Daughter of the God-King(2)

Although she was half inclined to laugh out loud, Hattie made an attempt to look famous as the footman’s eyes widened and he quickly passed her along to the host after murmuring an apology. “Miss Blackhouse and her companion, Miss Ding.”

“Bing,” Hattie interjected impatiently. “Miss Bing.”

But her correction was swallowed up in the reaction of the Prussian ambassador, a large, rather burly man with a gray goatee and an impressive array of medals displayed along his blue sash, which was itself impressive due to his girth. “Miss Blackhouse,” he exclaimed in astonishment, and lifted a monocle to his eye. “Welcome—why, indeed; welcome.”

Hoping that the footman was paying attention, Hattie took his hand with a sense of relief that she was not to be shown the door, and then was forced to stand as he clasped her hand in both of his with no indication he would release her anytime soon.“The tomb of the god-king’s daughter,” he pronounced in tones of deep emotion as the candlelight glinted off his monocle. “An amazing find—it quite takes one’s breath away. Tell me, do your parents know the identity of the princess as yet?”

Another fervent Egyptologist, she thought with resignation; she had met his type before and unfortunately they were thick on the ground nowadays, with everyone mad for all things Egyptian and the world’s fancy being caught by the tombs currently being uncovered in the Valley of the Kings.

“I believe not,” she equivocated. Best not to mention that she rarely heard from either of her negligent parents; her information instead was gleaned from the local newspapers—or Bing, who was well informed due to her late brother. Reminded, Hattie offered, “There does seem to be a curse, though.” As soon as she said it, she inwardly winced—she was thoughtless to mention it in front of poor Bing, who still wore mourning black.

But Bing did not falter, and added, “Indeed; several lives have been lost under unexplained circumstances.”

The ambassador’s eyes widened and he glanced to those still waiting in the receiving line, clearly torn between his duties as host and his burning desire to buttonhole Hattie and quiz her about this fascinating bit of information. He called out, “Monsieur le Baron; your aid, if you please.”

Hattie turned to meet the newcomer, tamping down her impatience. She had used her connection with her parents to crash this party and it was only fair that she pay the piper for a few minutes before she went off in search of Robbie. He wouldn’t fail her, although she fully anticipated a dressing-down later in private. Hopefully it wouldn’t be as bad as when she’d gotten lost on the Tor back home—and truly, that had not been her fault.

The baron was revealed as an elegant, silver-haired man who approached with his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes? Might I be of assistance?”

With barely suppressed exultation, the ambassador introduced him to Hattie. “Baron du Pays, my dear.” And then, with a great deal of significance, “Monsieur le Baron, if you would entertain Miss Blackhouse while I attend to my duties here—she brings the latest news from the excavations.”

The baron could be seen to go quite still for a moment, his gaze fixed upon Hattie’s, until he found his voice and bowed over her hand in the elegant manner known only to Frenchmen. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Blackhouse.” The pale blue eyes then fixed upon hers again with an expression she could not quite interpret—assessing, or calculating, or—or something. “I was so fortunate as to have met your parents once; extraordinary people.” He looked up to a companion, who approached to join him. “Monsieur Chauvelin, come meet Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”

But Hattie was astonished to recognize her former intruder, and coldly riposted with a great deal of meaning, “I believe we have already met, monsieur.”

She could hear Bing’s soft intake of breath at her tone, but the man only shook his head and gravely disclaimed, “I do not recall such a felicity, mademoiselle.”

“If you will excuse us,” Hattie said with a curt bow and then turned away, a surprised Bing in her wake. In her abrupt movement, she met the eye of a man who appeared to be watching her from the side, although he quickly turned away and melted into the crowd. He appeared to be a civil servant of some stripe; his manner unprepossessing, his dress understated. But something in his bearing—his cool assurance, perhaps—belied his appearance and made her wonder why he watched her. This is a very strange sort of soirée, she thought; in Cornwall we may not be à la mode, but everyone certainly has better manners.