Daughter of the God-King(9)

With a rattling stop, their hackney arrived at the townhouse and Hattie took a careful assessment of the street corner, where she’d seen a gentleman lurking earlier—not to be confused with the gentleman she had shoved down the stairs or the gentleman who had helped her down from the vine; that she was the focus of attention seemed evident, and she needed to keep her wits about her. The reaction this evening—even from Robbie—had been very strained when she mentioned her parents, and since she was of no interest in her own right, it must have to do with them.

Rather than allow them to exit the vehicle themselves, the hackney driver leapt down with good humor and handed them out, remarking in heavily accented English that it was a fine night. He wore a muffler over the lower half of his face even though it was a warm evening, and Hattie wondered if he had pockmarks, poor man. “How much do we owe, please?” She was not well versed on how much things should cost in France, and hoped he didn’t mean to take advantage, pockmarks notwithstanding.

But as she opened her reticule to bring forth a coin, another man burst forth from the shadows and dashed toward them, cutting Hattie’s reticule from her wrist and pulling it roughly from her arm as he sped past—all in the flash of a few seconds.

“Halt,” called the driver in outrage, then hastily to the women, “Wait here, mesdames—I will pursue him.”

With another shout, the driver took off after the cutpurse, leaving Hattie standing beside Bing for a moment in stunned surprise. “Heavens; are you injured, Hathor?” asked Bing.

“No, but he’ll have little to show for his troubles and it serves him right—he should have guessed that you would be carrying the lion’s share of the funds.” Hattie said the words a bit absently—she had noticed that the driver shouted at the cutpurse in English although both men were—ostensibly—French.

Bing suggested, “Perhaps we should enter the house; I cannot like the idea of remaining out here exposed, and he may come back once he realizes he chose the wrong victim.”

“Yes, let’s go in.” Hattie was uneasy herself, thinking over the mystery of the English-speaking hackney driver who had been commissioned by the self-assured Monsieur Berry.

But the evening was not yet over, as the gentleman whom she had seen lurking earlier in the day took the opportunity to approach them as they mounted the steps. He was well-dressed, and did not appear intent on robbery—although Hattie decided she was past being surprised, anymore. “Mademoiselle Blackhouse—if you please—”

But apparently Hattie was not quite past being surprised, because Bing drew a small flintlock pistol from her reticule and aimed it square at the gentleman. “Halt or I will shoot.”

The man paused and held his hands out to his sides, looking every bit as surprised as Hattie by this turn of events. “Your pardon, madam; I must speak with Mademoiselle Blackhouse—please.”

“Speak, then,” said Hattie, stepping down a step toward him and instinctively judging him harmless. “What do you know of all this and why have you been watching the house?”

His pleading gaze fixed upon hers, he spoke in a low, intense tone. “You must return to England. It is very important that you go back to your home, mademoiselle.”

This was completely unexpected and indeed, seemed to take the opposite tack of every other person of her Parisian acquaintance. “And who are you?”

He hesitated. “I stand as your friend. I promise you this, Mademoiselle Blackhouse.”

“Were you sent by my parents?” This seemed the only explanation, but how her parents were made aware so quickly that Hattie had kicked over the traces and bolted for Paris was a mystery—she hadn’t known herself, three days ago.

Once again, the man hesitated, and then glanced over his shoulder. “I can say no more. But it is not safe for you here.”

Hattie drew her brows together. “Why is this? Surely you must see that I need further explanation—what is this all about? Why is it not safe?”

“Please, mademoiselle; return to your home.” He fingered his hat brim, and then added, “And you must tell your English friend nothing—nothing at all.” Retreating a step, he bowed a formal little bow. “I bid you good night.” Returning his hat to his head, he turned and began walking down the pavement at a brisk pace.

“How very odd,” Bing remarked as she returned her weapon to her reticule.

Smiling at this understatement, Hattie agreed, “Yes, let’s go in before yet another one accosts us. Tell me, Bing, have you ever had occasion to shoot anyone?”