Daughter of the God-King(97)
“I wasn’t thinking—I am worried that I caused you trouble, by telling him.”
“No matter, Hattie.” He took her hand and after the barest hesitation, she folded her hand around his. Perhaps she could rehabilitate him—he needed only to see the error of his imperialist ways; surely there was hope for it, he was a good man—he must be.
Suddenly, she realized what had caught her attention. “I think that the Baron du Pays—from Paris—remember? I think he killed my parents. He let slip that they had been attacked, but everyone else thinks it was an accident.”
“Yes, although the assassin was Monsieur Chauvelin.”
She looked up at him. “I see. I confess I am not surprised; he’s a nasty piece of goods. The Baron is here—do you know?”
“Yes.”
She assimilated his quiet comment. “He wanted me and Bing to stay at the French consulate, but I declined the invitation.”
They sat together for a moment or two. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, clinging to his hand and wishing the two of them could walk away from all of it, forever.
But Dimitry began giving instruction in a low voice. “It is important that you be away, and quickly. You must return to the Priapus; I will see to it that the others from the consul’s offices are kept busy this afternoon. A boy with a boat will ask for you; you will leave with him. Take no luggage, and Mademoiselle Bing must stay behind to say you are ill in your cabin. The boy will take you to Clements’s ship. Tell Mademoiselle Bing you will need at least five or six hours’ head start.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She took a ragged breath. “You should leave with me.” Turning to meet his eyes she continued, “I cannot allow you to go through with this.”
He tilted his head to touch her forehead with his, the same gesture as the night he took her necklace—the first time he told her that he loved her. “I am not your enemy, Hattie. Can you trust me?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, trying to control a quaver.
“I have not lied to you since Paris,” he continued in an intense tone. “I swear it, Hattie.”
“When will I see you again?”
He squeezed her hand. “I know not. But you will be in my heart, every moment.”
Ducking her chin, she nodded, miserable.
“I will go; wait another half hour before you leave and do not hurry.”
Unable to speak, she nodded again and he was gone. Examining her hands in her lap, she decided she had little choice—she was married to the man and she loved him. She could report to the British consul, but that course seemed fraught with peril since Drummond’s associate was an enemy agent and therefore she probably shouldn’t trust Drummond—or anyone else there, either. She could apply to Robbie, but he would presumably turn the matter over to the authorities, unable to believe they couldn’t be trusted. I hate Egypt, she thought bitterly—it has brought me nothing but heartache. Unbidden, she remembered her unconventional wedding and the blissful afternoon abed with her new husband. It doesn’t matter, she thought with defiance—I still hate Egypt.
Hattie raised her head and signaled to Bing, who dutifully approached and slid in next to her. “Bing, would you mind if I borrowed your pistol?”
“Not at all, Hathor.” Bing calmly fished in her reticule, and then taking a look around, slipped it to Hattie, who studied it for a moment. “Do you require instruction?”
“Yes, to refresh me; Robbie taught me but it was some time ago.”
“It can fire two rounds before it must be reloaded.” Bing gave an impromptu lesson and Hattie listened carefully, hoping that it wasn’t a grave sin to be exchanging firearms in a church. Hattie then slipped it into the glove pocket sewn into the seam of her dress. “Now I will astonish you and tell you that I have married Monsieur Berry.”
Bing raised her eyebrows and considered this bit of news. “My best wishes, Hathor.”
Taking her companion’s thin hand, Hattie explained, “I am sorry I did not invite you, but I was not invited, myself.”
Bing glanced at her in alarm. “Never say he took advantage of you?”
Definitely, Hattie thought, but instead she said, “No, of course not—Mr. Smithson did the honors, and you may tell him I give my permission to tell you the story—it is a round tale.”
“Well,” said Bing, leaning back into the pew. “That is a wrinkle.”
“Brace yourself; there are more shocks to come.”
“We are leaving posthaste,” Bing guessed.