Daughter of the God-King(5)

“A whirlwind romance,” the baron observed, and there was an edge to the comment that made Hattie slide her gaze to him, wondering if the baron was winding up to throw a cup, himself.

“And a timely one,” the woman riposted with a touch of rancor, her eyes narrowed.

The ambassador was nothing if not a diplomat, and hastily turned to Hattie before blows could be exchanged. “Do you enjoy your stay in Paris, Miss Blackhouse?”

Paris is hideous, thought Hattie. Aloud, she managed, “Very much—although we are just arrived, and have still to settle in.”

“Will you meet up with your parents in Egypt?” The slight smile was not reflected in the baron’s unblinking pale eyes and Hattie again had the sense there was an undercurrent whose import was lost upon her—Lord, but this was a joyless group—and Robbie as joyless as the rest of them, despite his genial mien; she knew him better than most.

“I’m afraid my plans are as yet unformed,” she replied vaguely. Even if she had any sort of plan—which she did not—Hattie would not have confided in him, having lately decided that men should not be trusted. Very lately.

“May I assume that you stay here in town, mademoiselle?”

Hattie wondered for one horrified moment if the baron thought to call upon her, then decided she was misinterpreting the situation—the man was old enough to be her father, for heaven’s sake. “Yes—we stay at my parents’ townhouse off the Rue de Rivoli.”

“Perhaps you will allow me to provide an escort on those occasions when one is needed.” The vice-consul tilted his head slightly to the side in Gallic supplication.

Good God, she thought in alarm—the old roué is indeed going to call upon me. “That would be delightful,” she replied politely, and wished him away. For reasons she could not name, she took a quick glance to ascertain the whereabouts of the self-assured gentleman and saw that he no longer held his position behind the baron, but was aligned along the wall at a small distance, viewing the crowd with an air of disinterest.

“So—you have been to the tomb itself, madam?” To add insult to injury, the ambassador had apparently decided that Hattie was a less-than-satisfactory source of information, and so now appealed to the blond usurper. “You must tell us what you observed.”

“I understand it is cursed,” Hattie offered in a brittle tone. Robbie, long familiar with the warning signs, shot her an admonitory look.

“There are many secrets in the Valley of the Kings,” the woman replied with an air of defiance as she clung to Robbie’s arm. “One can understand why the former emperor was fascinant.” Hattie was vaguely aware that Napoleon had fought a battle in Egypt but it seemed of little relevance now as he no longer held sway there—or anywhere else for that matter—being safely secured in exile on the Island of Elba. A good riddance, she thought; even though she had been tucked away in the wilds of Cornwall she was aware that the Congress of Vienna was trying to determine how to reassemble the shambles that the French emperor had made of Europe. Robbie had abruptly left home—being attached to the British contingent in some unexplained way—and so had set in train this series of events that had resulted in Hattie’s current humiliation on the floor of the Prussian embassy in Paris. When you thought about it, the former emperor had much to answer for, the wretched tyrant. And it didn’t help her frame of mind to admit she had thought no further ahead than meeting up with Robbie and living happily ever after—although it appeared that this plan was now in as much a shambles as was Europe after Napoleon.

With a thoughtful air, the baron crossed his arms and considered the floor for a moment. “I suppose Napoleon saw his own actions through the prism of history, and tried to incite a comparison to the pharaohs—at least in the minds of his followers.”

“And he is now relegated to the dustbin of history.” The Prussian ambassador emphasized the words with unabashed relish.

The baron tilted his head in acknowledgment. “De vrai; but say what you will, he did have a rare talent for inspiring his followers.”

But even this tepid praise could not be borne with equanimity by Hattie’s host, who drew his bushy grey eyebrows together in extreme disapproval. “He had a talent for causing a great many casualties—and destroying lives. Bah! They should have executed him forthwith—one such as he will never be contained on Elba—it is sheer folly.”

Impressed by this impassioned speech, Hattie reassessed her opinion of the ambassador—he was much more palatable when he wasn’t fawning over the long-dead princess.