Daughter of the God-King (6 page)

“We sail upon the
Sophia
, which will depart from Le Havre on the tide day after next.” Bing was thinking about practicalities as they sat for breakfast the next morning, Hattie a bit heavy-eyed from her late night. “Do we fold up our tent and depart without comment, Hathor? Will you miss Mr. Tremaine’s wedding festivities?”

“With great pleasure.” Hattie buttered her bread with more force than was necessary. “And for the record, the gentleman was disinclined to discuss the event, and turned the subject at every opportunity.” The two women exchanged a significant look in the manner of women everywhere who predict a mismatch, and a small silence fell as they continued their repast. A bit guiltily, Hattie realized that she would have to tell Bing
something
of what was going forward—although thus far she’d been an exemplary cohort—and so she decided to speak only in cautious generalities, for the time being. “I know my parents had a solicitor in Cairo—a Mr. Bahur—and given recent events I think it is important that I meet with him in person.”

Bing nodded. “Certainly understandable—I imagine he would want to speak to you, also; one may presume he awaits instruction.”

Hattie thought about what Berry had told her. “Do you think I am the executrix, then?”

“I have no idea, I’m afraid, but it is another reason to seek him out; if you are not the executrix you will need to speak to whoever is fulfilling that role.”

“I suppose I shall need to draw upon their funds.” Hattie had never considered such mundane matters in the past, mainly because she’d never gone anywhere nor done anything remotely interesting.

But Bing shook her head slightly in disagreement. “Your accounts are yours outright, Hathor—to draw upon as you wish. This was made very clear to me.”

Thinking on this, Hattie smiled at her companion and reflected without rancor, “How strange that they were so generous with their money but not with their attention.”

“I shall say nothing on the subject,” said Bing, and pressed her lips into a thin disapproving line before she took another bite of dry toast.

But Hattie was not one to dwell on the past—particularly now that the future seemed to hold a hint of promise, given the glimpse of that simmering emotion—and replied, “Come, now, Bing—they were bringing the wonders of the ancients to the world and I—well, I would have been underfoot. And,” Hattie teased her, “I would never have met you, else. Promise you will not up and marry some no-account suitor, as did Miss Swansea.”

“I’m afraid I am not the marrying kind,” Bing disclaimed with her slight smile.

“Well then, this will be as close to an elopement as we’ll come, I imagine. I’d rather not trust the servants with our plans, so please pack a few essential things discreetly—we’ll need to purchase more appropriate clothing once in Cairo, anyway—and we’ll hire a hackney and be well away before anyone has a chance to plague me further.”

“I cannot blame you for your caution, Hathor. It does seem…” Bing paused, her thin wrists resting on the table. “It does seem that there are powerful forces at play.”

Hattie was reminded that Bing was no fool, and was obviously drawing her own conclusions. “Yes. And I cannot like the feeling that I am playing blind man’s bluff while everyone else refuses to give me
an
inch
of useful information.”

“And you mistrust the British authorities.” The statement hung in the air, a hint of a question contained therein.

Hattie could only reply with all sincerity, “I’m afraid I do, Bing; I have good reason, believe me.”

Her companion seemed satisfied with this assurance, and returned her attention to her tea and toast. “Then it is settled. I have always wanted to see Egypt, and quite look forward.”

The bell rang, and Hattie looked up in surprise as it was too early for morning calls. She heard a man’s voice—not Robbie’s—and then the maid came in to announce a visitor who was revealed to be the grey-eyed man, Robbie’s superior. That worthy did not stand on ceremony but strode directly into the breakfast room, his hat in his hand and his expression grave as the women hastily rose. “Miss Blackhouse, Miss Bing—please forgive my intrusion but I am afraid I have unsettling news.”

“Robbie?” asked Hattie in alarm.

Contrite, the man paused and held out a reassuring hand. “No—I am sorry to have alarmed you but instead it is Mr. Tremaine’s fiancée—I’m afraid there has been a terrible accident.”

Hattie stared at him, and then realized she was not, after all, very much surprised. “Madame Auguste? Why, what has happened?”

The gentleman’s gaze did not waver. “I am sorry to report she has met with a fatal accident; Mr. Tremaine has asked that I fetch you to the embassy so that you can support him at this time—”

Hattie interrupted with a touch of impatience, “Can you not tell us what has happened?”

Their visitor shook his head in a regretful disclaimer. “I do not know the particulars, Miss Blackhouse. But Mr. Tremaine has urgently requested your assistance.”

Hattie found it rather ominous that the man wouldn’t tell her, even though she would bet her teeth that he knew exactly what had happened to Robbie’s wretched bride—and it didn’t help that she felt a bit remorseful for being so short with the poor, doomed, aged woman. The British must be worried that Hattie was next on the list of victims, despite Berry’s assurance that she was in no danger; otherwise there was truly no reason for this exigency—or for this particular man to come fetch her—if her only role was to comfort the bereaved. Unless, of course, they wished to torture her secrets from her in the embassy basement, and the British usually frowned upon such procedures—or one would think, anyway. In any event, she wasn’t going to allow the gentleman to think she wasn’t aware that he was prevaricating, and so she bluntly concluded, “You must believe that I am in danger, then.”

She could hear Bing’s soft intake of breath at such plain speaking, but their visitor only bowed his head in acknowledgment. “All the more reason to come to the embassy, miss.”

“Of course; we will come, then.” Hattie turned to Bing. “Do you have any mourning bands, Bing?”

Bing shrugged her spare, black-clad shoulders with regret. “I am afraid not, Hathor, as I remain in full mourning for my dear brother.”

Hattie turned to the grey-eyed man and said briskly, “If you would allow me step into the draper’s for a moment on our journey to the embassy—it is just up the street—I can purchase mourning bands for poor Robbie and myself.”

The grey eyes regarded her without expression. “Perhaps such a purchase can wait—”

But Hattie quirked her mouth, and interrupted candidly, “I was unkind to the decedent on the one occasion when I met her, and so I feel obligated to show every consideration, to try to make up for it. I don’t want Robbie to feel I do not share in his sorrow.”

As expected, the gentleman assented, having little choice in the matter. “Very well, then.”

As the women fetched their gloves and hats, Hattie murmured to the hovering Bing, “Stand ready; we are going out yet another window. Bring along the passage vouchers.”

“Do we leave out the back?” asked Bing in tone that indicated she was willing but uncertain of the success of such a tactic.

“No—I imagine they are watching the house to make certain no one seizes me before they do. Good God, Bing; was there
never
such a place for dark doings? City of Light, my eye. Come with me and stay close.”

With all appearance of complicity, they accompanied their escort to the waiting carriage, Hattie noting with a quick glance that the embassy driver was the same as the hackney driver from the first night—which came as no surprise whatsoever. “Poor Robbie,” remarked Hattie aloud. She meant it, too—it would be embarrassing to act as chief mourner when one had hardly time to act as bare acquaintance. “Did Madame Auguste have family in Paris?”

“I am unaware,” replied the gentleman as the carriage began to move.

Knitting her brow, Hattie watched out the window for a few moments as the city’s inhabitants stirred to life. “We must purchase mourning cards, also, Bing. We can send the announcements to those who must be informed—Robbie never had a good hand.”

“Very good,” agreed Bing. “He will no doubt be too upset to think of such things.”

Hattie sat back in the seat, counting off tasks on her fingers. “Yes—we’ll speak with him, and discover what needs to be done, and how many cards will be needed. Perhaps we’ll have to help make funeral arrangements, also, although I have no idea how such a thing is handled over here—I imagine she was Roman Catholic.”

“We shall see,” Bing assured her. “Every propriety must be observed.”

“Here we are at the draper’s,” the grey-eyed man announced as the carriage pulled up to the curb. With a deferential air, he added, “I will escort you ladies within, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” said Hattie, who then added with an amused sidelong glance, “I am counting on you to stand the ready, on account of my reticule having been unaccountably stolen.”

“Say no more, Miss Blackhouse,” the other assured her in a wooden voice as he handed her down. “I shall be honored.”

“Have Robbie pay you back,” she suggested.

“No need.”

“You are very kind.” I shouldn’t bait him, she thought, but I cannot allow him to believe I am as stupid as he thinks.

Once within the shop’s interior, Hattie sized up the two women within and approached the younger. “We will need blacks, I’m afraid,” Hattie explained in French, and began walking to the back of the shop where, in the time-honored tradition of draper’s shops, there were rolls of all variety of fabrics, stacked high on tables and shelves.

The girl assumed a sympathetic expression, her pretty mouth drawn down. “
Quel d
o
mmage
, mademoiselle.”

“That’s as may be,” replied Hattie, who walked behind the stacks and straight toward the back door—she thought it best to strike quickly, whilst her keeper was carefully viewing the street out the front window. “Say nothing,” she whispered to the surprised girl with a smile. “I go to meet my sweetheart, and
mon
oncle
disapproves.”

“Ah!
Oui
, mademoiselle,” the girl answered, and lingered behind the stacks, looking self-conscious, as she watched them slip out the door.

“Quickly, Bing; we’ll find a hackney on the next street up; I’m afraid we will have to lie on the floor for a time.”

“Certainly,” said Bing, and gamely lifted her skirts with both hands.

And so in two days’ time Hattie stood on the deck of the
Sophia
, holding her hat on her head with one hand with her face turned into the wind, thrilled to feel the ship skimming along the water. The trip across the Channel from Southampton had been her first sea voyage—her first voyage of any kind, truly—and she had enjoyed it immensely. “It is so glorious, Bing—small wonder sailors never want to come home from the sea.”

Bing, however, was pale of lip. “I believe I must go and lay abed, Hathor.”

Hattie turned to her usually steady companion with concern. “Are you ill, Bing? Allow me to assist you.”

But her doughty companion was embarrassed by such a show of weakness and refused all offers of aid. “There is no need, Hathor; it has been my experience that a short nap and a citrus drop will set me to rights.” In dignified retreat, she then made her way down the companionway stairs to their cabin.

Turning her face back into the breeze, Hattie listened to the hissing of the water as it sloughed off the hull and breathed in lungfuls of sharp, tangy air as she leaned against the ship’s railing. They were headed to open sea and the water became rougher, the ship dipping in the troughs more dramatically as she closed her eyes and licked the salt spray from her lips—glorious, she thought, removing her hat so that she could feel the sun on her face—she definitely did not have her mother’s aversion to the sun. They had laid low, both on the trip to Le Havre and then at the inn, staying indoors and out of sight in the event the British or the Baron or even the mysterious Comte tracked them down, but in the end the ship was away with none the wiser, and Hattie celebrated having the sun once again on her face and the exultation of having outfoxed her pursuers. Indeed, her only regret was that there would be no further opportunities for post-midnight
tête-a-têtes
with Monsieur Berry, but she consoled herself with the sure knowledge that he would turn up again, if for no other reason than to plague her about the stupid strongbox, which was apparently of great interest to everyone still left alive in all this.

“Mademoiselle.”

She would know his voice anywhere, and in utter astonishment she jerked her chin down to behold Monsieur Berry, standing respectfully at a small distance. Rather than gape at him, she pulled herself together and warily waited, the realization that he was one step ahead of her and two steps ahead of the British making her heart sink. I hope I have not been an idiot, she thought; but I suppose if he wished to do me in, he has already had plenty of opportunity to do so. On the other hand, the fact that he was here unannounced could not be described as anything other than ominous, and it was past time she brushed the stardust from her eyes.

He had not approached, as though aware that she needed time to process this unlooked-for development. “Please do not be angry; you will come to no harm at my hands—my promise on it.”

“Why are you here?”

“Why do you travel to Cairo?” he countered.

But she would win this round. “My parents are missing, if you will recall.”

He took a tentative step closer, watching for her reaction. “You do not understand many things, mademoiselle; and you take a very foolish risk.”

But this was the wrong thing to say to Hattie, who retorted hotly, “A greater risk than staying in Paris, where I am besieged by men who seek to beguile my supposed secrets?”

He slowly shook his head in denial. “I cannot speak for Monsieur Tremaine, but I do not attempt to beguile you, mademoiselle.”

This was so patently untrue that she replied with a full measure of scorn, “I beg to disagree; Robbie has never arranged to meet me in my chamber after midnight.”

But apparently he disliked being chided every bit as much as she. “Come now; you nurse a grudge because I would not kiss you.”

Her face flooding with color, Hattie was so shocked she could not even make a furious rejoinder. “You should go,” she managed, holding on to her temper only with an effort.

“No, I will not.” He stepped close and put a hand on her arm, bending to look into her face. “Look—I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“You are no gentleman,” she bit out, wholly embarrassed, which made her all the angrier.

“Forgive me; I was unkind.”

Placing her palms over her eyes, she took a deep breath. You need to calm down, she thought, or you are going to cry, and that will not go well at all.

His voice continued next to her ear, the timbre quiet and sincere. “Hattie, these are dangerous people—allow me to keep you safe.” His use of her name did get her attention—his accent resulted in an emphasis on the second syllable that she found very pleasing, despite everything. She lifted her gaze to his, and saw that he was very serious, his eyes searching hers.

“Please don’t be angry—it is for the best, believe me.” He did not retreat behind his usual formality; for once his manner seemed genuine, and she found it more disarming than if he had made a dozen pretty speeches. “Allow me to help you.”

Hattie fixed her gaze on his cravat, and even as she was aware that she shouldn’t trust him an inch, she couldn’t seem to help herself, and so complained in a tone that unfortunately sounded rather childish, “I would ask that you were more honest with me; I am heartily sick of mysteries.”

“I cannot be honest with you. But I can protect you.”

Surprised, she lifted her gaze to his and digested his comment, both parts equally alarming. “I thought you said I was not in danger.”

“That was before I knew you were leaving for Cairo on your own.”

“No longer—we have been commandeered,” she riposted with some heat.

“What was I to do? You would not tell me of your plans.”

There was a hint of accusation in his voice that told her he was rather hurt by this, and hearing it, she took pity on him. “It is nothing personal, you understand; I don’t know who to trust.”

“You can trust me,” he assured her without hesitation.

She arched a dark brow in skepticism. “Can I? Who is it you work for, truly?”

There was the barest pause. “I cannot say,” he replied. “Because I will honor your request that I be more honest with you.”

“Oh—I see.” This was surprising, and seemed to indicate a softening of his attitude. “Have you lied to me before?”

“Yes,” he admitted in the same even tone.

Assimilating this admission without taking offense, she confessed, “I would like to have a turn at being mysterious—but I have no secrets whatsoever.”

“It is a burden, sometimes.” He met her eyes and she had the impression he was referring to their rendezvous in her chamber—when he infamously would not kiss her—with a hint of apology, which was very much appreciated.

She sighed. “I wish I knew more about all of this.”

“It is best that you do not, Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”

Quirking her mouth, she observed with regret, “I was ‘Hattie’ for a moment, but now I am demoted to ‘Mademoiselle Blackhouse’ once again.”

He smiled, the wind blowing his hair about his forehead—she had to clench the railing to refrain from smoothing it down for him. “
C’est cela
; I do not wish to offend again—you are fearsome when you are angry.”

“Then keep that to mind, and do not cross me,” she teased.

Still smiling, he seemed disinclined to bring their conversation to a close and leaned against the railing beside her. “You enjoy the sea.”

“Very much—although this is my first real voyage.” Equally disinclined to move away, she cast about for something to say in return. “Where in France do you hail from, monsieur?”

He shook his head with regret, and glanced down to her. “I cannot say.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Because it would be a lie?”

He gave an ironic little nod. “
De
vrai
.”

Knitting her brow, she met his gaze with amused exasperation. “Heavens; making an effort at honesty is rather complicated, apparently.”

He glanced out over the sea, the smile still playing around his mouth. “I have never made the effort before, so we shall see.”

So mesmerized was she that she didn’t notice the approach of the ship’s captain until he cleared his throat, standing beside her. “Miss Blackhouse.” Captain Clements was a bear of a man, whose ginger hair was grizzled with gray and whose manner was that of a lifelong seaman; unrepentantly bold and brash of manner. The shrewd gaze behind the spectacles shifted for a moment between Hattie and Berry, and she found herself blushing and hoping everyone aboard had not been an interested spectator to their quarrel.

“I trust you find the accommodations to your liking.”

Shading her eyes, she assured him, “Very comfortable, Captain. Thank you for taking us on such short notice.”

The captain leaned on the railing to her other side, which forced her to turn her back upon Berry; she noted the men did not speak and wondered if perhaps they were at odds. He continued, “I must confess I have followed your parents’ work with great interest and so I was very pleased to find your name on the manifest, Miss Blackhouse; do you make the trip to visit them often?”

With a mental sigh, Hattie girded her loins for yet another discussion about the tedious princess. “No, sir; this is my first visit to Egypt.”

“Is that so?” The captain met her eyes in surprise.

“I did visit their exhibition at the British Museum once, in London.” She didn’t want him to think she knew
nothing
about her parents’ work—although it did seem that Bing was much better informed and Hattie wished for a moment she was still present, so as to feed her a few lines.

With a faraway gaze, the captain considered the vast ocean stretching away before the ship. “Yes—it was a unmitigated triumph; why, I can recall when they electrified the world when they discovered the Temple of Amon-Re at Abu Simbel—I can think of no other find that garnered such attention.”

Pleased that she knew at least one fact, Hattie disclaimed, “I was not yet born, I’m afraid.”

“And this latest—the unknown daughter, lying in state in a place reserved only for pharaohs. An amazing mystery.”

“Indeed.” And then, because Berry was listening, she managed to dredge up yet another fact so as to sound semi-informed. “A mystery which hopefully will be solved—I believe there is cautious optimism that the hieroglyphic language on the tomb can be translated, now that the key has been discovered.”

“The Rosetta Stone,” agreed the captain with a nod. “Napoleon had his uses, I suppose.”

Fearing that they were going to stray into yet another tedious conversation about the deposed Emperor and his place in history, Hattie hastily noted, “I should check on Bing—she is unwell, I’m afraid.”

The captain doffed his hat with good humor. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Blackhouse; I hope you will join me for dinner this evening.”

Hattie smiled her acceptance. “Thank you—on behalf of myself and Miss Bing.” If the captain thought she’d dine with him unchaperoned she would disabuse him of this notion. With a nod to Berry, the other man strode away with a well-pleased air, and Hattie knew a moment’s qualm that she would be simultaneously fending off flirtations from the captain whilst trying to encourage them from Berry, which would make for a trip as complicated as Berry’s resolve to be more honest with her.

Berry sketched a bow. “
Au
revoir
, mademoiselle.”

“
Au
revoir
, monsieur.” While she regretted the captain’s interruption of their conversation, she consoled herself with the fact there would be plenty of opportunities to speak with Berry—hopefully at length—during the course of the journey. With this happy thought in mind, she made her way to their cabin to find Bing asleep in the upper berth. Moving quietly so as not to wake her, Hattie settled in on the edge of her narrow berth and took a moment to review the conversation on deck. Berry had resolved to be honest with her—it seemed that their passionate argument had resulted in a shift in their relationship; an understanding of sorts. Nevertheless, she vowed that she would never again appear to be inviting his advances—she had learned a very humiliating lesson.

Bing stirred in her sickbed. “Do you remain well, Hathor?”

Standing to address her suffering companion, Hattie took a thin hand in her own. “I’m afraid I do. I am almost ashamed.”

“Nonsense. Once I am over the initial discomfort I shall recover, never fear.”

“Is there anything you need? Or do you long for me to leave you alone?” It had occurred to Hattie that a sickening chaperone was not necessarily an unadulterated evil.

“I am only concerned that I fail in my duties to you—there are rough seamen aboard and your presence may evoke a reaction.”

“Now it is my turn to say ‘nonsense’ to you, Bing; I had a pleasant conversation with the captain up on deck and am perfectly comfortable.” Best not to mention that the captain had the look of a man embarking on a flirtation. “He would like us to join him for dinner.”

“Excellent,” Bing intoned weakly.

Eyeing her doubtfully, Hattie offered, “If you’d rather, Bing, I will cry off and tell him we will accept his invitation tomorrow.”

“I shall be recovered,” her companion insisted. “It is merely mind over matter.”

“The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is green around the gills,” Hattie pointed out gently. “I’ll not contribute to your demise; the tiresome god-king’s daughter has already inspired an alarming mortality rate.”

From her prone position, Bing sighed, one hand resting on her forehead. “Even if we do not discover your parents’ fate, we shall see their affairs settled—there is that.”

“Yes. And speaking of which, I will now astonish you and inform you that Monsieur Berry is aboard.”

“Is he?” Bing contemplated the cabin’s ceiling for a moment. “That is indeed astonishing.”

“Not a coincidence, I imagine. Keep your pistol about you, if you please.”

But Bing drew a breath, and turned her head toward Hattie. “I can’t imagine he means to do you harm, Hathor.”

“So he says; but we would do well to be very wary, Bing; at least until we understand what is afoot.” Mainly, Hattie was trying to remind herself of this, as she was half inclined to return to the deck forthwith and search him out again.