Daughter of the God-King(14)

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?”