Daughter of the God-King (5 page)

As the rain came down outside, Hattie was compelled to endure the prescribed half-hour visit with their distinguished guest, her only consolation being Bing’s small nod in answer to her look of inquiry that indicated that her companion had indeed booked passage away from this god-forsaken city. The baron was all solicitous attention—polite and charming in an old-world way—but Hattie found him off-putting with no explanation for her reaction.“You are too kind,” she said for the second time, responding to his offer to drive out to Versailles. She meant it literally, but she could see that he interpreted the comment as a young girl’s proper sentiment in reaction to his generosity, and was well pleased. Fortunately, the gentleman wasn’t to know that by this time tomorrow she would be away from this place, and from everyone’s opportunings.

With a proprietary air, the Frenchman continued, “I understand you have seen little of the world and I will be delighted to change this unfortunate circumstance—the Sun-King’s palace is one of its wonders.”

“Ah, yes—the Sun-King,” nodded Hattie, at sea.

“Louis XIV,” interpolated the ever-helpful Bing. “An extraordinary ruler.”

“Similar to the god-king, Seti,” Hattie offered so as not to seem completely ignorant.

The vice-consul was so taken with this comparison that Hattie feared for a moment he would embrace her on the spot. “Exactly,” he smiled, his pale eyes gleaming. “My dear mademoiselle—you are very discerning.”

“That I am,” she agreed, and wished she could discern him taking his leave.

But it was not yet to be, and her visitor continued to regard her with an expression of warm approval. “History records the great men—men who leave a blazing legacy in their wake,
chère
mademoiselle; they are few and far between and we are indeed fortunate if we are given the opportunity to serve such men.”

From all reports, it did not seem he referred to France’s recently restored Bourbon king and she entertained a suspicion that he spoke of the now-deposed emperor, who was England’s greatest enemy. This seemed in bad taste, and so she steered clear of the subject by offering in a neutral tone, “I suppose it must be exciting to feel one is participating in historic events.”

“We live in extraordinary times, mademoiselle; and history has not yet closed its books.”

This said with an air of suppressed exultation that Hattie found incongruous, and so she tentatively agreed, “Yes—the congress has yet to come to a conclusion and I suppose France’s future is a bit uncertain.”

At this remark, he lowered his gaze and a small smile touched his lips. “
Pour
la
gloire
, mademoiselle.”

It occurred to her that he hadn’t mentioned the one subject that—one would think—should be foremost in his mind, and so she ventured, “As the vice-consul in Egypt, I imagine you are aware that my parents are missing.”

Immediately he raised his eyes to hers, his expression apologetic. “I did not mention it, mademoiselle, because I was not certain you knew of this and I felt it was not my place. Please accept my sincere assurances that everything possible is being done to find them.”

“Yes; I spoke with their agent, and it was he who told me the unfortunate news.” Hattie watched to see if this man was aware of the other, but he easily acknowledged, “Yes, Monsieur Berry; a very capable man, and well known to me. He is
dévasté
, of course, but he holds out hope.”

Now, that is doing it a bit too brown, thought Hattie, who then realized that—in truth—no one seemed very
dévasté
; instead everyone seemed much more interested in the elusive strongbox. “They also have a solicitor in Cairo, I understand. Would he be of use?”

The baron pressed his lips together in subtle disapproval. “He is a native man, with a tendency to be belligerent, as is in keeping. We can expect little cooperation from such a one; instead he will be looking to feather his own nest.”

“That is indeed a shame,” offered Hattie with barely concealed impatience. “One would think everyone involved would be eager to cooperate, instead of working at cross purposes.”

Her ironic tone, however, was apparently lost on the man who seemed to suddenly remember his initial purpose as he leaned in again to touch her hand. “You are without protectors, at present, Mademoiselle Blackhouse. Allow me the honor of standing in, as the occasion arises.”

“You are too kind,” Hattie reiterated. “I shall indeed count on your support, as well as that of Mr. Tremaine, from the British embassy. You may not know that we are long-time acquaintances.” This last to remind him she was not exactly friendless.

This time, the baron smiled a genuine smile that reached his eyes. “Ah, yes; Monsieur Tremaine and his unexpected bride.”

His tone was slightly derisive, and Hattie could feel her color rise until she remembered that this gentleman and Madame Auguste seemed to have a rancorous relationship, based upon the barbed conversation at the embassy
soirée
. Seeking to turn the conversation, she observed only, “Mr. Tremaine was always full of surprises.”

The older man nodded, the gleam still in his eye. “
Eh
bien
; I believe he sees himself in the guise of a shining knight—the widow having been so recently bereft.”

“Was she?” Hattie knew she shouldn’t be gossiping about Robbie but was unable to help herself. “Monsieur Auguste having passed away recently?”

“Murdered by footpads in Cairo,” the vice-consul replied, smoothing a sleeve. “Most unfortunate; it left your parents in an awkward situation.”

Hattie blinked. “Was Monsieur Auguste involved with my parents?”

Her visitor lifted his cup to sip his tea. “
D’accord
; he was their liaison with the Ministry of Antiquities.”

There was a small, rather shocked silence as Hattie and Bing assimilated this unexpected connection. “Do you think…” ventured Bing.

Disclaiming, he set his cup down and shook his head. “No, no—there appears to be no connection to the Blackhouses’ disappearance; a random crime, only—there are violent elements in Cairo as there are in any other large city, and your parents were in Thebes at the time. Nonetheless, the deplorable act has made it all the more difficult to mount a search for your parents.” He reached across to touch Hattie’s hand again. “Rest assured, it is my only priority, and no resource will be spared, mademoiselle; I stand at your service.”

“Thank you.” Hattie forgot to tell him he was too kind, as instead her mind was occupied by this news of yet another unexplained death—assuming her parents were dead—and everyone’s extreme determination to bedevil her. Perhaps there was something to this curse business, after all.

As if on cue, the distinguished Frenchman asked in a serious manner, “Are you aware where your parents kept their strongbox? Perhaps it would contain information helpful to the search.”

“I haven’t a clue,” confessed Hattie. Thinking to forestall him, she added, “And I do not know if they had any other properties.”

“A pity.” He raised his head to smile indulgently, although the expression in the pale eyes remained unreadable. “Nevertheless, I shall see that you are well taken care of.” To her dismay, his gaze rested discreetly on her breasts for the barest moment.

“You relieve me no end,” Hattie assured him in a brittle tone, and wondered if it would provoke an international incident if she pushed the old lecher out the door. She refrained from putting it to the test, however, and at long last she stood with Bing at the window to watch his elaborate carriage draw away. “Behold my new beau, Bing.”

Bing crossed her arms. “One of several, it seems.”

Hattie gave her companion an arch look. “Come now, Bing; if you refer to Monsieur Berry, I believe he is more your beau than mine.”

Bing made a wry mouth and turned from the window. “I can see what’s before me.”

Secretly pleased with this insight, Hattie merely replied, “Then see to it we have no more visitors, if you please; I am beginning to believe there is something to this curse, after all.”

“Nonsense,” said Bing. “Merely an unfortunate sequence of events—save one.”

Smiling at the addendum, Hattie turned to mount the stairs, unwilling to confess to Bing that she was expecting yet another visit from the same.

Hattie dithered on the horns of a dilemma—what did one wear if one were expecting a gentleman to make a clandestine visit to one’s bedchamber? Under normal circumstances, of course, the answer would be obvious but these were not normal circumstances as the gentleman in question did not seem bent on seduction. Hattie allowed her gaze to rest on her bed, and wondered what her reaction would be if such an attempt were made. I don’t know if I would mount much of a resistance, she admitted to herself—this was exactly why girls should be chaperoned within an inch of their lives.

Unthinkable to entertain him
en
dishabille
—although her nightdress was very pretty and she would very much like to show it to him—she finally decided she would wear her day dress, and hope Bing did not make a visit to her chamber or that the upstairs maid would not think it strange she had asked for no assistance this evening. Affecting a causal air, she announced that she would read in her room after dinner and bade Bing good night, sitting up with a candle while the house gradually settled into silence. I hope I haven’t long to wait, she thought, as she re-arranged her skirts yet again; I’ve had a tiring day, between all the dire warnings and various attempts to pry information from me.

Sometime after midnight, when the candle had burned low and Hattie had left the book open on her lap to rest her eyes, she awoke with a start to behold Berry standing before her.

“Oh,” she said, and sat up straight, feeling at a disadvantage. She wondered how long he had been there.

“Be easy, mademoiselle,” he whispered as he crouched down before her. “I must speak with you.”

“So you keep saying,” she whispered in return, a bit crossly. “Speak, then.” She noted that he wore a dark workman’s coat. His skulking uniform, she thought—he excels at it.

“What did Monsieur le Baron have to say?”

She considered this for a moment. “I expect an offer at any time.”

He looked up into her face, the angles of his own accentuated in the illumination of the single candle. “I must be serious, I’m afraid.”

But Hattie quirked her mouth. “I
am
serious—it is the most annoying turn of events, I assure you.”

This surprised him, she could see, and he lowered his gaze, thinking.

“Am I an heiress?” This had occurred to her as a likely explanation for this sudden interest—hers was a name that was venerated in certain circles and if her parents were indeed no longer alive, there were those who would leap at the chance to marry into the Blackhouse legacy. Indeed, the Prussian Ambassador would probably be the next to haunt her doorstep.

“I know not,” her visitor admitted. “But I imagine you would be the executrix of your parents’ estate—I was unable to obtain exact information from their solicitor in Cairo.”

“You spoke to him?” she asked, suddenly alert. “The Baron spoke to him also, but does not seem overly fond of him.”

The gentleman made a small sound of annoyance in his throat. “A most unhelpful man.”

“I imagine,” Hattie ventured, “that he is not supposed to give out information, given the circumstances.”

Berry refrained from comment, and thus reminded, Hattie ventured further, “I understand that Madame Auguste’s late husband was connected with my parents’ work in some way—through the Egyptian government.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and offered nothing further, which was maddening but to be expected; he gave little away, this self-assured gentleman, which made it all the more interesting that she could sense he was wrestling to resist the attraction between them—wrestling and not necessarily succeeding.

In a steady voice, she asked, “Tell me honestly; do you believe I am in danger?”

“No,” he said immediately and looked up into her eyes. “No, mademoiselle, you are not in danger.”

Almost apologetically she pointed out, “The comte who gave me the warning last night seemed to think so—and there are a great many corpses piling up. It does give one pause.”

The brown eyes were intent upon hers and she could see that he was wrestling again, an undefined emotion simmering just below the surface. “You will not be one of them—my promise on it.”

That she apparently now had a champion was much appreciated, and so she smiled upon him in the soft candlelight. Immediately, his expression became shuttered and she could sense his withdrawal. His mighty resistance had been raised again, and truly, it was just as well that one of them was resisting this magic; she was already regretting that she had not worn her pretty nightdress. To cover the moment she teased him, “You shouldn’t pour the butter boat over Bing—she’ll be expecting an offer of her own.”

He bowed his head in amused acknowledgment. “Mademoiselle Bing is very capable, I think.”

“Indeed she is. But she does not think Edward’s death was anything more than an accident, while you apparently do.”

He hesitated, weighing his words again, so she chided with a hint of impatience, “For the love of heaven, monsieur; you expect much from me but give little in return.”

The rebuke seemed to have the desired effect and he relented. “Yes, I believe there is a connection; that his death was not an accident.”

“But you don’t think there is a curse, do you?” In the quiet darkness of night, the idea seemed less fantastic.

“No; but there are those who would encourage such thinking.”

“Who?” she asked, her brows knit. “And why? Who are you, exactly?”

Bending his head for a moment, he touched her hand, quickly. “I am afraid I cannot say. But if you know anything of these matters, Mademoiselle Blackhouse, you must tell me—and tell me immediately. You must withhold nothing.” The brown eyes were raised once more to hers, the timbre of his voice very serious.

Hattie nodded, serious in her own turn. “I understand.”

There was a pause while it seemed to Hattie that he awaited a full confession. As she did not give him one, he continued, “I would ask that you be wary of Monsieur le Baron.”

“Readily. Do I fend him off with my hatpin?”

But he would not joke, and chose his words carefully. “He may contrive a situation where you would have little choice but to accept an offer.”

“Not with me, he won’t.”

Despite himself, he smiled. “Nevertheless, be wary, if you please.”

She assured him she would do so, and then felt a small pang at the realization she would avoid all such problems by stealing out of town tomorrow. She wondered at Berry’s reaction, and then consoled herself with the certain conviction—unless she had completely misjudged the situation—that she would see him again, and sooner rather than later. “Now, if you don’t mind I do have a question, if you will condescend to give me an answer.”

“
Cela
fait
trembler
,” he teased in mock apprehension, the planes of his face softening in the candlelight as he gazed up at her.

“Why did you refer to me as the god-king’s daughter last night? Since you have worked with my parents, you couldn’t have confused the meaning.” Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to come up with a plausible explanation.

He answered easily, “Your likeness was used to depict the princess.”

She stared in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Tilting his head, he explained, “It was your parents’ idea. After the find, there was a great deal of publicity—it was astonishing that a nameless princess would be buried in the Valley of the Kings. A fanciful likeness was printed up and distributed—it bears a resemblance to you.”

“Oh,” she said, rather pleased and surprised by the implied compliment. “I see.”

“You were not aware of this, it seems.”

“No. But my parents always loved a good jest.”

He dropped his gaze for a moment and she remembered that her parents were missing and presumed dead, and she probably shouldn’t be making light of the situation by flirting with their very appealing agent—who was no more a clerk than she was the stupid princess.

As though coming to the same realization, Berry brought all flirtations to a close by rising to his feet and she rose with him, her heart beating in her ears; half hoping he would attempt an advance and half hoping he would not, as she was not certain she would make a whole-hearted attempt to thwart him.

He bowed his head to whisper, “Lock the door after me, if you please.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice as she followed him to the door. Just before he slipped out, he turned and put a finger under her chin to lift her face to his. “You must make me a promise, mademoiselle,” he said in a low voice, his face in the shadows.

She waited, nearly suffocating on a pleasurable precipice.

He leaned in and spoke in a tender tone. “You will not look upon Monsieur Tremaine in such a way.”

Blushing hotly, she ducked her chin and closed the door on him with a firm click, hearing a soft chuckle as she did so.

After washing in the now-tepid water and climbing into bed, Hattie lay with her arms behind her head and contemplated the soft moonlight coming in through the window—she had much to think about. Her parents paid little attention to their only child but there had always been the conviction that this circumstance would change—that as soon as she was old enough to help them in their life’s work she would be summoned. Now it seemed the summons would never come—and despite their failings, they were her parents and didn’t deserve to die, unmarked and ungrieved in a foreign land.

She twisted a dark ringlet around her finger and thought about her three visits this day, and the general misapprehension that she knew the location of the all-important strongbox. Robbie had not behaved as though he were a man about to be married. The Baron believed her an heiress and was apparently hoping to secure a fortune by fair means or foul. Berry claimed to be her parents’ agent in Egypt, yet he did not know that Hathor was the name of a prominent Egyptian goddess. He also had searched her house uninvited and had locked horns with her parents’ solicitor, and—if she were guessing—it would not be beyond the realm of possibility to believe that he was some sort of spy; it would explain his penchant for doing whatever he wished even though he had adopted the
persona
of a clerk. This led her to draw a similar conclusion when it came to Robbie and his grey-eyed superior; try as she might, she didn’t see how the diplomatic doings at the Congress of Vienna could have instigated this hotly contested search for her parents’ strongbox. Something untoward was going forward, and whatever it was, apparently it was dangerous; many were dead and the Comte—whatever his name was—had urged her to flee back to England with all speed.

Pulling gently on a fine chain she wore around her neck, she withdrew the golden disk that was suspended upon it. Frowning in concentration, she contemplated the unintelligible markings engraved upon the disk for the thousandth time. I have no idea whom I can trust, she thought. And so I will trust no one.