Free Daughter of the God-King by Anne Cleeland Page A

assistance.”
    Hattie found it rather ominous that the man wouldn’t tell her, even though she would bet her teeth that he knew exactly what had happened to Robbie’s wretched bride—and it didn’t help that she felt a bit remorseful for being so short with the poor, doomed, aged woman. The British must be worried that Hattie was next on the list of victims, despite Berry’s assurance that she was in no danger; otherwise there was truly no reason for this exigency—or for this particular man to come fetch her—if her only role was to comfort the bereaved. Unless, of course, they wished to torture her secrets from her in the embassy basement, and the British usually frowned upon such procedures—or one would think, anyway. In any event, she wasn’t going to allow the gentleman to think she wasn’t aware that he was prevaricating, and so she bluntly concluded, “You must believe that I am in danger, then.”
    She could hear Bing’s soft intake of breath at such plain speaking, but their visitor only bowed his head in acknowledgment. “All the more reason to come to the embassy, miss.”
    “Of course; we will come, then.” Hattie turned to Bing. “Do you have any mourning bands, Bing?”
    Bing shrugged her spare, black-clad shoulders with regret. “I am afraid not, Hathor, as I remain in full mourning for my dear brother.”
    Hattie turned to the grey-eyed man and said briskly, “If you would allow me step into the draper’s for a moment on our journey to the embassy—it is just up the street—I can purchase mourning bands for poor Robbie and myself.”
    The grey eyes regarded her without expression. “Perhaps such a purchase can wait—”
    But Hattie quirked her mouth, and interrupted candidly, “I was unkind to the decedent on the one occasion when I met her, and so I feel obligated to show every consideration, to try to make up for it. I don’t want Robbie to feel I do not share in his sorrow.”
    As expected, the gentleman assented, having little choice in the matter. “Very well, then.”
    As the women fetched their gloves and hats, Hattie murmured to the hovering Bing, “Stand ready; we are going out yet another window. Bring along the passage vouchers.”
    “Do we leave out the back?” asked Bing in tone that indicated she was willing but uncertain of the success of such a tactic.
    “No—I imagine they are watching the house to make certain no one seizes me before they do. Good God, Bing; was there never such a place for dark doings? City of Light, my eye. Come with me and stay close.”
    With all appearance of complicity, they accompanied their escort to the waiting carriage, Hattie noting with a quick glance that the embassy driver was the same as the hackney driver from the first night—which came as no surprise whatsoever. “Poor Robbie,” remarked Hattie aloud. She meant it, too—it would be embarrassing to act as chief mourner when one had hardly time to act as bare acquaintance. “Did Madame Auguste have family in Paris?”
    “I am unaware,” replied the gentleman as the carriage began to move.
    Knitting her brow, Hattie watched out the window for a few moments as the city’s inhabitants stirred to life. “We must purchase mourning cards, also, Bing. We can send the announcements to those who must be informed—Robbie never had a good hand.”
    “Very good,” agreed Bing. “He will no doubt be too upset to think of such things.”
    Hattie sat back in the seat, counting off tasks on her fingers. “Yes—we’ll speak with him, and discover what needs to be done, and how many cards will be needed. Perhaps we’ll have to help make funeral arrangements, also, although I have no idea how such a thing is handled over here—I imagine she was Roman Catholic.”
    “We shall see,” Bing assured her. “Every propriety must be observed.”
    “Here we are at the draper’s,” the grey-eyed man announced as the carriage pulled up to the curb. With a deferential air, he added,