“Miss Blackhouse.”
Hattie looked up in surprise at hearing the whispered voice, and beheld Drummond’s associate, standing against the willow tree at a small distance, his hat in his hand—she had not heard him approach but this was not surprising, as he was some sort of hackney driver cum spy. Before she could fashion a response he continued in a low tone, “I must apologize for this intrusion but I must take the opportunity—I have been commissioned by a certain gentleman to speak to you.”
Wondering for a startled moment if he referred to Dimitry, she decided this seemed unlikely. “Which gentleman is that, sir?”
“The eighth of August.”
Hattie stared at him. The date was her birthday. The gooseflesh rose on her arms and the nape of her neck, and she bowed her head to contemplate the graves, her mind racing—this must be the reason Dimitry didn’t trust the British consul; apparently it was infested with Napoleon’s supporters.
The man’s voice continued, “The gentleman sends his sincere desire that you depart from this area with all speed and return to your home in England—it is not safe here. I have been commissioned to make immediate arrangements.”
“I see.” It was an echo of the comte’s warning—only at that time she hadn’t realized her true heritage; hadn’t realized that she was regarded as some sort of perverse princess by those who sought to destroy England even as they urged her to return there, to a corner in Cornwall that was well away from the anticipated destruction. Furious with her parents—all of them—Hattie could hear her heartbeat in her ears and had to caution herself to keep her composure, not to let this man know that she would not fall in with their despicable scheme. Instead, she should find out what she could and tell Dimitry, although he almost certainly already knew who this man was; it must be the reason he had shown such an interest in him.
The man bowed. “That is all. I am sorry to have disturbed you at this difficult time.”
“Wait.” Hattie turned to him, trying to think of something she could ask that would assist Dimitry.
Shaking his head with regret, the associate cautioned, “I can answer no questions.”
This seemed evident; she was not going to discover anything of interest because this man was probably as maddening as Dimitry when it came to withholding information. In fact, he and Dimitry were probably sworn enemies, which meant she had one more worry to add to all the others as she was forced to leave the arena—
Suddenly, Hattie was struck with the realization that—all in all—she held the whip hand in this situation and there was no reason she shouldn’t put her miserable heritage to good use. Lifting her chin, she commanded, “I will return a message to the gentleman.”
Surprised, the man considered this for a moment as he met her gaze. “Say it, then.”
Returning her gaze to the graves she continued in a level tone. “I travel with a man—Monsieur Daniel Berry. I have married him in secret.”
She could sense his surprise, although she did not look at him. “You have married the Count Leczinska?”
The Count? Dimitry was a Count? Was there no end to the irony? In her best imitation of a countess, Hattie continued smoothly, “Yes—Dimitry; I wasn’t certain you were aware of his true name. As I said, he is now my husband.” If nothing else, she could keep him safe; based on the strange respect they all afforded her it was unlikely they’d murder her husband. And besides, she thought a bit grimly; it was past time to call in a favor from at least one of her miserable parents.
But the associate was plainly confused. “Surely you do not request that he be allowed to leave with you? The work he does for the gentleman cannot be duplicated by any other.” His tone was respectful but held an underlying thread of scorn, the scorn that warriors reserve for fearful women.
Hattie stood very still for a moment, then by sheer force of will overcame the paralysis that had settled within her breast. With some steel she said quietly, “I only ask that the message be relayed; I do not ask for your opinion.”
“Your pardon; I shall do so.” He hesitated for a moment, then pointed out, “The desire is that you return to the English countryside—it would be best to avoid Poland at this time.”
“I shall consider your advice,” she replied through stiff lips. “You may go.”
Hattie stood silently for some time, staring at her erstwhile parents’ graves without truly seeing them. Why is it, she thought, that just when I am coming to grips with the latest crisis, another one presents itself? Although to be honest, she couldn’t be overly surprised; Dimitry had been willing to marry her, after all, and in the back of her mind she had wondered—and more than once. He pretended to be French, and hid his true nationality. He had searched the British consul’s office, and inveigled a safe passage document from them—only the one, as though he wished to assure his own escape, should it be necessary. He worked closely with her parents who were themselves working for the enemy, and knew of the missing disk and the senet board when everyone else thought it was a strongbox. And then, most damningly, he had summoned the hackney driver that first night in Paris—the hackney driver who was a double agent for Napoleon, posing as an Englishman. Too many things didn’t add up, and she had been foolish to turn a blind eye. Small matter to him that she was illegitimate—she was the daughter of the emperor, god-like to his followers. And Poland had been Napoleon’s ally in the war. With some bitterness she acknowledged that she had been a bit dazzled and—truth to tell—starved for affection in pretending that all of this was not as ominous as it actually was. Love was truly blind—or at least it was overly optimistic and now she had yet another competing allegiance to sort out, because she loved Dimitry, and he was her husband.