Daughter of the God-King (4 page)

On the carriage ride home, Robbie made a mighty effort to coax Hattie out of her temper and was largely successful, only because Hattie had resolved on a course of action, which always tended to calm her down. “I’m sorry if I was rude, Robbie, or if I’ve made trouble for you, but I thought he was rather rude to me in the first place.”

“He’s not one to be accommodating,” Robbie disclosed with an apologetic shrug. “I am dashed sorry you heard the news in such a way, Hattie; my fault—I should have broken it to you myself.”

At Bing’s glance of inquiry, Hattie apprised her of the unsettling silence from her parents, but Bing, as was her wont, did not become distressed and instead reminded Hattie that it was not so very unusual, after all. “Edward always said they were all-consumed; particularly when they came across a new find. I have no doubt they are not aware they have raised alarm, and will soon reveal another extraordinary wonder to the world.”

But Hattie was not convinced by this pragmatic advice, having gained the impression that the grey-eyed man was not to be trifled with in his own turn. She asked Robbie, “Is the gentleman your superior? He did not mention his position.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Robbie offered a rueful smile. “He’s rather a hard taskmaster, as you can imagine.”

“He can’t be worse than the Irish schoolmaster, I’ll not believe it.” The conversation then turned to a lively reminiscence of that gentleman’s short but memorable tenure at the Tremaine manor while Hattie noted well that her lifelong friend was not going to tell her what he knew about her parents and this very strange situation. All the more reason for Hattie to keep her plans close to the vest, and so she carefully avoided any inquiries about why the British authorities were so interested in her Egyptologist parents or why Robbie was to marry a woman he never bothered to mention. When she had a chance to have a private word with Bing as they took off their hats back at the townhouse, Hattie asked quietly, “How well do you speak French, Bing?”

“Passably,” Bing responded, considering it. “I couldn’t write a book.”

“I would like to sail for Cairo as soon as possible, and I’d like you to slip away and book passage while I distract Mr. Tremaine in the parlor.”

“Certainly; it seems the best course to take, given the circumstances.” Without a blink, Bing began buttoning up her pelisse once again.

“Don’t mention it to anyone, please.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” her companion replied, and exited toward the kitchen.

Robbie was standing at the bow window with his hands clasped behind his back as Hattie joined him and called for tea. He held out a hand, and with easy familiarity, she placed hers in his. “I’m wretchedly sorry about all this, Hattie—shall I take you for a tour of the city, to take your mind off it?” He brought his other hand to cover hers, and regarded her with a warm and rather tender expression that was very unlike his customary casual treatment.

“Will your fiancée come along?” Mainly, she asked just to discomfit him;
someone
should make an effort to mention the poor woman.

But he was not to be thrown off in his attempt to sweeten her up. “I believe she is otherwise occupied—it would be just you and me.”

“And Bing,” Hattie reminded him—just to make it clear she was no longer in short skirts, tagging along behind him. She wondered what he was about, making up to her like this, and was curious enough to resist an impulse to cuff him; instead awaiting his next move with interest.

“—and Bing,” he agreed, smiling. “Lord, it is good to see you, Hattie—you remind me of home, and of a simpler time.”

“A bit too simple for my taste,” she admitted. Robbie dropped his gaze to finger her hand, and Hattie wondered if she would have the wherewithal to spurn an advance if he proceeded to make one. She was not to find out.

“Mademoiselle Blackhouse; forgive me if I intrude.” Berry stood at the entry to the parlor, completely at his ease. “The door was open and there was no servant.”

For whatever reason, Hattie did not believe him and allowed her skepticism to show in her glance as she introduced the two men. There was no answering gleam today; instead the Frenchman’s expression was politely correct. “Tremaine? Then you must be the gentleman who was in Thebes—the neighbor to Monsieur and Madame Blackhouse.”

“Indeed. And you are—?”

Hattie awaited the reply with interest, thinking it unlikely they were to hear the truth, but with a small bow, the visitor explained, “I was the Blackhouse agent in Cairo.”

While Hattie endeavored to hide her astonishment, Robbie addressed the man with renewed interest. “Yes; we—the British consulate—we were trying to reach you, to discover if you could cast any light on their whereabouts.”

She could see from Berry’s expression that he was not best pleased that Robbie had already raised the subject of her missing parents, and for a moment his enigmatic gaze rested on her face with a trace of concern. “If you do not mind, monsieur, I should discuss the matter in private with Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”

If Robbie were a dog, thought Hattie, he would have bristled. “I assure you I am in Miss Blackhouse’s confidence.”

But the other man seemed discreetly perplexed. “Indeed? Last night at the Ambassador’s reception I did not have such an impression—”

It was masterfully done, and the subtle but barbed reminder of the contretemps involving Madame Auguste made Robbie press his lips together and curl his hands into fists as the silence stretched out. Recognizing the warning signs, Hattie hastily stepped in. “Robbie, I should speak to Monsieur Berry and discover what he has to relate.”

Thus dismissed, Robbie could only bow over her hand with as much grace as he could muster, shooting her an admonitory look that only annoyed Hattie to no end. Who was he to admonish her—with all his talk of strongboxes and attempts to turn her up sweet—the non-forthcoming thiever of reticules. “Good day,” she said firmly, and watched his reluctant exit.

She turned to face Berry, who was doing only a fair job of hiding his own annoyance. In a completely different tone than he had used with Robbie, he pronounced with scorn, “There is a man who seeks one wife too many.”

“How many have you?” The words were out before she could stop them.

“None.” He turned his head to meet her eyes, and there was a long moment while time seemed to stand still as they faced one another, their gazes locked. Hattie was able to hear her heartbeat in her ears for an entirely different reason than the usual, and finally broke the silence. “Then I suppose you are not the best judge of how many is too many.”

“As you say.” He nodded a bit stiffly.

Ah, she thought—he is unhappy he let the mask slip once again but he cannot help himself, it seems. The knowledge was exhilarating, and she had to resist a strange and compelling urge to place her palms upon his chest. Take hold of yourself, she thought in alarm, and turned aside to break the spell. “Shall we be seated in the parlor so that I may hear your news?”

“Or the garden, instead,” he suggested politely. “It is a fine day.”

As it was now threatening rain, she concluded he was concerned they would be overheard, and willing to humor him, she walked toward the French doors at the back without demur. “I have no chaperone at present, but I promise I will not try to compromise my way into becoming your first wife.”

But his guard was now firmly in place and he would not be teased. “As you wish, mademoiselle.”

Hattie led him into the small, walled garden in the back that featured a wrought-iron tea table and two chairs alongside a flower bed. As he pulled out her chair, she noted he was once again dressed in understated clothing and not from the finest of tailors. Nevertheless, Hattie had an impression of strength and assurance that could not be concealed by subterfuge—that he was merely an agent for her parents seemed unlikely. Another mystery—and I’ve only been here a day, she thought as she allowed her gaze to dwell on the fine set of his shoulders. He was perhaps thirty, she guessed, and if he was indeed unmarried it was not for lack of opportunity, despite his efforts to hide his light beneath a bushel. Resolving to appear older than her years, she folded her hands in her lap and wished she had thought to bring a wrap as it was turning quite cool.

Berry sat across from her and began in a low tone, “Did you bring any servants from England, mademoiselle?”

Hattie blinked, as this seemed an unlikely opening. “No, we hired them from the local service. Should I fear poison in my soup?”

In response, he met her eyes in all seriousness. “You must be cautious—particularly in what you say when they are about.”

This comment made her reply in a tart tone, “There seems little point; I obviously know less of what is going forward than apparently everyone else in Paris.”

But he would not be goaded, and said only, “That is as may be, but others suspect you hold secrets; therefore you must be careful.”

“I am already aware—the British arranged for my reticule to be snatched last night.” She wasn’t certain why she told him, except that she wanted to show him she was not a complete fool.

“Yes,” he replied as though this was the merest commonplace. “And then you were approached by the Comte deFabry.”

Hattie digested the interesting fact that despite being some sort of clerk, Monsieur Berry was very well informed. “Is that who it was? He never mentioned his name but he seemed rather harmless.”

“What did he say to you?”

Once again, Hattie was answering questions without obtaining any answers in return—this was how things were done in France, apparently. She countered, “Why—do you think he is not as harmless as he seemed?”

“I cannot know,” he explained patiently, “until you tell me what he said, mademoiselle.”

This seemed irrefutable, so she complied, as best she could. “He kept apologizing,” she concluded. “He was very polite and deferential.”

“I would ask that you not speak with him any further.”

Exasperated, she pointed out, “I imagine he would say the same thing about you, and I have no reason to obey either one of you. What has happened to my parents?”

If she thought the bald question would discomfit him, she had misjudged her man. “They were last known to be at the new tomb in Thebes, making an inventory of the excavations. Other than that, I have very little information—even from those who assisted them with logistics. They have literally vanished without a trace.”

Her brow knit, Hattie stared at him and tried to assimilate this bleak assessment. Berry held her gaze with his own level one, a trace of sympathy contained therein. Made uneasy by its presence, she pointed out, “I often have no communication from my parents for months on end.”

“No one knows this better than I,” he agreed. “However, for three months they have been unaccounted for.”

“Three months?” Hattie tried to hide her dismay. They wouldn’t willingly be away from the site for that length of time—it was indeed as everyone thought; something was very wrong.

Berry tilted his head in apology. “I visited your home in England and found that you had traveled here. It caused a delay, which is unfortunate.”

She hated to say the words but found she was compelled. “Do you believe they are dead?”

“I fear so.”

Dropping her gaze for a moment, she regarded her hands in her lap. “I see.” She wasn’t certain how she felt—she hadn’t known them very well, after all. On the other hand, it was one thing to feel an orphan and another to actually be one.

“I am so sorry,” he offered. “I was hoping you may be of assistance. Have you any information? Did they inform you of their plans?”

“No,” she responded, her gaze raised to his again. “They did not.”

He persisted, leaning forward, his expression intent. “Was there any recent correspondence? Any items entrusted?”

A silence fell, and into it Hattie asked, “What is it you were searching for, upstairs?”

If Hattie expected Berry to disclaim, she was to be disappointed. “It is their house,” he pointed out in a reasonable tone, “and I am their agent.”

They regarded each other across the table for a long moment. You are a foolish, foolish girl, she chided herself, to be taken in by this so-capable gentleman. “What color are my mother’s eyes?”

“I don’t know what you call it,” he replied as though the question was not unusual in the least. “
Vert-brun
; green with brown.
Hazel
.”

“It is the same word in English.” And it was true—her mother was pale and attractive in the best English tradition. Vain about her skin, she was always swathed in hats and veils when in the sun. Hattie’s eyes, by contrast, were so dark as to seem almost black. “And my father?”

“I don’t remember.” Indicating with a gesture, he raised a hand. “He is missing the little finger from his left hand.”

This was true—it was crushed by a cornerstone, years ago. “What did my father call my mother?”

“Neph,” he said immediately.

The knot in Hattie’s breast dissipated. The nickname was an abbreviated version of Nephthys, an Egyptian goddess who was notoriously unfaithful. Her parents’ sense of humor—along with everything else—stemmed from their only passion. It seemed unlikely Berry would know these details unless he had indeed spent considerable time with them. Feeling an inappropriate stab of envy, she asked, “Did they ever speak of me?” Horrified, she wished she could pull the words back; the last thing she wanted was to appear pathetic before this man.

“They were very fond of you,” he replied gently, neatly avoiding an answer. Ashamed of her lapse, she didn’t press the subject, but instead felt very young as she turned her gaze again to the hands folded in her lap.

“Hathor; an unusual name.”

She sensed he was trying to ease her embarrassment and so she rewarded him by pulling herself together and rendering her best dimpled smile. “My friends call me Hattie.”

The gambit was not successful as Berry’s expression became distant and he asked with austere formality, “Would you know where your parents kept any important items, mademoiselle—items they were reluctant to part with? Perhaps a safe on the premises, either here or in England?”

She did not respond immediately, thinking that it was almost amusing—he was setting up a mighty resistance to the attraction that leapt between them, the intense awareness that made him lose his train of thought while the breath caught in her throat. “I imagine you know the answer better than I—I hope you locked the door behind you in Cornwall.”

An appreciative gleam of amusement appeared in his eyes—they were such a pleasing shade of brown, light with golden highlights. Recalled to the fact that she had just received bad news, she tried to temper her thoughts.

There was a small silence as thunder could be heard in the distance. “Mademoiselle Bing approaches,” he noted, and rose to his feet.

Hattie turned to behold the welcome sight of Bing bearing a woolen shawl—Hattie had been trying not to shiver and thereby spoil this promising
tête-à-tête
. “Thank you, Bing. Monsieur Berry acts as my parents’ agent in Cairo; in light of the unsettling news, he has come for a visit.”

Bing cast a skeptical eye at the gathering clouds but made no comment, depositing the wrap across Hattie’s shoulders. “Then you will have much to discuss. I shall ring for tea and leave you to it.”

Amused, Hattie made a mental note that Bing had apparently determined Berry was more friend than enemy, although Bing was not aware this guest had his own shortcomings—burglary being among them. “I think not, Bing—it looks to rain.”

But Berry was not to be hinted indoors where there was a danger of being overheard. Instead, he addressed Bing in a deferential manner. “Mademoiselle, my inventory of the Blackhouse effects listed some items which unfortunately I cannot lay hands upon. It would be useful to know if these items actually exist—I would not like to think an unscrupulous person could take advantage of the current situation. I understand your brother was Monsieur Edward Bing.”

“Indeed,” Bing verified with a nod.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the Frenchman offered in all sincerity, but there was a slight undercurrent to the words that Hattie could not quite like. “Did he ever send you anything from the site?”

“Oh, no,” Bing disclaimed immediately. “Edward was not one to keep anything for himself; he strongly believed the artifacts belonged to the world and the appropriate place for them was in a museum—although many others disagreed, and sold them privately.”

“A dedicated man,” agreed Berry in a respectful tone. “Would that there were more like him.”

Bing admitted, “That—and it was important not to displease the local authorities by smuggling away the treasures; after all, the site could be shut down.”

“But I thought the British controlled the sites,” said Hattie in surprise. “My parents certainly seemed to go wherever they wished.”

“No—not the British; at least not as yet,” Bing explained to her. “A viceroy named Muhammad Ali has taken the lead on regional matters since Napoleon’s forces left—but you are correct in that it is only a matter of time before the British reestablish authority in the area. Unfortunately, it is a difficult situation in Egypt—there are treasures to be seized and the French, the British, and the locals are all vying for power over the excavations.”

“You are well informed, mademoiselle,” observed Berry with open approval.

Bing’s lean cheeks turned pink with pleasure. “I followed my brother’s doings quite closely, monsieur.”

Hattie added, “It was Edward who found the
Shefrh
Lelmelwek
—the Glory of Kings. Did you hear of it in Cairo? It was hidden inside an ordinary unguent jar.”

“A very significant find,” Berry agreed. “Word of the discovery spread very quickly.”

I must be paranoid, and seeing a mystery behind every bush, thought Hattie as she eyed him narrowly; but it seems to me there is a certain constraint in his voice when he speaks of the mythical sword, and when he speaks of poor Edward, also. But before she could quiz him on the topic, Berry asked, “By chance, did Monsieur Bing refer to an engraved golden disk—perhaps not very large?” He indicated the small size with his fingers. “It is one of the missing artifacts.”

Bing shook her head with regret, obviously sorry to disappoint her new admirer. “Minor gold items are vulnerable to theft—Edward often decried the work of the tomb raiders.”

“There is also an item that is described as a ‘senet board,’ but I am not certain what is meant.”

Bing was more than willing to enlighten him, being an authority on all things entombed. “It refers to a game board, rather similar to a chessboard, which would be played in the afterlife.”

“You know of no such item?”

Bing shook her head again. “I fear one can only assume the worst if an inventoried item is missing—the black market is thriving, unfortunately.”

Conceding, the Frenchman spread his hands. “It is fortunate most of the artifacts are accounted for, then.” He turned his head, listening. “Someone is at the door.”

Bing rose to investigate and Hattie immediately pounced on him. “What do you know of Edward’s death?”

“Leave the door to your chamber unlocked, tonight,” he directed.

A bit taken aback, she stared at him for a moment until Bing claimed her attention from the terrace, calling out, “Hathor, Baron du Pays has come to call. Shall I bring him out?”

It wants only this, Hattie thought in annoyance as she stood to address Bing—for two pins she would send the wretched vice-consul to Elba to keep company with Napoleon. “The rain approaches—it would be best to reconvene in the parlor, I think.” Turning to relay the invitation to Berry, she discovered that he had disappeared. A quick glance around the small yard revealed no clue—he was gone. It seems he wishes to entertain the wretched baron as little as I do, she thought with resignation, and headed indoors.