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.
“I will tell you that I look forward to spending the day with you tomorrow,” he responded, turning the subject with a half smile as he drank his wine.
“I’m afraid Robbie is to accompany us,” she cautioned—it was nothing more than he deserved, maddening man.
“Is he?”
If she expected a show of disapproval she was to be disappointed. “I told Mr. Drummond of our plans about going to the worker’s village on the morrow—it seemed the least I could do—and Robbie offered to come.”
Something in her voice caught his attention, and he set down his glass and said gently, “Hattie, if you wish to tell them anything—anything at all—I will not prevent you. I only ask that you give me warning.”
Nodding, she added, “You see—I have decided I am English, after all.”
“It is a fine thing, to be English,” he agreed, his gaze back on his glass. “I have known many brave Englishmen.”
Deciding she’d rather speak of lighter subjects, she teased, “Speaking of which, Mr. Smithson spent the day with Bing.”
“That is rare courage, indeed.”
“That is not what I meant—I think perhaps you had the right of it.” It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest her companion and the vicar might make a match of it, but she decided not to raise such a sensitive subject—he had not reintroduced the topic of their mutual future and she wished to give him more time to be reconciled to the hard truth before it was raised again.
His long fingers played on the stem of his glass. “Will you wear your yellow dress tomorrow?”
Disproportionably pleased by the question, she smiled. “I will if you would like.”
“Yes, I would like.” His unreadable gaze rested upon her.
She shook her head at him with a small smile. “You are in a strange mood tonight, my friend.”
He continued to finger his glass, a gleam in his eye. “I visited the tomb today.”
Staring at him wide-eyed, she breathed, “Did you find it?”
Amused, he chided, “Come now, Hattie—in the daytime? But I did note there are three stars in the corner of the chamber’s ceiling.”
With an effort, she attempted to control her excitement. “Where?”
Taking a quick glance around, he sketched with a finger on the table, using a candle holder as a reference. “Here is the sarcophagus; here is the entrance; here are the stars.”
Frowning, Hattie thought about it. “Then the chamber is in this direction.” She laid a finger on the tablecloth. “We need only the exact measurements from Bing.”
“Very good,” he said, impressed. “You have a good mind for maps.”
“It is like chess.” She glanced up to catch a speculative look in his eye, quickly extinguished. Oh, she thought, a bit stricken—an inherited trait, apparently.
The light mood vanished and she could feel herself blush as he smoothly continued, “It is only a matter of finding the appropriate time to unearth the chamber.”
Entertaining an unthinkable thought, she cautioned, “I will accompany you, you know; do not even consider leaving me behind—not after all this.”
“Hattie.” He leaned forward. “Be reasonable.”
“I am past being reasonable,” she retorted. “It would be horrendously unfair.”
“I will think on it,” he temporized, in the tone of a parent who has no intention of giving in to the importunings of a child.
Before the argument became heated, they were interrupted by Robbie, who pulled up a chair beside Hattie and signaled to a servant to bring him something to eat. “Robbie,” asked Hattie in a pointed tone, “do you remember when we had to crawl down the abandoned tin mine at the Tor?”
“Couldn’t forget—we were filthy.” He turned to Berry to explain. “One of my sisters fell in.”
Hattie pressed her old playmate. “Was I afraid? Did I falter?”
“Pluck to the backbone,” Robbie pronounced, picking up her wine glass and drinking from it. “Why?”
She crossed her arms, annoyed. “Just to show I don’t scare easily.”
He considered. “Unless you’re closed in somewhere—that scares you.”
“That is neither here nor there,” she said hastily.
Berry brought the discussion back to the matter at hand. “I understand you will accompany us to the worker’s village tomorrow, Monsieur Tremaine.”
“Yes—I thought to support Hattie.” The two men exchanged a look by which she was given to understand any information discovered would not necessarily be good news. It didn’t matter; she wanted only to resolve all mysteries so that she could leave this place and move forward into her future, wherever it was. And prevent another war, for good measure.
“Mademoiselle Bing should stay at home, I think,” Berry suggested. “It would be best if you were to appear vulnerable and bereft.”
“I will notify her,” Hattie agreed, wondering what he was up to; he knew better than most that she could no more appear vulnerable and bereft than she could fly to the moon.
“Have you seen Mr. Hafez?” Robbie asked, taking a quick look around. “I am to arrange for a meeting with Mr. Drummond but he has not left word of his whereabouts.”
“He did not join us for dinner,” Hattie volunteered.
“Perhaps he has been detained,” suggested Berry in a neutral tone. Hattie shot him a look but he did not meet her eye. Maddening man, she thought again, and watched him drink his wine, her gaze on his throat as she wondered in exasperation when he was ever going to kiss her again—there would be no opportunities tomorrow, certainly. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she was made aware he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“We must be patient,” Berry said aloud, setting down his glass.
“Well, I hope he makes an appearance soon,” said Robbie, oblivious to any byplay. “I need to buttonhole him.”
“The sooner the better,” agreed Hattie with fervor.