Daughter of the God-King Page 16

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.”

  Chapter 24

  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.

  Chapter 25

  Hattie stood on the deck of the Priapus and watched the teeming city of Cairo recede from view. A good riddance, she thought; perhaps she would develop a fondness for Egypt in the more rural areas where the excavations were located, but she could not say that she held any fondness for Cairo. Although it was here that Berry finally abandoned his mighty resistance—she had little doubt an offer of marriage would be made once the urgent matters were settled, and she would accept him with a whole heart. She didn’t want to dwell on the unfortunate fact she knew next to nothing about him—including his name—so she did not. Like Bing, she was certain he did not serve the enemy, although she hoped she would not be called upon to stake her life on it—literally. The fact that he had been monitoring her parents and going to such lengths to thwart the planned escape from Elba all pointed to his role as an ally.

  With one hand shading her eyes from the sun, she stood at the rail and glanced around at her surroundings. The Priapus was a Nile river dahabeeyah that carried twenty passengers in ten cabins, all traveling to the ancient city of Thebes where the barge would dock for a matter of days, allowing the passengers to explore the famous sights.

  “At least on the river, the heat is not quite so unbearable,” Hattie remarked to Eugenie, who stood close by.

  “No. Although my hair, it does not behave as it ought.” Eugenie indicated Bing, standing at a small distance and deep in conversation with Hafez. “Will they make a match of it, do you think?”

  Remembering Berry’s cautions about the minister, Hattie said only, “Perhaps—they are certainly very compatible.”

  Eugenie slid her a glance, the girl’s blue eyes very bright. “If they marry, would you
stay in Egypt with them?”

  “No thank you—I prefer a cooler clime.” Surely Berry must abide somewhere cooler than here—for the love of heaven, anywhere was cooler than here.

  Eugenie raised one delicately arched brow. “Now that Monsieur Tremaine has suffered the death of his bride, perhaps he will return to cool England also.”

  The observation was laced with innuendo, but Hattie decided two could play at this game. “He does not appear overly bereaved,” she returned, and arched her own brow at her companion. After a startled glance from Eugenie, the subject was mutually dropped. Hattie was not so untutored as to think that Robbie meant anything serious by Eugenie, and she had already deduced that he must have offered for Madame Auguste on orders from his grey-eyed spymaster so as to secure the woman’s safety. Unfortunately, the ruse had not intimidated the enemy, who had not only silenced the woman but had implicated Robbie in her murder for good measure—these were indeed dangerous people.

  “Have you any suitors back home?” Eugenie’s gaze was amused, but if she thought to needle Hattie by making an oblique reference to the kiss she had witnessed, she would be disappointed; Hattie was not one to be needled.

  “Not a one,” Hattie confessed with a smile. She threw in for good measure, “My last suitor married my last companion.”

  The other girl threw back her lovely head and issued a genuine laugh, which made Hattie like her better. She then clucked her tongue in sympathy at such a turn of events. “Mal chance—bad luck.”

  Shrugging, Hattie was philosophical. “I should not have made a good curate’s wife, I think.”

  “Certainly not,” agreed Eugenie with a toss of her curls. “The holy men, they are never very good in bed.”

  Deciding it would be best not to ask the basis for such a conclusion, Hattie only smiled and the two women stood for a moment in silence, watching the crew as they efficiently performed their tasks on the deck below. “Daniel is not about.” Another bright glance from under Eugenie’s lashes.

  “Perhaps he is tired.” Hattie wondered what his search had turned up, if anything. She was suddenly struck with how odd it was that Berry did not work for the British and apparently did not trust the British, but had nonetheless maneuvered to get British guards posted at the tomb.