“Nay, I insist. Let me see you past the Red Lion, at least. I can return their pitcher en route. And stand between you and any temptation you might find there.”
Temptation? What did he mean?
He chuckled on seeing her frown. “I refer to alcohol. Don’t take it up as the mariners have. It will empty your purse, and render you foolish.”
He rescued her bag from the gutter where it had fallen, brushed the dirt from it, and handed it to her. “Come.”
So, she was doomed to his company, at least as far as the tavern. Perchance she could slip away while he returned the pitcher. And if she got lost again and needed a stranger to direct her, it would not be one with piercing blue eyes that seemed to expose all her secrets.
She shouldered her bag, keeping it between the pair of them as they left the town quay. Oddly, his elbow kept brushing against it, and she realized he was walking with a peculiar gait.
She couldn’t restrain her curiosity. “Is there something wrong with your leg, sir? You walk oddly.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “This is just one of my many walks. I can also march, stagger, and on a good day, stroll. Nay—’tis but a temporary encumbrance. I have a blister on my heel from a long and unexpected walk after being thrown by a hired nag. Now, tell me about yourself. With a bag of such size, you mean to stay awhile with your grandmother. From where have you traveled today?”
“My aunt and uncle live in London.” She would reveal no more than that.
“Have you visited Southampton before? Where does your grandmother dwell? I’m here often, but I’m certain I’ve never seen you.”
They’d drawn level with the Red Lion now. She gazed up at its imposing façade—it was easily as tall as any of the timbered buildings she’d seen in London.
“Verily, I would not be here at all were it not for the worrying news we have of Grandmother.”
Sir Robert stood aside and gestured toward the open doorway, but she shook her head. “Nay. I’ll not go within—I’ll await you here, sir.”
“Very well.”
He ducked his head to avoid the low beam over the entrance and disappeared into the gloom of the inn.
Chloe glanced up and down the street, then took to her heels and ran.
Chapter Three
Sir Robert Mallory stood in front of the “Red Lion” tavern and gazed after the scurrying Claude. He debated chasing him, as the lad must have some nefarious reason for running off—but his foot was too sore to make the effort.
His lips tilted as he thought of how Claude had held himself when they walked to the inn, swaggering and trying to look as if he owned the whole town. Many a young innocent behaved thus in a strange place, desperate to conceal their insecurity.
Robert’s sister, Meg, had been just the same when she had left for Queen Elizabeth’s court, covering her weakness with a poise that fooled all but him. Despite her bravado, her naivety had rendered her helpless against Baron Adam Townley. The handsome devil had seduced Meg and put a babe in her belly, then refused to marry her, because her dowry was too small. Curse his rotten hide!
Robert frowned. It was little wonder both he and Meg no longer trusted anyone. He ought to act on his suspicions about Claude—the boy had refused to reveal his destination, as well as haring off like that.
Sighing, Robert reminded himself that it was now his purpose in life to trust no one. He was paid to investigate unusual events, move around in circles both high and low, and report back to Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. He wasn’t in the man’s employ by choice—he’d borrowed a large sum of money to entice Townley to wed his sister. Then, in hopes of paying the loan back quickly, he’d decided to try his luck at the gaming tables. A disastrous mistake—he’d lost badly to Sir Mortimer Fowler, and now owed him a small fortune.
Whatever Claude was trying to hide could be of no interest to Walsingham. A lad who’d had a close brush with Death, and wanted to hide whatever part of town he was headed for, was unlikely to be plotting against the queen. But Robert wasn’t prepared to take any chances. He waited until the boy’s footsteps died away, then peered around the corner to see where he’d gone.
Claude hadn’t entered any buildings on the street but was hurrying around the next corner. So, the sick grandmother didn’t live “just behind the Red Lion” after all. If she even existed!
He didn’t like being lied to. Humming nonchalantly, he sauntered the length of the street and turned the corner. It took him into an area where the houses weren’t so well set up as those he’d just passed. Mayhap they’d been grand in their day, but much of the plaster had fallen off, exposing the lathes beneath. The carved woodwork over some of the doorways was cracked and splintered.
He was familiar enough with Southampton to know that this area wasn’t as unsafe as the docks, or the Arcades, but it wasn’t exactly salubrious. It was too close to the stews for that. He continued on with his hand on his sword hilt.
Claude’s retreating back was now in full view, and it would be hard to follow without being seen. Robert slipped into a gap between two houses, seeking their concealing shadow, and allowed the youth to get farther away. He was enjoying himself, his hunter’s instinct coming to the fore—although the present prey was unlikely to reveal any secret worth delivering to Walsingham.
After a few moments, Robert looked out from his hiding place just in time to see Claude dart down an alley behind the most popular bawdy house in town.
Astonishment stole his breath. Then he stepped into the street, chest heaving with laughter. He’d been completely taken in. The wide-eyed, artless boy was no stranger to this place at all—he was in the employ of Mistress Dela Riviere, the brothel keeper. What had been in that voluminous bag? Low-cut bodices or sheer lawn nightgowns for the trulls who plied their trade there, mayhap? Or maybe her clients had a taste for pretty boys with long eyelashes, slight figures, and a tendency to blush. His lip curled in distaste.
“Nay, don’t accompany me home. My poor old, sick grandmother.” Hah! How could Robert call himself a spy when he couldn’t see through such obvious falsehood? He was vexed at having been taken for a fool but amused at the same time. There was no harm done. The accident with the masonry block had been genuine, and he’d have helped anyone in such a situation, whatever their station—or occupation—in life.
It must be time to return home for a meal. Still chuckling to himself, he reached for his pocket sundial. The smile froze on his lips. The sundial was where it should be—but his locket was gone.
A frantic patting of hidden pockets ensued, and he flung off his cloak and doublet so he could search under his shirt as well. He must have looked to the casual passersby as if he were being attacked by a swarm of invisible bees. But nay—the locket was not to be found.
He marshaled his thoughts. Ever since its chain broke, he’d kept the jewel in the secret pocket in his doublet. He’d definitely had the locket when he’d set out this morning—it had rubbed at his chest with a familiar pressure, a reminder, albeit an uncomfortable one, that he needed to get it fixed.
There’d been a crowd around the insensible Claude for a while, and he’d been distracted. He’d taken off his cloak—had that revealed the telltale bump? But surely, no one had been close enough to see and take his locket—except Goodwife Fairclough, who could be discounted. Which left only Claude.
The sly little mongrel! The boy had chosen a valuable piece to thieve—the gold was worth more than the contents of Robert’s purse, and the locket was his most valued possession. It contained a miniature portrait of his sister, Meg. The likeness had been taken shortly before she went to court—he’d have sold all he owned before giving up the locket.
Gritting his teeth, he took a determined step toward Dela’s bawdy house, ready to demand the locket’s return. Then he halted, aware that for a spy to draw attention to himself in any way could prove fatal.
It wasn’t part of his mission to stir up a hornets’ nest
in the stews. They were useful places for gathering intelligence. Even high-up officers of state let their secrets slip in a moment of passion or after being plied with brandywine. If he wanted to avoid attention, he couldn’t charge into the place like a rampaging bull.
The best thing he could do to get his locket back was to lie in wait until Claude re-emerged.
And when he did, there would be a reckoning.
Chapter Four
“Merciful heaven!” The buxom woman in the tightly-laced bodice flung up her hands and stared at Chloe. “It can’t be. I don’t believe it. More light, Frederick, more light.”
The diminutive youth who’d shown Chloe up the stairs obligingly drew back the heavy drapes, revealing wide-open windows. It was still so sultry outside, not one whiff of breeze disturbed the heavy perfume that filled the room.
Sunlight poured in, with a penetrating radiance that made the matron fling up her hands again, this time to cover her eyes.
“Forgive me. I cannot abide daylight until I’ve been up a whole two hours. One has to stay up late in this profession.” She tilted her head at Chloe. “You do know what manner of place you’re in?”
Struggling to settle her nerves, Chloe nodded. She’d already had one shock today, and now she was reeling at the fact that her natural mother ran a bawdy house.
“There may be some mistake.” Her voice came out as a croak. “I may have remembered the address wrong, I suppose.” But there was something familiar about the woman in front of her that couldn’t be denied. If she wasn’t Chloe’s mother, she must be a near relation, particularly with those straight, serious-looking eyebrows and those curling chestnut locks.
“Pray, sit. Frederick, bring refreshment, I pray.”
Chloe collapsed onto the settle, while the woman she’d been told was called Mistress Dela Riviere draped herself over the four-poster bed. Could she, indeed, have the wrong person? Gage had been her aunt’s maiden name, not Riviere.
The lady shaded her eyes. “Are you dressed as a boy?”
“I am, Mistress. I thought it best as I was coming alone.”
“Call me Dela. So, you’re a runaway, are you? Who are your parents?”
“I assumed you were one of them, but only if Dela Riviere is a false name. In the letters sent to Aunt Philippa bearing this as the return address, the writer signed herself ‘Patience Gage’.”
The woman on the bed went still. She was silent so long, Chloe wondered if she’d fallen asleep.
“Don’t fidget, child.” Dela’s voice was lower, more natural now. She exhaled slowly. “I suppose I knew this moment would come. But Philippa must have upset you greatly to make you seek me out. It is extremely dangerous for a young woman to be willful. Why, I myself—but nay. That tale can wait. Ah, Frederick, thank you. A cup of watered wine for our guest, and my usual tisane for me. Almond cakes, my dear? They’re made with the finest white breadcrumbs, and honey from our own hives.”
Chloe nodded and was offered a wooden platter heaped with well-browned cakes. She took a bite of one. It was dry and crumbly but sweet. She washed it down with a deep draft of wine, then took another bite of her cake, unsure what to say or do next. This wasn’t exactly how she’d expected her adventure to play out.
“Don’t tell me.” Dela stabbed a finger in her direction. “You’ve reached the age where they want to be rid of you, to have you wed. And your suitor pleases you not. Have I the right of it?”
Chloe coughed and took another swig of wine. “So, are you my mother?” It seemed essential to settle that fact before sharing any confidences.
“Aye, indeed. If you’ve been adopted by Philippa and that straitlaced husband of hers, then you are my daughter. But if you’re in trouble, why not go to your father? He has more influence than I.”
“I wasn’t sure if I had a father.” How stupid that sounded. Her mother would think her addlepated.
Dela shifted self-consciously. “Of course, you have. But you wouldn’t know about yours, would you? Far rather assume he’s dead because there’s no help to be found there. If he wouldn’t protect me when I wore my apron high, he’s unlikely to lift a finger to help his bastard child. Especially as she’s merely a daughter. Ah, my plain speaking offends you. Well, if we’re to have any acquaintance at all, I advise you to accustom yourself to it. One doesn’t become a successful trader by beating about the bush.”
A successful trader? Well, running a brothel was a trade, of sorts, and judging by the velvet drapes and ornately carved furnishings, her mother had done well out of it.
“You have to go back to Philippa. I cannot keep you here. It would be neither meet nor proper.”
Chloe gaped. Her mother was sending her away, without even a kiss or an embrace? Heartless strumpet! Although taking refuge in a bawdy house probably wouldn’t advance her cause. Or would it? She was certain Lord Brooke would never set foot in such a place—nay, not even to retrieve his potential third wife.
“Then what must I do?” She could barely keep the disappointment from her voice.
“Give me time to think—I’m barely awake. Wait, is that blood on your legs?”
“Aye.”
The wounds from the shards of stone were stinging now, as were Chloe’s eyes. This journey was proving a disaster, and she knew not what to do.
“Tell me what happened.” Dela got off the bed and came forward.
Chloe related the story of her recent accident briefly, now keen to be gone from this place where she was clearly not wanted. Mayhap she could bespeak a room at the Red Lion for the night. In the morning, she’d inquire for the next boat due upriver, or see if any carriers heading toward London could take her on their wagon. But then what would she do? Return home with her tail between her legs, like a whipped cur? Impossible.
“Remove your hose.” Having given her command, Dela called for Frederick to bring warm water, a towel, and comfrey salve.
Much to Chloe’s surprise, when the items arrived, her mother ministered to her personally. “It’s the least I can do,” she murmured, as she washed the grit out of the cuts. “Please understand, I would consider taking you in if it wouldn’t ruin you, but how can you show your face anywhere if you are thought to be one of my whores? Aye, I have stout men enough to protect my ladies, but they can’t stand between you and insult, which you will surely receive.”
She sat back on her haunches, then looked Chloe in the eyes. “I would not have given you up had things been otherwise. ’Tis your father who is to blame, not I.”
“Who is he?” Despite what her mother had said, surely there was a chance he’d do something to help his daughter. “How may I find him?”
“Don’t. He’s a monster without honor, despite being a great man now. He has no compassion, no sympathy. I’ll tell you my story briefly, though it pains me to remember. I was considered very beautiful in my day, but my parents spoiled me and made me vulnerable to flattery. Your father was full of the latter, and he threw his coin about with carefree abandon. I was besotted and agreed to let him bed me, to bind him to me. Yet he refused to marry me, even when I knew I was with child. Any heirs of his had to be legitimate, he said. Deplorable knave! Now, dry your legs. I’ll find you some stockings to replace your nether hose. They’re barely fit for rags now.”
Chloe applied the towel to her calves and winced at the pink stains she was creating. At least her mother had shown a little compassion, and an intriguing tale had emerged. Mayhap Dela would accidentally let slip the name of the man who’d sired her daughter.
“How I yearned for revenge! But I couldn’t think of a way to wreak it without harming you, so I sent you off to my barren sister. Her letters assure me you’ve been well looked after.”
Chloe nodded. Her mother handed her a small earthenware pot. “Best apply the salve yourself. I don’t wish to hurt you.”
She did as she was bid. “So, what happened to you then?” How had she ended up running a bawdy house?
“I’ll not sully
your innocent ears with the details. Suffice it to say that I discovered much pleasure to be had in gulling wealthy reprobates out of their money. Men are simple creatures, easily pleased, and not satisfied for long. Their lust drives them to us time and time again. Why should a woman as ill-used as me not seek revenge on men by taking advantage of their weakness?”
Ah, how ashamed Aunt Philippa must be to have a sister with such opinions! Little wonder she’d concealed the letters and the woman’s very existence.
Dela moved away and rifled in a chest. “Here are some stockings. Now—can I persuade you to put aside that ridiculous male apparel and lend you a gown or two? I have some perfectly respectable ones, you know.”
“Nay. ’Tis safer to remain a boy for the moment.” Chloe winced as she pulled the stockings over her legs and gartered them below the knee. Then she stood. She’d been given no reason to stay.
Dela frowned. “You’re leaving already?”
“I must make my plans, find a room for the night, and arrange passage for the morrow.”
Dela twined the ends of her braided belt between her fingers. “I feel I should do more for you. Forgive me. I never expected to have my daughter so suddenly thrust upon me.”
“Evidently.”
“Don’t judge me when you barely know me. I’m a pragmatic woman. I can ill afford to let my actions be dictated by emotion. Love got the better of me once—I’m loath to let that happen again.”
But this would be a very different kind of love—mother-daughter love. Chloe stared, but made no reply.
“Stay a little longer, since you went to such trouble to come. We can eat together, a proper meal. I’ll send Frederick to secure you a room. He can escort you there later if you don’t stay too long, for he’ll be needed below once the customers start arriving.” Her mother clapped her hands together and smiled. “I’m certain you yearn to tell someone about the appalling habits and person of your unwelcome suitor. Why should I not be that person?”
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 2
