Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  Indeed. Chloe could write a book on Lord Brooke’s imperfections. She chewed on her lip.

  “Very well, I’ll stay awhile.”

  After all, what harm could it do?

  Chapter Five

  Robert had tired of waiting for Claude to leave Mistress Riviere’s bawdy house. Instead, he’d set one of his paid team of urchins to watch over the place and taken himself off to the Red Lion to eavesdrop on the mariners’ chatter. It was essential he stayed abreast of the local gossip.

  Staring at the murky liquid in his tankard, he realized he should have dressed down today—a fellow with a fancy cloak and feather-trimmed hat looked out of place in this tavern. Even though he’d removed them on entering, he feared his ruff was too stiff and clean, and his sword hilt too polished.

  On the other hand, it might play into his hands to appear well-to-do. Many criminals were as smartly dressed as he. He might pass as a cony-catcher or a confidence trickster, eager to befriend the unwary traveler—just the kind of fellow who’d prey on the clientele of the Red Lion.

  What a superb trickster young Claude had turned out to be! It showed considerable presence of mind to steal a jewel like his locket, after having suffered such a shock. He almost admired the boy for it. Ah, well—he’d learned his lesson. Kindness was considered a weakness by most people, alas.

  Swilling the dregs around the bottom of his tankard, Robert stood, ready now to return to his watch on the stews.

  “Sir! Sir!”

  “Hush, lad.” He put a finger to his lips. One of the main problems with employing youngsters like Dickon as spies, was how it made them feel so self-important that they forgot to be clandestine. “What news?”

  “He’s just left,” puffed the boy in a stage whisper. “Hurry now, sir!”

  Grabbing up his cloak and hat, Robert bowed to the landlord and whispered to Dickon, “Do you remember what to say as we leave the tavern?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh, aye. I’d not forgotten.” In a loud voice, he proclaimed, “The mistress says your supper’s ready, and she’ll give it to the dog if you’re not home afore sunset.”

  There was a rumble of laughter from behind them, and Robert leaned against the doorpost a moment, then stumbled deliberately before setting forth, leaning heavily on Dickon’s shoulder.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, he asked, “Are you sure it was him? Deep tan breeches, light green nether hose, and a russet cap?

  “The hose were white, but the rest was the same.”

  “Very well. Here’s your penny. Now, where did the lad go?”

  “He’s heading right down here, sir.”

  “A pox on it!” Robert waved Dickon away and stepped into a shadowy doorway. At least it was now dusk, so there was less chance of him being noticed, especially as Claude had no reason to think he was being hunted. He prayed the lad still had the locket on his person—if he’d traded it in a shady corner of Mistress Riviere’s whorehouse, it would be far harder to retrieve. He didn’t want to have to buy the jewel back if he could avoid it. He already owed Sir Mortimer Fowler a large sum in gambling debts. Such activities were not in his nature, but he’d been desperate to repay the money that he’d borrowed to insure Townley married Meg.

  Claude suddenly appeared at the junction with the High Street and, after a moment’s hesitation, turned up toward the Bargate and the center of town.

  Robert rapidly replaced his hat, lowered his chin, and strolled after the retreating figure, his feigned drunkenness and stagger now gone. He paused occasionally, pretending an interest in a peddler’s basket or a butcher’s stall.

  Claude glanced from side to side but, luckily, never behind him. Was the boy lost? A quick visualization of the street layout prompted Robert to head up a side street and get ahead of his prey. If he remembered correctly, Claude would have to walk past a dead-end passage between two houses, so overgrown with ivy that a whole ox cart could be concealed there. The perfect spot for some serious private conversation.

  His blood drummed loudly in his ears as he pushed in amongst the rank-smelling foliage. He was quite enjoying outwitting this pickpocket. Far less dangerous than Spanish spies and Catholic plotters.

  Stepping straight into Claude’s path, he said, “I don’t suppose you’re too pleased to see me, are you, boy?”

  Claude gasped. Then a bright smile of recognition lit his face.

  “Sir Robert? Is that you? My eyes aren’t so good in this gloom.”

  “Aye. I trust you’re none the worse for your accident?” Robert hid his grin. The boy feigned pleasure at seeing him. What a consummate actor!

  He moved closer, taking the lad’s arm, surprised to feel how little sinew was there. This pickpocket had none of the wiry muscles of the street urchins he’d bribed to do errands for him. A puzzle.

  “Let’s talk privately.” He pulled the boy below the trailing ivy, well away from any curious eyes. He must be speedy in his interrogation, before the Town Watch began marching around to impose the nightly curfew. Standing between Claude and his only means of escape, he folded his arms across his chest.

  “I’m not known for ill-humor, but you’ve tried my patience sorely, you wicked little whelp. However, I’ve had a dull day, and you’ve provided some distraction, so I’ll be merciful. Return my locket and I’ll forget the incident.” He tilted his head and waited.

  Claude gripped the bag he was carrying. “What do you mean?” He sounded anxious, his voice lighter and higher than before.

  “Is this the lay of the land then? Playing the innocent? Pretending you don’t know? My locket, whelp. Now.” He held out a hand.

  “What locket? I have no locket. Are you run mad, sir?”

  Robert smiled grimly. “I should not have expected honesty from your kind. I thought you above the level of guttersnipe but, clearly, I was mistaken. Now, will you give it to me, or must I take it?”

  Claude shook his head, his face going pale.

  With a shrug, Robert caught him by the upper arms and jerked him forward, then heard him suck in a breath.

  “Don’t even think about yelling out. I could snap your neck in the blink of an eye. Now, you know I’m stronger than you. Just give me my locket and no harm will come to you.”

  Claude struggled in his grip. “I know naught of any locket. Let me go—that hurts!”

  It hurt? The boy really was a soft-bellied cur. Nonetheless, Robert relaxed his grip. Lowering his voice, he leaned close to the young pup’s ear. “I shall tell you one more time. Give me my locket and I’ll let you go on your way. I won’t cast you into the arms of the Watch, nor take you to the constable, much though you deserve it. Return what you took.”

  The lad’s voice came out in a frightened whimper. “I’ve taken nothing.”

  “Then I shall have to search you.” Robert grasped a fistful of the boy’s collar and thrust a hand between his shirt and doublet.

  And encountered the unmistakable swell of a female breast. Dumbstruck, he felt around some more and discovered that Claude was possessed of a fine pair of dugs, yielding and ripe.

  He was so astonished that he didn’t think to move his hand until a sharp pain in his right cheek alerted him to the fact he’d just been slapped. Removing his hand, he whipped off Claude’s coif and cap. A tumble of long, curly hair cascaded about the boy’s shoulders.

  Robert felt like a jester’s deflated balloon. He’d been taken for more of a fool than he’d initially thought. The pickpocket, Claude, was a woman.

  Chapter Six

  Chloe had never felt more vulnerable in her life. She groaned aloud, wishing desperately she’d never left Aunt Philippa’s doorstep. Not even a few decades with the crusty, puritanical Lord Brooke could be worse than what was coming to her now. Unless, of course, she could slide Sir Robert’s sword from its scabbard and pierce him with his own blade.

  Pah! She’d no idea how to handle a sword. She’d probably break her finger and just enrage the man further. Mayhap she
could knee him in the codpiece—that was a trick her mother had taught her during their few hours together. Now, she fervently wished Mistress Riviere had taught her more such robust deterrents.

  “What’s this?” Sir Robert spread his hands, gesturing toward her.

  “A disguise.” Fear made her angry. “Obviously.”

  “But why do you dress as a boy? Are you a player?”

  “Of course not.” Players were lowlifes, and though fun to watch, actors, tumblers, and jugglers had terrible reputations. “I’m a private citizen. As I said, I’ve been visiting my grandmother. I felt it safer to travel as a boy since I hadn’t enough coin to hire a horse or someone to accompany me.”

  “Visiting your grandmother?” Sir Robert was standing much too close, and she could still feel the tingle in her breasts where his hot hand had lingered.

  “In a brothel?”

  Ah. He knew, damn his eyes. But how?

  “No, not there. My business is not your concern. Very well—I made up the tale, I confess it. Now, I must be on my way.”

  “Where are you going? Won’t you spend the evening with the other whores?”’

  Shock speared through her. He thought her one of them?

  “Nay.” She shoved at him furiously, but he was as steady as a rock. “I am not one of them, and I’m leaving town on the morrow.”

  “Then where will you rest your head this night?” He ran a hand over her hair, twining a lock between his fingers. He was taking advantage, admiring her charms, the dog. Perchance it was time to utilize that trick with the knee.

  He didn’t wait for an answer. “Why not come back to my dwelling? You could return my locket and start telling me the truth.”

  But it wouldn’t end there, would it? She’d learned a great deal from her mother and had listened to some alarming disclosures about marital relations that Aunt Philippa should have revealed long ago.

  “Sir—I’m no sixpenny whore. Nor a courtesan, nor a would-be mistress. I’m a respectable gentlewoman who made a grave mistake. That’s all you need to know.” She slapped his hand away from her tresses, retrieved her coif and cap, and tucked her hair away. “I have a room at the Red Lion, so there’s no need for you to proposition me further.”

  “The Red Lion? Then why are you heading away from the quay? You need to take that street.” He pointed the direction out to her. “You’re not too good at finding your way, are you, Mistress—”

  “The last thing you’ll get from me is my name,” she spat at him.

  “I presume then, that it’s not Claude.” He was mocking her, the foul creature, when he should be making an apology. He’d touched her in an intimate place and impugned her honor—he needed to make reparation.

  “Nay, it is not. Now, get out of my way.”

  “I can’t let you go to the Red Lion alone. Don’t you know that all manner of ne’er-do-wells emerge after dusk? Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to join me? My bed is far more comfortable than the flea-ridden pallet you’ll find at the inn.”

  Outrage stopped her breath. She moved forward, ready to grasp his shoulders and execute the maneuver Dela had promised would have a male assailant writhing on the floor in agony. But Robert caught her and pressed her against him, so there was no room to move. His hands went around her waist and held her still.

  She craned her neck, trying to get her face as far away from his as she could. To no avail. He lowered his head and swept a kiss across her lips. Her throat tightened. She should be afraid, but the expression in his eyes told her that she had nothing to fear, and the upward quirk of his lips promised pleasure. His body was so firm, and his kiss so self-assured—she’d never felt desired in this way before. Lord Brooke had not a drachm of hot blood in him. This man had it in abundance.

  “Where is my locket, wench? I’m asking for the final time.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Shh.” He pressed a finger against her lips. “I tire of your denials.” Then, before she could take another breath, he tipped her backward, caught her by the heels and turned her upside down. Her cap fell off and her hair covered her face, brushing the cobbles.

  Then he shook her.

  She hadn’t been upended since she was a child. Then, it had been a moment of joy and laughter—a tease, a treat. This was horrible. She felt a feral urge to bite her assailant’s shins.

  Then she was set on her feet again, and her cap returned to her head. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She brought her knee up, connected with the most sensitive part of the man’s anatomy, and darted back into the street, making for the Red Lion as fast as her feet would carry her.

  She smiled mercilessly at the sound of Robert’s groan, but didn’t slow until the front entrance of the tavern came into view. Before entering, she took a moment to straighten her clothing and tuck her hair back into its hiding place.

  Then she looked down—and realized she’d left her bag in the alleyway. With Sir Robert Mallory.

  Chapter Seven

  So now he had two with which to contend—his injured foot and an aching groin. A bitter smile curled Robert’s lip as he limped back to his rented lodgings, Claude’s bag in his hand. He would search it before bed and mayhap return it to her in the morning—if he felt so inclined. What was her game? A whore who scuttled about the countryside, dressed as a boy? A bawdy bitch who refused an offer from a client and behaved as if she’d never been kissed or touched before?

  Mayhap she hadn’t. Or perchance she was one of those special whores, groomed and sold as a perpetual virgin—he knew of the deceptions they pulled in the brothels. He’d never visited one for the purpose for which they were intended, but only to play at cards and gather information. But Claude, or “Claudette” as he would now call her, had stirred his blood. What would she look like in her female finery? What was she trying to hide? It would be the ultimate pleasure to find out.

  Much to his surprise, his housekeeper, Goodwife Chandler, was still up when he let himself in the front door of his lodgings.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but there was a woman came round to see you earlier and left a small package. Then, later on, this was pushed under the door. I didn’t see who left it—probably urchins playing a prank—but I’ve not opened it, sir. I thought you’d prefer me not to.”

  He certainly would. None of his recently hired servants knew of the double life he lived, and he’d rather keep it that way.

  “Come into the parlor, quickly, and bring those with you. Is Beth still awake? I’d welcome a jug of small beer—it’s been a stiflingly hot day.” And he’d take some brandywine later, to dull the pain that still throbbed between his thighs.

  By the time Goody Chandler returned, he’d flung off his cloak, doublet, and hat, removed his ruff and undone the ties of his shirt collar. His injured foot was elevated on a low stool. It was not—as he’d told “Claudette”—a blister, but a wound from a blade, sustained during an ugly fight with a Spanish tar. As things had turned out, he was glad he hadn’t told her the truth.

  “Ah, thank you.” He took a deep draft of his beer, then accepted the small package from his housekeeper. He raised an eyebrow at her as he felt the item’s weight. When he unwrapped it, he felt queasy.

  It was his locket—he turned it over and recognized his monogram on the back. Then he flipped it open, and there was Meg’s face, gazing demurely back at him, a splendid example of the miniaturist’s art. “Claudette” had not taken the jewel, after all. He’d known of her whereabouts all day, and she would have had no chance to return it. She’d been telling him the truth.

  Leaning forward, he ran his fingers through his hair, and pictured himself turning the hapless wench upside down and shaking her. He let out a groan. He deserved the punishment she’d meted out.

  “Are you well, sir?”

  “Pray, don’t alarm yourself, Goody. ’Tis just that I have made a terrible mistake, it seems. I should be stood blindfold in front of a team of arquebusiers and shot.”

&nb
sp; Goody Chandler coughed. “That’s your locket, is it, sir?”

  “Aye. And doubtless you’re dying to hear from me how I came to be parted from it. And you’ll want to tell me in what manner it was returned.”

  “It was Goodwife Fairclough, sir. She said you’d helped some young lad after an accident.”

  Robert snorted. Young lad, indeed! He waved at his housekeeper to continue.

  “She said there was quite a crowd around you, including a young cub she knew for a pickpocket. She didn’t see him take anything but, afterward, as she walked up Bugle Street, she saw the boy in a fight with that jailbait peddler, Will Gough. The boy handed him what looked like a locket. Gough opened it, took one look, and gave the lad a cuff around the head that sent him reeling. Gough was in a right fury about something, and Goodwife Fairclough was that upset at seeing the lad be struck, she yelled at the pair of them, and the boy ran off.”

  “Foolhardy of her, to shout at a miscreant who would have cut her throat for a penny.” Completely untrue, but both he and Gough were happy to perpetuate the myth.

  “It was, sir. Quite mad! Anyway, Gough said the boy had robbed a fine gentleman and he didn’t want any trouble. Then he asked if Goodwife Fairclough knew anything about the locket and she said she’d been there when it was taken. She said she knew you and your abode, so Gough made her bring it back here.”

  The incredulity in Goody’s voice made Robert glance up. It must sound odd, indeed, that a rogue like Gough should pass a valuable item to a woman he barely knew. However, his housekeeper didn’t know that Gough was his best informant in the whole port of Southampton. If there was anything in the wind, Gough would know of it. For any plotters to succeed in toppling Queen Elizabeth, they’d need mercenaries, weaponry, shot, and powder. None of this could be bought openly without arousing suspicion. However, Gough knew everything that went on behind closed doors in Southampton. He knew what passed in the stews, alehouses, and ships’ holds as well. Thank heaven the whelp who’d stolen Robert’s locket had gone to Gough to fence it!