rescuers to trace her. Or perhaps she could hold the pistol to a hostage and parlay her way out—unless they never unbound her, which seemed a likely possibility, given her attempts at escape. She would wait and reassess her strategy; perhaps it would be best to feign passivity, although she wasn’t certain she could do such a thing.
After having been deposited on a chair, the sack was removed. Her hair tangled around her face, Hattie gazed in bemusement at Hafez, the Minister of Antiquities who regarded her with a solemn expression. They were in a rude hut, barely big enough for the number of people crowded inside.
“Forgive me, Miss Blackhouse,” the minister apologized, bowing. “I am down to my last bargaining chip, I’m afraid.” He carefully untied the gag and Hattie’s captors, observing this, stepped back a cautious pace.
“What is the meaning of this—this outrage?” Hattie asked in an ominous tone. In truth, she had quickly grasped the meaning of this outrage upon being confronted with the minister; it appeared Hafez was afraid he’d be summarily murdered by Chauvelin—as had his other allies—and had decided he’d use her as a hostage until he could come to terms with his enemies.
Hafez spread his hands. “You will come to no harm if you cooperate—my assurances on it.”
She tossed her head to clear the curls away from her eyes. “I wish that I could say the same for you—you will be made to pay for this, and pay dearly.”
Hafez moved to twitch the curtain back and peer out the door as he mopped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “I would point out that you are in no position to make threats, Miss Blackhouse.”
“Shame on you,” pronounced Hattie with disdain. “You backed the wrong horse; then you and your cohorts turned coat and scurried over to the British. Did you think Napoleon’s people would overlook your double-dealing?”
Annoyed, he allowed the curtain to fall back. “You must calm yourself, Miss Blackhouse—I ask only that you sit quietly.”
As this seemed unlikely, Hattie eyed him with skepticism. “What is it you hope to gain? You cannot imagine to survive—your cohorts certainly didn’t. You would be better served to seek my favor, and ask that I intercede for you.”
He approached to stand before her in a manner meant to intimidate. “It is none of your concern—stay quiet.”
Hattie curled her lip in scorn. “My only consolation is that Bing is not here to see this.”
Fast losing patience, Hafez leaned over to put his finger in her face, warning, “You will stay quiet, or I will gag you again.”
So that he would not think she had been cowed, Hattie lifted her chin and looked around her. She was in the worker’s village, in one of the huts hidden away in the maze of other huts, which meant she may be difficult to find. Possessing her soul in patience, Hattie tried to sit quietly in the hope that they would unbind her so that she could summarily shoot someone.
After about an hour, murmuring voices could be heard outside the curtain, the general tone evidencing concern. The curtain twitched aside and the faces of several native men were revealed, one asking a question.
“Get help,” Hattie implored in an urgent tone, wishing she knew some Arabic.
Hafez stepped to the curtain and angrily gestured the men back. “Gag her,” he instructed the vendor of trinkets.
And so the gag was reapplied while Hattie sat and seethed, waiting for she knew not what.
Finally, as the light began to fade, noises and voices outside the hut signaled the approach of a sizable party. Hafez gave an instruction in Arabic to her captors, then passed outside the curtain. The vendor stepped forward, drew his pistol, and held it to Hattie’s head. They cannot mean to kill me, she assured herself, but found that the proximity of the barrel caused a curious sensation in her midsection. The curtain parted and Hafez reentered, accompanied by the baron and an escort of several native men.
Upon seeing her situation, the baron paused upon the threshold and spoke in French. “Surely there is no need for such measures?”
“There is every need,” Hafez insisted. “I cannot trust you.”
The Frenchman considered Hattie’s situation with a frown. “No—you would not dare.”
Hafez cocked his head. “It is not I who would have to explain to him that she was dead due to my carelessness.”
Ah, thought Hattie, enlightened; the fact that the baron was another Napoleonite came as no surprise at all—he seemed well-suited for treachery.
Conceding, the Frenchman spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “What assurances can I give, then?”
“You will assure me that no harm befalls me, the artifacts are returned to the ministry, and no one speaks of any of this. I can guarantee that nothing is ever said to the British authorities.” He emphasized the last, as apparently this would be the main reason for his assassination by his former allies.
“And the weapons?”
Hafez said emphatically, “I don’t care what happens to the weapons—take them with my blessing.”
Nodding, the baron rested his pale eyes upon Hattie while he thought this over. “Agreed,” he said. “Now, unbind her.” To Hattie he said in English, “I am sorry for
this, Mademoiselle Blackhouse; please be assured it is none of my doing.”
Once the gag was removed, she replied coldly, “I insist that I be returned to the Priapus immediately.” As Hafez’s man continued to hold a pistol to her, she commanded, “Call him off.”
But the baron spread his hands in apology. “I regret that is impossible at the moment; Monsieur Hafez feels it necessary to have you along as a guaranty.” With a gesture, he indicated she was to be untied.
“Along where?” asked Hattie, with a sinking feeling.
“We visit the tomb—Monsieur Hafez knows the location of some articles that are of extreme interest to me.”
So—the secret chamber was the object, although this made little sense; if Dimitry was working with the enemy, he now knew where it was and presumably had already been to visit it last night. With a leap of her pulse, she held out cautious hope that this meant her husband was not aligned with this villainous crew, which would be the first piece of good news she had heard this entire miserable day. Once unbound, she calculated whether it was the moment to use the pistol and decided against it, as the vendor still held his own weapon upon her. Instead, she rose to her feet, dusted off her skirts and announced, “I am going nowhere but back to the barge.”
But Hafez was unimpressed by her bravado and replied with some menace, “You will come quietly or I will have you bound and carried again, Miss Blackhouse.”
In response, Hattie made a dash toward the door but was grasped and pulled back just as she threw the curtain aside. Outside, there was a small throng of men who watched her recapture with no little uneasiness, murmuring among themselves. “Stop them,” she pleaded as she was forcibly wrestled back inside, but no one stepped forward and despite her struggles to resist she was dragged back to the chair, seething with impotent rage.
The baron watched her desperate movements with an avid expression, which she recognized as being grounded in lust, now that she was familiar with such things. “She is very like him,” he commented in French to Hafez.
Daughter of the God-King Page 26
