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Daughter of the God-King(19)

By:Anne Cleeland


“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.





Chapter 8





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.”