Daughter of the God-King (13 page)

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.

As she had already determined that he was very much attracted to her breasts, she was unsurprised by this lapse. With a mental shake, she took herself in hand and returned to the point of the conversation. “Why is the disk important—how did you know of it?”

“I eavesdropped on your parents,” he admitted without a flicker of guilt. “You must let me examine it, Hattie—I believe it holds a clue.”

Torn, she unfolded her hand and looked at her necklace. “Why should I trust you?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Because I love you.”

Off balance, Hattie dropped her gaze and stammered, “I thought as much.” She had little doubt his declaration was sincere—he was mixing his accents again.

“I will not allow you to be harmed, Hattie; but it is very important that I see it.”

Opening her hand, she lifted it to him. “I will allow you to copy it, but I would like to keep it, if I may—they gave me so little.”

Taking it from her hand, he held it up to the light of the sconce. “Warn me if anyone comes.”

This seemed unlikely, as there was little pedestrian traffic at this back stairway, but she willingly kept a look-out. “Should I fetch paper and a pen?”

“No.”

To be useful, she explained, “The figure is of Hathor on the one side.”

“That may be of significance—what does she represent?”

Hattie tried not to blush. “Fertility.”

She watched him turn the disk over and study the markings on the other side, unable to glean anything from his expression. “Do you know what it means?”

“It is in a Napoleonic cipher that should not be difficult to translate.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “Did you show it to the solicitor?”

“No—he made me uneasy.”

He returned to his scrutiny. “Someone else was made uneasy.”

She decided she may as well ask. “Did you kill him?”

Glancing up, he was almost amused. “No.” Relinquishing the necklace back to her, he instructed, “You must secret it on your person in a way that it is not visible to any—not around your neck.”

She nodded.

He was very serious. “You must tell no one you have it—no one at all. Do you understand?”

This seemed evident, and nodding again, she ventured, “Do you think it would be best if you carried it?” Perhaps she was being foolish, if it was so very dangerous.

But he shook his head. “It is safer with you.”

Because, of course, he could be killed if anyone thought he held the information—so many others had been killed and now it made complete sense. It was probably why he memorized the markings instead of writing them down. “You will be careful?” He was secretive to the point of exasperation but if he were killed she didn’t know how she would cope, the wretched man.

“I will.”

Finished, he handed her the necklace and they faced each other again. Suddenly shy after his declaration of love, Hattie looked away. “I should be going—I wouldn’t want to come in so late that Bing shoots me by mistake.”

Staying her with a hand on her arm, he sought permission, this time. “I would like to kiss you, if I may.”

“I have no other jewelry to wrest.”

With a small smile, he bent in and whispered, “Nevertheless.”

The kiss was soft and chaste—as though he could not be gentle enough. It made her want to cry again but instead, when he drew away she whispered, “I know where the strongbox is.”

She had shocked him, and felt a sense of accomplishment—he who was so unshockable. His hands found her arms and he squeezed them gently. “Hattie,” he said with quiet intensity. “Tell me.”

Lost in his eyes she paused, wondering if she was being foolish, trusting him because he said he loved her and it was so very nice to be loved. “Why did you steal the key from the British consulate?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I must discover how much is known.”

“Aren’t your interests the same as England’s?” She realized the thought had been niggling around the corners of her mind ever since their visit—perhaps he and Eugenie served the enemy; he was pretending to be French and Eugenie seemed genuinely French.

Patiently, he explained, “I believe you know what this business of mine is—in this business, it is best to trust no one. Many have died as a result of trusting an ally who was not, in fact, an ally.”

This made sense, she supposed. “The British do know something. Robbie—is Robbie in your business, also?”

“Perhaps,” was all he would say.

“Robbie asked me if I knew of a strongbox.”

His brows drew together. “Did he indeed?”

“I’m not certain it is a strongbox,” she clarified. “I haven’t opened it up yet—but it seems likely.”

“No, it is not a strongbox; but I would very much like to see it immediately.”

“As you wish.” She hoped she wasn’t being an imbecile, herself. Glancing up at him as they made their way up the stairway she took a quick breath. “I would rather Bing didn’t know about my parents.”

With emphasis, he met her eyes. “Do not tell anyone of any of this, Hattie—even Mademoiselle Bing. I will have your promise.”

“Not to worry,” she assured him in an ironic tone. “You have it.”

As they hurried down the hallway toward her room she observed, “It hardly seems fair—I am expected to tell you everything, yet you tell me nothing in return.”

“Believe me—you are better off.”

She subsided and they walked together for a few steps in silence. “I have a sister,” he offered.

Smiling, she turned to regard him, walking sideways to keep up with his long strides. “Do you? Older or younger?”

“Younger. She is wed, and has a little boy.”

Delighted with this insight, she replied, “How lovely.”

Taking her hand, he lifted it to kiss her knuckles. “Perhaps you will meet them soon.”

Their eyes met, and she thought—yes, I would very much like to meet them and I don’t very much care where they are, as long as I am with him; I sincerely hope he is what he seems and is not my enemy.

Once in her room, Hattie tiptoed past the sleeping Bing and carefully lifted the parcel from the interior of the wardrobe. With some stealth, she carried it out to the hallway where Berry took a quick look around and then pulled her into his adjacent room and shut the door behind them. I am lost to all propriety, she thought without much regret, and wondered if she had the wherewithal to resist a seduction if he were bent on such. However, it seemed that the pleasures of the flesh were the last thing on the man’s mind as he deposited the package on the bed, turning up the lamplight to scrutinize it carefully. “How did you come to have this?”

Thinking about it, Hattie replied, “I’d rather not say. But I believe it was sent to me by my parents and misdelivered.”

As he unwrapped the parcel, she watched over his shoulder, holding her breath. Beneath the wrapping was revealed a brass casket of some sort, bound in twine. With a pocketknife, he sawed at the twine and opened the casket to reveal a wooden object—a board of approximately ten inches by five, mounted on short wooden legs. Berry sat back on his haunches and made a sound of satisfaction. “The senet board.”

Knitting her brow, Hattie remembered Bing’s reference. “A game board? For the love of heaven; all of this trouble for a game board?”

Handling it gently, he picked it up and examined it. “There should be playing pieces.” Carefully, his long fingers palpated the base of the board.

Hattie picked up the brass casket. “Could this be them?” Lining the floor of the casket were small flat disks, each about the size of a ha’pence.

Berry plucked one out and examined the engravings on it next to the lamplight. “Hieroglyphics,” he pronounced, frustrated. “I cannot translate.”

“Can you tell me the significance? Or why my parents would send it to me, of all people?” Aware he may not wish to tell her, she couched the words respectfully and considered leaning over so that her breasts brushed against him, but it turned out that such tactics were unnecessary.

“They put together a map to show the location of the secret chamber in the event they were stricken with fever or injured—any variety of things that could happen in this part of the world.”

“Murder,” Hattie added succinctly.

“Murder,” he concurred. “Only three knew of the secret chamber at the tomb—your parents knew and Monsieur Auguste knew, also. There had to be a map as a precaution, and the map had to be stored at a distant place—to avoid the illness or other catastrophe that would have taken their own lives.”

“And implausibly, they were all struck down—it is enough to make you believe in the curse.”

He glanced at her. “Your parents’ death was a means to ensure they did not negotiate with the British by offering to reveal what they knew of the secret chamber.”

“And Monsieur Auguste?”

With a shrug, he conceded, “I have investigated and as far as I can tell, his death was a coincidence—he was indeed killed by brigands. It must have been a terrible blow to those who frantically seek the secret cache.”

“So instead, they frantically seek me.” Small wonder every stray spy was visiting Cornwall—Hattie hoped they hadn’t alarmed the neighbors.

“Yes.” He bent his head, thinking. “I must have this translated.”

“Mr. Hafez?” suggested Hattie.

“No,” he said immediately, meeting her gaze in all seriousness. “He is not to know of this, Hattie.”

“Is he an enemy?” Hattie thought of poor Bing.

But as always, he would allow no insights into what was apparently a complicated maze of allegiances. “I cannot say—trust no one.”

“We can trust Bing—she may know the translation.”

He leapt upon this idea. “Excellent—let us ask her.”

“Now?” Hattie asked doubtfully.

“We sail tomorrow,” he pointed out as he rose to his feet. “There may not be another opportunity.”

So it came to pass that Hattie stood beside Bing’s bedside, holding up her robe and gently shaking her awake. “Bing, Monsieur Berry is here and requires your assistance.”

Sleepy, Bing sat up. “Certainly,” she said, and pushed her arms through the robe. If Hattie wondered what explanation Berry would offer for his strange request, she hadn’t long to wait.

“Mademoiselle Bing,” he began with respectful deference. “I’m afraid there are those who would take Mademoiselle Blackhouse’s inheritance from her.” As he produced the senet board Hattie could hear Bing’s reverent intake of breath. “I believe this board contains a map which her parents created to show where it was hidden, but I am unable to translate the markings on the playing pieces.”

“Interesting.” Bing lifted a disk between her thin fingers, examining it closely. “Normally these are players—rather like chess pieces.”

“These are easier to engrave,” Berry suggested.

“Undoubtedly.” Bing moved to hold the piece next to the bedside lamp, her brow furrowed with concentration. “This one reveals a measurement—Egyptians measured in cubits of approximately 15 inches.” She lifted another. “This one also—only it contains a different measurement.”

Watching her, Hattie asked, “If it forms a map, how do we learn the manner in which the measurements are applied and in what order?”

“I imagine the board is instrumental in that respect.” Berry indicated the surface of the board, which contained a grid of small squares.

Bing carefully examined the board, and then examined the disks. “I believe there is a correlation to the squares engraved on each disk, but I’m afraid it will take me some time to puzzle it out.”

Berry thought about it, turning over a disk in his hand. “Shall we copy the engravings onto paper so as to allow you an opportunity to translate? Only do not arouse suspicion and do not describe the senet board.” He added with some emphasis, “To anyone.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Bing, unable to refrain from running her fingers gently along the smooth wood of the board. “Only imagine what this board has seen.”

“Have you a hiding place for it? It may be best if you keep it, rather than Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”

Bing thought for a moment. “My hat box; I shall place it under my sun bonnet.”

“Excellent.” Berry stood and bowed. “I must leave, but I thank you for your assistance.”

Nodding her head, Bing was as dignified as though she was in a drawing room and not abed in her robe with her hair plaited down her back. “You are most welcome.”

They watched as he let himself out, off—Hattie surmised—to conduct a search at the British consulate.

“Here’s an interesting turn of events.” Bing gave her a shrewd glance as she looked about for paper and pen.

“Are you uneasy, Bing?” Hattie was trying to decide if she was uneasy, herself. She had a lot to think over.

“No,” said Bing in her forthright manner. “He will never act to your detriment.”

Hattie hovered for a moment on the verge of confiding in Bing, but decided the news was too cataclysmic—it would be a simple leap to guess that Edward’s death was no accident and there was no point in reopening that terrible wound. Instead, while her companion scratched the markings on a sheet of paper, Hattie made ready for bed, her mind filled with what she had learned this night and the journey to come the next morning. Her relationship with Berry had coalesced, no question. A shame it was not unadulterated happiness—she still didn’t know who he was or whom he served. And she felt a cold knot of despair when she contemplated her parents’ treachery; he had wanted to spare her the knowledge and in some small corner of her mind she wished he had—the sheer weight of it was so daunting. I wonder how many know, she thought in shame, and then remembered that many of those who knew had died. Perhaps Berry could arrange matters so her parents’ duplicity would not be made public; otherwise, no matter where she went, the Blackhouse shame would follow her. The best thing to do, she realized, was to change her surname. On this hopeful note, she slid into the bed.