Ah, thought Hattie, enlightened; the fact that the baron was another Napoleonite came as no surprise at all—he seemed well-suited for treachery.
Conceding, the Frenchman spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “What assurances can I give, then?”
“You will assure me that no harm befalls me, the artifacts are returned to the ministry, and no one speaks of any of this. I can guarantee that nothing is ever said to the British authorities.” He emphasized the last, as apparently this would be the main reason for his assassination by his former allies.
“And the weapons?”
Hafez said emphatically, “I don’t care what happens to the weapons—take them with my blessing.”
Nodding, the baron rested his pale eyes upon Hattie while he thought this over. “Agreed,” he said. “Now, unbind her.” To Hattie he said in English, “I am sorry for this, Mademoiselle Blackhouse; please be assured it is none of my doing.”
Once the gag was removed, she replied coldly, “I insist that I be returned to the Priapus immediately.” As Hafez’s man continued to hold a pistol to her, she commanded, “Call him off.”
But the baron spread his hands in apology. “I regret that is impossible at the moment; Monsieur Hafez feels it necessary to have you along as a guaranty.” With a gesture, he indicated she was to be untied.
“Along where?” asked Hattie, with a sinking feeling.
“We visit the tomb—Monsieur Hafez knows the location of some articles that are of extreme interest to me.”
So—the secret chamber was the object, although this made little sense; if Dimitry was working with the enemy, he now knew where it was and presumably had already been to visit it last night. With a leap of her pulse, she held out cautious hope that this meant her husband was not aligned with this villainous crew, which would be the first piece of good news she had heard this entire miserable day. Once unbound, she calculated whether it was the moment to use the pistol and decided against it, as the vendor still held his own weapon upon her. Instead, she rose to her feet, dusted off her skirts and announced, “I am going nowhere but back to the barge.”
But Hafez was unimpressed by her bravado and replied with some menace, “You will come quietly or I will have you bound and carried again, Miss Blackhouse.”
In response, Hattie made a dash toward the door but was grasped and pulled back just as she threw the curtain aside. Outside, there was a small throng of men who watched her recapture with no little uneasiness, murmuring among themselves. “Stop them,” she pleaded as she was forcibly wrestled back inside, but no one stepped forward and despite her struggles to resist she was dragged back to the chair, seething with impotent rage.
The baron watched her desperate movements with an avid expression, which she recognized as being grounded in lust, now that she was familiar with such things. “She is very like him,” he commented in French to Hafez.
Utterly furious, Hattie spat into his face and in response, the Frenchman struck her across the cheek with the back of his hand with such force that she stumbled back against those who held her.
“No need for that,” Hafez chided—he was alarmed because there had been a collective gasp among the Egyptians when the blow landed.
But the baron was unrepentant as he wiped his face with a handkerchief, his cold, hooded gaze upon Hattie. “She must learn who is her master—regrettable but necessary.”
But Hafez could not agree with such a strategy, and warned, “You will gain a powerful enemy.”
“On the contrary—after my services to him in this matter I imagine that he will be so pleased so as to bestow her upon me; it is not as though she is legitimate, after all.”
Hafez made no comment, but his expression conveyed his skepticism that such a thing would ever come to pass. Hattie was skeptical herself, having now determined who would be the beneficiary of the business end of Bing’s pistol.
As her captors once again bound her hands, the murmuring outside became louder, and a shouted question could be heard.
“What is it?” asked the baron, with an irritated glance toward the curtained entry. “What do they want?”
Hafez made a gesture of impatience. “You have stirred the bees—they are ignorant and believe she is the reincarnation of Seti’s daughter. Fool! You should not have struck her; I will speak to them.”
He stepped outside the curtain and could be heard speaking in Arabic to the throng, his voice conciliatory. The baron took the opportunity to step over to Hattie, and ran a hand slowly down the side of her face, although his gaze was on her breasts. “I regret that my action was necessary, my dear. We shall come to terms—never fear.”