Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  Lighting a candle, he examined the figure lying supine on the floor. Her breathing lifted her bosom gently, and she appeared asleep. He snapped his fingers in front of her nose to make certain, but there was no response. How young, how innocent she looked lying there! Of course, the enemies of Queen Elizabeth were bound to use those spies they thought looked the most guileless, as there was less chance of such people arousing suspicion.

  It was a pity he had to suspect everybody—even this enticing creature. But her power lay in the same feminine charms and wiles that had thrown him off guard.

  Swallowing a sigh of regret, he lifted her onto the narrow bed, then rubbed his hands together and looked around. It was already late, approaching the hour when the drug would be wearing off. He must move fast, ere she awoke—he’d hate to restrain or hurt her. Despite her alliance with traitors, she was a woman, and the fair sex needed careful handling. He couldn’t help hoping he was wrong to suspect her, as he loathed the idea of handing her over to his superiors for questioning. But if she turned out to have stolen his dispatch, he’d have to face that probability.

  Very well. Baggage first, and then the lady herself. But only if necessary—he hadn’t completely forgotten he’d been born a gentleman.

  A thorough search of her scrip produced nothing other than a beeswax candle and the revelation that she liked to while away odd moments with a hand spindle, making yarn. Her purse contained a good amount of coin, and he wondered how much of it was honestly come by. Despite her protestations of innocence, he still believed her to be one of Mistress Riviere’s women. The brothel keeper evidently paid her employees well. Either that or the number of golden angels in her purse was payment for her treachery.

  Mistress Emmerson’s larger bag contained the remnants of the vittles she’d had for breakfast, an empty costrel, and a small Latin primer. There was also her male attire—from whom had she purloined that? He couldn’t help but recall how provocative her behind had looked in the tight hose.

  There was female clothing, too, obviously—a spare shift and petticoat, a bodice and skirt, garters, aiglets and leather thong for her lacings, and a fresh coif. All were of good quality cloth—this innocuous little beauty was well rewarded for her trade.

  But there was no dispatch in the bag. Folding the clothing carefully, Robert attempted to replace them as he’d found them, so she wouldn’t know he’d rifled through her belongings. He felt the sides of the bag for hidden pockets but found none.

  One thing that struck him as odd about the luggage was the absence of jewelry, rouge, or white lead powder. Not that the lady’s charms needed any embellishing, but whores usually tried to improve upon Nature. Whatever faults Mistress Emmerson harbored, vanity—it seemed—wasn’t one of them.

  Robert ran a hand through his hair, cursing beneath his breath. Could she have passed the document on already? Was it concealed somewhere in the room?

  There was a soft moan from the bed. Jesu! Was she waking? He’d have to search the chamber in the morning when she went down to break her fast—there was no time to lose now. He must search her person before she was lucid enough to resist.

  Settling beside her on the straw mattress, he unlaced her bodice, then lifted her to a sitting position so he could slide it from her arms. Then, keeping his touch as light as possible, he skimmed her arms, waist, and breasts. Nothing. Except an unfortunate tingle in his loins. Running a finger around the inside of his collar, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

  He lifted her skirts but didn’t interfere with the rouleau that cinched in her waist and exaggerated the width of her hips. Tension made him clumsy—he’d never be able to do it up again without her noticing that it had been interfered with.

  He ran his hands over every inch of her skirt, shift, and starched linen petticoat, hunting for hidden pockets, but again—nothing. It was impossible to avoid brushing her naked flesh as he performed his search, and each time he did, his face felt hotter, his blood more deeply stirred.

  No dispatch. Swiftly, he pulled her various layers of clothing back into position, then eased her limp body down onto the bed. Now, he had the awkward task of lacing up her bodice again. He’d undressed enough women—not that he wanted to boast about it—to know one didn’t just lace a bodice over the breasts. One had to lift them and keep the lacing tight beneath, so the breasts were supported high on the torso and not crushed.

  He performed this task with great tenderness and shameful enjoyment. Faith, but he was a vile creature! Brushing moisture from his brow, he castigated himself for allowing his judgment to be clouded by lust—if he was a Catholic, he’d have to do penance for his sinful thoughts. As he was not, he’d just have to tell himself that he hadn’t taken advantage of her and had only done what was needful. He was no more—and no less—than a man and would challenge any fellow with blood in his veins to be unmoved by a curvaceous figure.

  He rolled the dozing woman onto her side, lest she feel nauseous when she finally awoke. She moaned softly, and he froze, his hands still on her shoulder and hip. There was no further sound, so he slowly released his grip and backed away. His body shook—part in fear, part from lust. How much more exciting a luscious female form was when it was forbidden! The country’s enemies had chosen well if they’d appointed this comely wench to intercept him—they’d exploited his greatest weakness.

  But she did not have his dispatch on her person. Recalling that he had a small costrel of brandywine in his chest, Robert fumbled in his scrip for the key and helped himself to a deep draft of the fiery liquid. He glanced back at the hunched figure on the bed, his fingers still tingling from their delicious contact with her naked thighs. Lord, but he nursed a perverse hope that he wasn’t wrong about her. For if she was innocent of any crime against him, what he’d just done was beyond the pale.

  He replaced the stopper in the costrel, laid it atop the rest of his luggage, and stole back to the bed to see how she fared. As he did so, he chanced to glance out the window—and went rigid.

  A shadow in one corner of the stable yard suddenly resolved itself into a person, who scuttled across the open space and into the stables. It was clearly a man, and by his build and the way he moved, might well be the weasel-faced man from the alum cart.

  Whoever it was, he looked up to no good. Robert hurried back to his chest, removed and primed both his guns, then tucked one into his belt. He took Mistress Emmerson’s stub of candle, put it in the small covered lantern he always carried in his luggage, then hastened to unlock the door.

  Forgetting all need for stealth, he charged from the chamber, raced the length of the passageway and down the stairs, cursing at every step. He now had to face an unpleasant possibility. While he’d been preoccupied searching a completely innocent woman, his dispatch’s real thief was getting away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chloe opened her eyes and saw naught but darkness. Startled, she waited, staring at the shadows until gradually the shape of the window revealed itself. There was a sliver of moon beyond it, riding high above the village rooftops.

  How could she have slept for so long? Why was she still fully dressed? Swiveling her legs off the bed, she eased herself upright, shocked at the dizziness that assailed her. Had she fainted again, as she had when that falling masonry had almost hit her?

  She felt along the windowsill for the stub of candle she’d left there. At least, she thought she had, but it wasn’t there now. Odd, because the room stank of tallow. No matter—she always carried a precious beeswax candle in her scrip in case of need, and her tinderbox went everywhere with her.

  As soon as she’d lit the candle, she put it in a holder and held it aloft, trying to get her bearings. No sound could be heard from the public rooms below. There was no bustle of servants, no rattle of pots or chink of crocks from the kitchen—it must be the middle of the night. Such a pity she hadn’t managed to sleep through until dawn! Now, she’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and fret that all her schemes had
come to nothing. And doubtless think about Sir Robert Mallory more than she ought.

  Why was her mouth so dry? It felt as if she’d slept with it open, and someone had trickled sawdust into it. Thankfully, she had a pitcher of water. Filling her horn beaker, she swilled the liquid around her mouth, and then gulped it down.

  This revived her a little, but she couldn’t get rid of a growing sense of unease, as if something were badly amiss, or an event had occurred which her memory couldn’t quite grasp.

  Then her eyes fell on Sir Robert’s chest. It was open. But it had been closed before she fell asleep. Had he been so bold as to enter a lady’s chamber while she slept? She grimaced. That was a question that needed no answer—he was bold enough for anything. But she’d have some choice words for the man when she saw him again.

  Items of masculine clothing were strewn over the sides of the chest and the floor, as if it had been ransacked. Taking up her candle, she knelt beside the open box, intrigued by some strange objects poking out from the mess within.

  There was a chatelaine ring, hung with several pieces of metal that looked like bent nails. A small box with a buckled strap contained some glass phials of liquid. There was a set of apothecary’s weights with scales, a crowbar, and a polished walnut box with its key still in the lock.

  If Aunt Philippa could see her poking about in a strange gentleman’s belongings, she’d have an apoplectic fit. But the fact that Sir Robert had so sorely misjudged her, had manhandled her, and generally made a nuisance of himself, made Chloe unrepentant. She would find out what was in that box—such receptacles usually contained items of interest.

  It was heavy. As she opened it, she discovered that the velvet-lined interior contained a deadly-looking firearm. There was an impression next to it which looked as if it had contained its twin, and another depression the shape of a miniature costrel—having recently held a powder flask, mayhap?

  Her heart thumped painfully beneath her ribs. Where was the gun’s owner? And where, perhaps more importantly, was the other gun? Judging by the state of the chest, Sir Robert had departed in a hurry—and he’d been armed. Only a perilous circumstance would make him behave thus.

  So, where had he gone? If he’d kept to his plan, he should be sleeping in the hayloft above the stables. She flew to the window and stared down. There was, indeed, a faint yellow light emanating from the stables. Surely, if he meant to sleep with a weapon to hand, he’d have taken both his guns?

  She was still fully dressed and shod. No one else was around to whom she could turn for help. A weapon was available to her, even if she had no idea how to use it. And the sense that something was amiss had increased dramatically during the past few minutes. She couldn’t just pace about and worry—she had to act.

  Licking her lips, she extracted the gun and stole softly toward the door.

  She could hear no sound outside it and was soon making her way along the passageway and down the stairs. By the time she opened the door onto the stable yard, all she could hear was her own labored breathing and the blood pounding in her ears.

  There was no need to panic. This feeling of peril was in her imagination, an effect of too much sun and too much beer at an early hour of the day. Besides, what had she to fear with a firearm in her hand? Even if she had absolutely no idea how to use it.

  Keeping to the shadows, she slipped across to the stables, eased open the door, then froze in shock.

  Standing with his back to her was the man she recognized by his garb as Weasel Face. Before him, on hands and knees in the straw, was Sir Robert. Just out of reach was a weapon the twin of Chloe’s, but another firearm was in play. It was clutched in the hands of Weasel Face and pointed unwaveringly at Sir Robert’s head.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Robert’s lantern flickered, and he glanced up in horror to see Chloe Emmerson standing in the doorway. Foolish wench—did she want to get herself killed? Or was she already in league with this ditch-bred scum who now held him hostage?

  Suddenly, his enemy’s gun was pointed at Chloe’s breast. Wasting not one instant, Robert leaped up, caught the fellow by the shoulders, and bought into the ground, flinging the dag out of reach. He immediately seized his own useless gun, reversed it, and aimed a savage blow at his enemy’s head. The man crashed down into the straw.

  Robert squatted astride his fallen foe, shook his dag, and let out a colorful curse.

  “Oh, forgive me, Mistress Emmerson. What’s wrong with the benighted thing? Of all the moments to misfire.”

  He knocked the barrel sharply against the plank dividing wall between the stalls, then shook it. Out came the ball and its wadding. He grabbed the former before it could roll out of sight.

  “Of all the infuriating things. They expect me to risk my life and give me naught but a piece of fancy wood and scrap iron with which to protect myself.”

  Hopefully, the other dag would work properly, the one which now dangled from Chloe’s fingers. She swayed dangerously toward him.

  He was on his feet immediately, carefully removing the weapon before clasping her against his chest.

  “Nay, no fainting, I pray. Are you all right, Mistress? I believe I may owe you my life.” And a groveling apology for having distrusted her, and searched her so intimately.

  She made no effort to fight off his embrace, so he simply stood and held her, waiting for her frantic breathing to calm.

  He was still in one piece, his foe was insensible, and this woman had saved him. The traitor—who’d been trying to steal a horse and vanish into the night—had been ready to shoot her without compunction. There could not have been any collusion between these two.

  Guilt swamped him as she rested in his arms, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. He must see her safe before doing anything else.

  Stroking the back of her neck, he murmured words of comfort into her ear. “It’s over. You’re unhurt, and the danger is past. You’ve been courageous, Mistress—no screaming, no hysterics. Not even when that blackguard pointed his gun at you. Now, sit on that stool yonder while I sort out the catch we’ve netted.”

  It was the work of a moment to find some rope with which to truss up the ugly-looking villain. Then Robert felt it safe to search the man’s bag and person.

  Heaven be thanked! He pulled out a familiar packet from inside the man’s shirt. “I have my paper safe again and—apparently—unopened.” He waved the package at a puzzled-looking Chloe.

  “This knave stole a vital document from me. I cannot divulge the story behind it but I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. For now, I must busy myself. The local constable should be roused to incarcerate yonder piece of filth until he can be questioned. Then I have an urgent message to send. Until I’m done, I need you to return to your room and lock the door. Open it to none but me. Do you understand?”

  Wide-eyed, she nodded, then stood and held his lantern aloft as he hefted the limp body of his prize onto the back of the horse that the man had been saddling up. Ensuring he was secure, Robert mounted up behind his captive, then leaned down to the fair damsel who’d rescued him in his hour of need.

  “An exchange of firearms might be a good idea. I could use one that actually works when needed.”

  As she passed him the gun, he caught her wrist, bent low in the saddle, and kissed the back of her hand.

  “Adieu, Mistress. I cannot thank you enough for your timely intervention. We must talk when I return. Now, do as I say and lock yourself in your chamber. I’ll come to you as soon as I may.”

  Mistress Chloe Emmerson must be exonerated of all guilt. She’d had ample opportunity to put a ball right between his eyes and hadn’t taken it. She wasn’t in league with his foes.

  He chewed on his lip as he turned his mount’s head and trotted toward the road. If Chloe was blameless and was not an occupant of Mistress Riviere’s bawdy house, he had been taking advantage of a gently bred lady.

  And that kind of action always carried consequences.

 
Chapter Fourteen

  Chloe paced the floor. She’d undressed for bed, but her mind was working too frantically to allow for sleep. Sir Robert was clearly involved in some clandestine business. She knew so little about him—how could she be sure she’d helped the right man? Maybe Weasel Face was the righteous one in this case, and Sir Robert, the evildoer. Though it was hard to believe so refined and handsome a nobleman could be a villain.

  She had, for a brief spell, entertained the idea that Sir Robert wasn’t traveling on the same cart as her by accident. But if he had been following her deliberately at first, it was now evident that he had a more significant mission—which had naught to do with her.

  Or it hadn’t, until that petrifying moment in the stable.

  Her candle sputtered out with a sizzle, making her jump. A blackbird chortled sweetly in the ash tree outside and, detecting a faint grey light around the edges of the shutters, she threw them open. To her relief, she saw a subtle lightening of the sky to the east. The prospect of daylight, followed by human wakefulness and activity, helped banish her nighttime fears and imaginings.

  A board creaked in the passageway outside and, a moment later, she heard a scratching on her door. She put her ear to the crack and listened, taking a firmer hold of the firearm she’d kept close at hand all night.

  “Mistress Emmerson? Chloe? Are you awake?”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Is that you, sir?”

  “Robert Mallory, aye. Do you not recognize my dulcet tones?”

  He sounded in good humor—whatever he’d done after leaving her must have been a success. Curiosity overcame any caution, and she unlocked the door to let him in.