Daughter of the God-King (3 page)

On the carriage ride home, Hattie frowned out the window, thinking over the odd and convergent events of the evening. “I will need to purchase some new clothes.” Unspoken was the desire to have something rather low in the décolleté, as she had an impressive figure for one so petite and had noted that she’d best look lively—the Frenchwomen she had met thus far were very well turned out, and he seemed like the kind of man who would take notice of such things.

“That’s the spirit, Hathor,” offered Bing with approval. “One need only inspire second thoughts.”

With a guilty start, Hattie realized they were speaking at cross purposes and pulled her attention back to Robbie’s strange situation. “It does defy credulity, Bing—I am certain his parents know nothing of this engagement. It seems so unlike him; and to have chosen such a woman—”

“Infamous,” agreed Bing. “There is no choosing between you.”

“I am unlucky in love,” she teased. “Recall that I lost the curate, too.”

“Well then; I wash my hands of the sterner sex,” pronounced her supporter with equanimity. “Although the Baron seemed rather
épris
, if I may say so.”

Hattie shuddered. “I’d as lief retreat back to Cornwall—whatever is he thinking?”

“May-December,” sniffed Bing. “A shame we cannot arrange to switch with Mr. Tremaine.”

Hattie chuckled and decided that all in all, she was not as devastated as she should be with the ruination of her latest plan to escape her dull day-to-day existence in the Cornish countryside. The only child of world-renowned Egyptologists, she had spent a solitary childhood because her parents were more often in Thebes than in England, digging around in the sand and in the process catching the imagination of their countrymen, who were looking for any distraction from the never-ending war. Chafing at this state of affairs, Hattie had grown up to be independent-minded and scornful of the restraints imposed upon young females, although there was little point in challenging authority as there was little authority exerted over her in the first place. Fortunately, her tendency toward recklessness had been tempered by Miss Swansea, Hattie’s gentle governess who was more friend than mentor and had dutifully remained at her post even after Hattie reached the august age of eighteen years—her parents apparently unaware that this milestone had been achieved.

Longing to travel and see the world, Hattie had secretly cherished the hope her parents would send for her once she reached adulthood, but the invitation—unfortunately—was not forthcoming. In a fever of impatience, she decided it was past time to arrange her life to her own satisfaction and that satisfaction necessarily was to be found somewhere beyond the rugged Cornish countryside—Hattie knew herself for a restless soul.

To make matters that much worse, Hattie was almost painfully envious of the boy next door, who was attached in some way to the Diplomatic Corps and was often called away for assignments that he spoke of only in the vaguest of terms. After careful consideration, it seemed that the most likely avenue of escape would be to convince him that she would make an excellent helpmeet, and so to this end, she embarked upon a campaign to marry Robbie.

After mulling it over, Hattie had concluded that the best strategy for presenting oneself as a marital prospect to someone who had never considered one in such a light was to procure a rival suitor. However, as her acquaintanceship was limited, she was forced to settle upon the local curate as the appropriate stalking horse, even though he was some fifteen years her senior. Although she felt a stab of guilt at using him in such a way, she assuaged her conscience by reflecting that at his age, he held no interest in romance, anyway.

In this, however, she was mistaken. The curate readily accepted her invitations to tea but sat and shyly contemplated Miss Swansea, who blushed with eyes downcast under his scrutiny. Looking from one to the other, Hattie foresaw the failure of her plan with good grace and reassessed her campaign. Before she could come up with an alternate, however, she was forced to absorb the double blow of losing Miss Swansea to matrimony and losing Robbie yet again, when he left suddenly without even saying goodbye, leaving Hattie to bedevil his father into admitting, with a bland expression, that it had something to do with the Congress, and he wasn’t expected back any time soon.

Into this inauspicious situation Bing had arrived, hired by her parents to replace Miss Swansea. Bing’s brother Edward had been an Egyptologist employed by Hattie’s parents but he had been killed in a cave-in—an unfortunate occupational hazard. As Edward had been supporting his spinster sister, the Blackhouses offered Bing the post as Hattie’s companion and so solved two problems at once.

It soon became apparent that Bing was a bluestocking of the first order and intensely interested in Egyptology; therefore it came as a severe blow to the new arrival to learn the Blackhouse manor contained no artifacts and that the only offspring of the famous couple had little interest in anything remotely Nineteenth Dynasty. Fortunately for Hattie, however, she had little difficulty in convincing Bing that they should visit Robbie in Paris—Hattie had read that the Congress was in recess and the city was quite festive as a result. There were plenty of funds at hand to undertake such a journey—Hattie’s neglectful parents had nonetheless seen to it she had the means to live very comfortably—and with a companion in tow, it was the perfect excuse to have an adventure and at the same time, meet up with Robbie and convince him she’d be no bother if he’d just
please
marry her. Unfortunately, it seemed that someone else had convinced him first and she was left with no other immediate plan than to acquire a decent dress and discover who this Berry person was—hopefully in that order.

With a rattling stop, their hackney arrived at the townhouse and Hattie took a careful assessment of the street corner, where she’d seen a gentleman lurking earlier—not to be confused with the gentleman she had shoved down the stairs or the gentleman who had helped her down from the vine; that she was the focus of attention seemed evident, and she needed to keep her wits about her. The reaction this evening—even from Robbie—had been very strained when she mentioned her parents, and since she was of no interest in her own right, it must have to do with them.

Rather than allow them to exit the vehicle themselves, the hackney driver leapt down with good humor and handed them out, remarking in heavily accented English that it was a fine night. He wore a muffler over the lower half of his face even though it was a warm evening, and Hattie wondered if he had pockmarks, poor man. “How much do we owe, please?” She was not well versed on how much things should cost in France, and hoped he didn’t mean to take advantage, pockmarks notwithstanding.

But as she opened her reticule to bring forth a coin, another man burst forth from the shadows and dashed toward them, cutting Hattie’s reticule from her wrist and pulling it roughly from her arm as he sped past—all in the flash of a few seconds.

“Halt,” called the driver in outrage, then hastily to the women, “Wait here,
mesdames
—I will pursue him.”

With another shout, the driver took off after the cutpurse, leaving Hattie standing beside Bing for a moment in stunned surprise. “Heavens; are you injured, Hathor?” asked Bing.

“No, but he’ll have little to show for his troubles and it serves him right—he should have guessed that you would be carrying the lion’s share of the funds.” Hattie said the words a bit absently—she had noticed that the driver shouted at the cutpurse in English although both men were—ostensibly—French.

Bing suggested, “Perhaps we should enter the house; I cannot like the idea of remaining out here exposed, and he may come back once he realizes he chose the wrong victim.”

“Yes, let’s go in.” Hattie was uneasy herself, thinking over the mystery of the English-speaking hackney driver who had been commissioned by the self-assured Monsieur Berry.

But the evening was not yet over, as the gentleman whom she had seen lurking earlier in the day took the opportunity to approach them as they mounted the steps. He was well-dressed, and did not appear intent on robbery—although Hattie decided she was past being surprised, anymore. “Mademoiselle Blackhouse—if you please—”

But apparently Hattie was not quite past being surprised, because Bing drew a small flintlock pistol from her reticule and aimed it square at the gentleman. “Halt or I will shoot.”

The man paused and held his hands out to his sides, looking every bit as surprised as Hattie by this turn of events. “Your pardon, madam; I must speak with Mademoiselle Blackhouse—please.”

“Speak, then,” said Hattie, stepping down a step toward him and instinctively judging him harmless. “What do you know of all this and why have you been watching the house?”

His pleading gaze fixed upon hers, he spoke in a low, intense tone. “You must return to England. It is very important that you go back to your home, mademoiselle.”

This was completely unexpected and indeed, seemed to take the opposite tack of every other person of her Parisian acquaintance. “And who are you?”

He hesitated. “I stand as your friend. I promise you this, Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”

“Were you sent by my parents?” This seemed the only explanation, but how her parents were made aware so quickly that Hattie had kicked over the traces and bolted for Paris was a mystery—she hadn’t known herself, three days ago.

Once again, the man hesitated, and then glanced over his shoulder. “I can say no more. But it is not safe for you here.”

Hattie drew her brows together. “Why is this? Surely you must see that I need further explanation—what is this all about? Why is it not safe?”

“Please, mademoiselle; return to your home.” He fingered his hat brim, and then added, “And you must tell your English friend nothing—nothing at all.” Retreating a step, he bowed a formal little bow. “I bid you good night.” Returning his hat to his head, he turned and began walking down the pavement at a brisk pace.

“How very odd,” Bing remarked as she returned her weapon to her reticule.

Smiling at this understatement, Hattie agreed, “Yes, let’s go in before yet another one accosts us. Tell me, Bing, have you ever had occasion to shoot anyone?”

“I’ve never had occasion even to fire,” Bing confessed. “But as a single woman I feel I must take precautions.”

“You must teach me,” said Hattie as she unlocked the door. “Then I could shoot Robbie; or better yet, Madame Auguste.”

“Don’t forget the Baron,” suggested Bing as they were greeted by the maidservant, who took their wraps. “And the cutpurse.”

“Good God, there will be no one left in the city at this rate—and I’ve only been here a day. I suppose I could spare this last gentleman, who has very good manners and apparently acts as a Cassandra-at-the-gate, giving ominous warnings. Perhaps he is worried about the so-called curse.” This, actually, was not a bad theory, as there seemed no other with which to work.

“Edward always said that superstition was a crutch for the fearful.”

Hattie smiled as they crossed the parlor, their steps muffled on the thick rug. “He was a wise man, then, and I must bow to science. But good God, Bing; even you must admit these are strange and untoward events.”

Bing ducked her chin. “Indeed; I suppose you will have mixed emotions, Hathor, when you meet with him tomorrow.”

“Yes—I wonder what it is he wants,” Hattie answered absently as she mounted the stairs, unaware that they spoke at cross purposes yet again.

The following morning, Hattie’s childhood companion in misdeeds beyond counting presented himself at the door, his easy smile belying the trace of wariness in his eyes. So, she thought as he embraced her in a bear hug—there is more to this tale than there appears; fortunately, I know how to winkle it out of him.

“Hattie—Lord, you are a welcome sight. I am sorry I did not have the opportunity to speak to you at length last night.”

She decided it would be best to turn the subject away from her abrupt departure from the Prussian embassy, and instead introduced Bing. “Miss Swansea married the curate—did you hear?”

Taking her elbow, he escorted them to the waiting carriage. “I did; at long last the man screwed up his courage—my mother had despaired of him. And she wrote that Sophie finally had her pups—another big litter.”

Hattie arched a dark eyebrow as the driver opened the door for them. “Then I am relieved, Robbie—I was worried that all communication between you and your mother had failed for some reason.”

There was a small pause while Robbie bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I have been remiss; unfortunately, there has been little time to correspond—I must bring her up to date.”

“Ensure that she has her smelling salts about her, first,” Hattie teased as he handed her into the carriage.

With a grin, Robbie didn’t make an attempt to demur as he settled in the seat across from Hattie and Bing. “It
is
rather startling news, isn’t it?”

Hattie was feeling immeasurably better, now that she was able to gauge him without the annoying Madame Auguste clinging to his arm. It seemed to Hattie—who knew him better than most—that he was not particularly enamored of his bride-to-be. There must be some other explanation for this hastily patched-together betrothal and for whatever reason, he didn’t wish to reveal it. As the carriage rattled along over the cobblestones, she was suddenly given pause, aware that there was perhaps a ready explanation for such a hasty marriage. Impossible, she thought in distaste—at her age, the woman was nearly beyond child-bearing. Still, she had best tread carefully; Robbie may be honor-bound to marry her and if this was the case, Hattie had no choice but to support him—and support his poor mother, who would certainly need it.

With this possibility in mind, she did not press him but spoke of the news from home and other inconsequential matters until they arrived at the British headquarters in Paris. After crossing the threshold of this august building, Hattie and Bing were introduced to several gentlemen who were attached to the embassy in some manner—and who eyed her discreetly as she walked past. They must have heard about the contretemps last night, she thought, her color high, and wished she hadn’t been so gauche; she didn’t want to embarrass Robbie—although he seemed to need no help in that department. Honestly, men were so stupid, sometimes.

Unaware that she was casting aspersions upon his judgment, Hattie’s escort led the ladies around the facilities, explaining that everyone’s time was currently consumed by the negotiations surrounding the Congress of Vienna—even though progress was very slow as a result of everyone’s trying to take advantage and no one willing to cede an inch.

Hattie had followed what news she could find and could only agree—the post-war meetings were like one of those children’s games where you threw all the cards in the air and everyone ran and attempted to catch as many as they could; it would be a while before Europe was stable again, before new boundaries and alliances could be established.

With Bing trailing discreetly behind and out of earshot, Hattie decided she would no longer allow him to avoid the subject—after all, someone had once told her she was forthright—and she observed, “How lucky that you can be spared long enough to be married, then. Will your parents attend?”

After a moment he replied, “It is rather short notice, unfortunately.”

The equivocal answer made her wonder if perhaps he wanted to present his poor parents with a
fait
accompli
for fear they would disapprove of his bride; it seemed a valid concern, the bride being a bit long in the tooth. “Is it…” She paused delicately. “Is it the same situation as the Postmaster and Miss Harding?” Even Cornwall had its share of scandal, human nature being what it was.

Shocked, Robbie chastised her in a low voice, “Hattie, for God’s sake—”

“You won’t speak of it,” she defended herself. “You should be happy, and you’re not.”

“No—it is not a marriage of necessity and you should not be speaking of such things,” he retorted, annoyed. “Honestly, Hattie.”

“I am trying to help,” she insisted stubbornly. “How did it happen, then?”

He offered a bit stiffly, “I met her when I was in Egypt, last month—”

“
You
were in Egypt, too?” Now it was Hattie’s turn to be shocked; apparently everyone was visiting Egypt, willy-nilly, whilst she was sequestered away back home with as little to do with herself as the
stupid
princess in her
stupid
tomb—it was beyond all bearing and she resisted an urge to stamp her foot, knowing it would only cement everyone’s bad opinion of her.

“—and we decided to marry on the spur of the moment.”

She eyed him, waiting, but he volunteered nothing further and refused to meet her eye. “Well then; I see,” she offered in a tone that conveyed the exact opposite.

He flashed her a conscious glance but would not elaborate. “Look, it’s complicated and I don’t want to quarrel with you—not today.”

Contrite, Hattie took his arm, recognizing the unspoken message that he was upset and she shouldn’t press him. “No—of course not, Robbie; I shouldn’t be teasing you. Tell me instead about Vienna, and how important you are.”

Willing to change the subject, he began to describe the diplomatic maneuvering at the Congress and Hattie listened, asking an occasional question and allowing her attention to wander. She glanced around at her surroundings, appreciating the sense of purpose that emanated from all the people around her. I do much better when I have a purpose, she realized; I think that was the problem at home—I had no purpose to my life, so I created an artificial one, which really didn’t suit me at all. As she looked up at Robbie’s profile, she congratulated herself on this self-discovery. Growing up, his generous parents had included the solitary child on the neighboring estate in all their family doings—it was they who had given her the nickname never used by her parents—and so it was only to be expected that the affection she felt for Robbie was sisterly, and not at all lover-like. She nodded as her escort continued to speak—she truly wasn’t paying much attention—and couldn’t help but think that it was just as well her campaign to attach him had failed miserably. It was not meant to be, she thought with little regret, and couldn’t help but remember the feel of another man’s hands lingering at her waist, and the sensations engendered thereby. Distracted, she realized that Robbie was awaiting a response from her. “I’m sorry, Robbie. What did you say?”

“There is a gentleman here who would like to speak with you for a few minutes, Hattie. I’m afraid it’s rather important.”

Such was the state of her thoughts that Hattie’s heart leapt for a moment, thinking she was no sooner to think of Monsieur Berry then he was to magically appear. However, instead she entered a small office that contained a rather serious grey-eyed man who rose to take her hand. “Miss Blackhouse.”

She noted that he gave no name, and she also noted with a shock of recognition that the attaché who closed the door behind her was the erstwhile cutpurse from the night before—she had only a glimpse of his face as he turned to leave, but Hattie had a very good memory, which had always been one of her strengths. Suddenly wary, she sat with Robbie across the table from the grey-eyed man as Bing was asked to wait outside. I cannot like this turn of events, she thought as she clasped her hands in her lap; but at least I will
finally
learn what is going on, although I imagine the explanation will not include the reason why the British embassy wanted to steal my reticule.

The other man’s gaze met hers in all seriousness. “When was the last time you heard from your parents, Miss Blackhouse?”

It was a strange question—Robbie was certainly well aware of her parents’ tepid interest. “I hear from them occasionally,” she answered cautiously. “Why?”

“Anything of late?”

Something in his tone made her search his face, her brow knit. “What has happened?”

He paused, the expression in the grey eyes grave. “Apparently no one has heard from them in a long while.”

Dismayed by the innuendo, she reasoned slowly, “And because you are concerned, you must not think it the usual case when they are at a dig and do not communicate for weeks at a time.”

“I fear for their safety,” the gentleman confirmed with a nod. It seemed to Hattie, though, that he was watching her very closely and didn’t seem all that distraught, given the subject.

Robbie, on the other hand, offered gentle sympathy as he reached to cover her hand with his own. “I am sorry, Hattie.”

There was a pause while they allowed her to assimilate this alarming news, but her mind instead leapt to the theft of her reticule, as well as the mysterious gentleman’s warning to return home, which was in stark contrast to Monsieur Barry’s warning not to leave until she had spoken with him. “I see,” she said rather inadequately, and stalled for time, carefully wary.

“Nothing has been verified,” the grey-eyed man continued. “But it does not look well.”

There was another pause in the conversation and Hattie did nothing to fill the silence, thinking instead about Robbie’s unexpected betrothal and his sincere sympathy, beside her—she knew him too well to pretend he did not fear the worst about her parents. She wondered for a moment if the two events were connected in some way—he was certainly not behaving like a bridegroom on the cusp of marriage—but this seemed implausible. On the other hand,
everything
seemed implausible from the moment she had first set foot in this
stupid
country.

When the grey-eyed man spoke again, the topic seemed anticlimactic, given their previous discussion. “Did your parents come often to their residence here in Paris?”

Hattie looked at him a bit blankly. “Yes—they do.” She deliberately used the present tense in contrast to his use of the past tense. “They come to Paris to arrange for exhibitions at the museum.”

He persisted, watching her carefully, “Your parents own no other property in town?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea,” she confessed. “They did not discuss such things with me.”

Almost diffidently, he continued, “Do you know if they had a strongbox—something in which they kept important documents?”

Bemused, she shook her head. “A strongbox? No—I’ve never known of such a thing.” She made a slight gesture toward Robbie. “Although Mr. Tremaine can verify that I was not in their confidence, so it truly doesn’t mean much.” Unbidden, she remembered the mysterious gentleman’s warning to tell Robbie nothing—which seemed ludicrous; she would trust Robbie with her life. Except for the persistent and annoying fact that the British embassy had apparently decided to steal her reticule. Lifting her chin, she demanded, “What is this about? Why this interest in their property?”

“It is unclear what will happen with their estate.”

Hattie could not quite keep the edge from her voice. “It has not yet been established that my parents are dead—or has it?”

Reacting to her tone, Robbie ducked his chin in the apologetic gesture he had made since they were small children and squeezed the hand he held. “Sorry, Hattie; we are thinking of your welfare—how you will go on if they continue missing.”

Hattie abruptly rose to her feet, and the surprised gentlemen hastily rose also. “Please keep me informed of any further news, and I thank you for your concern.” She could sense the men exchange a glance as she turned on her heel to go, but she had decided, sitting there, that she was not to be trifled with. Apparently there was a connection between Robbie’s work at the Congress and her parent’s work—although no one wished to tell her what it was and indeed, the basis for any such link was unclear; her parents had little interest in anything less than three thousand years old, after all. In any event, she had heard her fill of equivocations, and was leaving.