Daughter of the God-King(84)

“A good plan,” agreed Drummond. “There has been precious little cooperation among the locals.”

“I will join you,” offered Robbie.

This was actually a welcome offer; presumably Robbie would report back to these British men who theoretically held her loyalty even though Berry held her heart. “Please,” she smiled, to impress upon the other gentlemen that she was nothing if not cooperative. “I would appreciate your support, Robbie.”

But the associate unexpectedly spoke up, his expression grave. “I am not so certain of the wisdom of this—perhaps it would be best if Miss Blackhouse avoided those areas which are not secure.”

A bit surprised, Hattie glanced at him and wondered if he didn’t wish them to discover the truth—which seemed unlikely. On the other hand, the warning seemed sincere, and for a brief moment she was reminded of the warning given by the Comte, that first night in Paris.

“Do not be concerned—it is more likely they will prostrate themselves,” Robbie observed with his ready grin. “They believe she is the mummy, reincarnated.”

“Nonsense,” offered Drummond with bluff gallantry. “Miss Blackhouse could never be confused with a dried-up relic, princess or not.”

“As you say,” the associate agreed politely, and Hattie had to refrain from giving him a sharp look; there was a thread of awareness in his response that she could not like. I wonder if he knows, she thought in dismay, and tilted her parasol so as to conceal her heightened color. I truly am not going to be able to bear this—this wondering if everyone I meet might know my terrible secret. Subdued, she tried to turn her mind from the difficulties that lay ahead, and instead focused on the amusing tale Robbie was relating to the others.





Chapter 34





After dinner that evening, Hattie remained at the table with Berry, hoping to have a chance to speak with him privately. She hadn’t seen him before dinner, and neither Hafez nor Robbie had joined them. The other passengers had gone above for a walk on deck, Bing joining them after Hattie met her chaperone’s eye. Eugenie had originally stayed behind, but at a similar glance from Berry she sighed, much put-upon, and then had flounced off to join the others. Apparently in Hafez’s absence the woman was at loose ends; Berry’s strictures against thievery no doubt put a damper on her activities.

“I was quizzed by a representative from the British consulate today,” Hattie confessed, “and I wasn’t certain what to say.”

Berry was leaning back in his chair and nursing a glass of red wine, his long legs stretched out before him. “Did you mention the senet board or the disk?” He asked the question as though it made no difference to him either way.

She arched a brow, amused by his cavalier attitude. “I did not. Should I have?”

He tilted his head in the familiar gesture. “I would rather you did not—not until we are certain of the secret chamber and can secure it against all others.”

Eying him, she challenged, “You do not feel I can trust the British consul?”

He swirled the wine, his gaze on the glass. “It is best to be cautious.”

“The representative—a Mr. Drummond—has an associate who rather reminds me of you. And I met him before in Paris—although he thinks I am unaware; he was working with the British spymaster and posing as a hackney driver.”

This seemed to catch his desultory attention and he looked up at her, the expression in the brown eyes intent. “Describe this gentleman for me, if you please.”

Frowning in concentration, she made the attempt. “He is so ordinary as to be hard to describe—middling height, rather nondescript with dark hair; perhaps thirty-five.”

“A scar across the back of his hand?”

She thought, then confessed, “I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”

He made no response and appeared to be unconcerned, lowering his gaze once more to his wine glass. Watching him, she added, “He wanted me to know that Mr. Hafez was the last person to see my parents—I think he was trying to warn me.”

At her unspoken question, his eyes met hers. “I must disagree—Monsieur Hafez was not the last person to see your parents.”

She decided that she may as well ask. “Do you know who was?”

“You must not ask me—not yet,” he replied gently.

Sitting here with him in the nearly deserted dining room, Hattie thought about who he was, and who she was, and how complicated everything had turned out to be. “Will you ever tell me anything?” It was not asked in an accusatory fashion—she was genuinely curious.