“There’s no need for her to gallivant about London.” Uncle Matthew wore a warning frown. “As to her being marriageable, a match has already been found.”
Chloe winced, and her mother looked astonished.
“You told me naught of this in any of your letters, Philippa. How could you have been so remiss? Unless you knew I’d not approve. Tell me, who is it? And have you sent for any refreshment yet? I’m parched.”
Uncle Matthew set off in search of a servant, leaving the field to Dela. “So, who is this most fortunate of men?” she demanded.
Philippa lifted her chin. “Lord Brooke of Malton Lodge.”
Dela’s face clouded. Chloe assumed it was because she’d never heard that dreaded name. Whatever the reason, Dela fired a further volley of questions at Philippa about Lord Brooke, but none of the answers satisfied her. She made it abundantly clear Lord Brooke would be a most unsuitable husband.
“Has Chloe’s father been approached about this?” Dela accepted a horn beaker of elderberry cordial from the serving boy, William. “I know you have his name now,” she added, narrowing her eyes at Chloe. “I kept all his letters, you see, from when we were young and besotted with each other. One of them mysteriously disappeared, not long after your visit.”
Feeling everyone’s eyes upon her, Chloe flushed.
“Oddly enough, I thought some of Dela’s letters to me had been tampered with.” Aunt Philippa leaned forward accusingly. “Shortly after that chimney fire, which had us in chaos for a while.”
It felt as if all Chloe’s schemes were collapsing around her, and her hopes with them. She’d been underhand and dishonest and had, thus far, naught to show for the experience but a broken heart. Her lips trembled.
Suddenly, Dela sat back and clapped her hands, dispelling the accusatory mood. “What a head she has on those shoulders! Who’d have thought Mortimer Fowler’s child would have turned out so clever? You did find out who your father was, didn’t you?” she added, looking self-conscious.
Chloe’s guardians were gazing at their ward with deep interest.
“You never said aught of this.” Uncle Matthew’s fingers drummed the carved arm of his chair. “I hope you haven’t been poking around in my correspondence, too.”
What an accusation! This was too much—why should she feel guilty? Chloe leaped from her seat.
“You’re hypocrites, all of you! I had a right to know who I was, even if it did mean revealing I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. You should have told me long since who had sired me. Had you been open and honest, I wouldn’t have needed to break your trust. And I’ll have you know that I’ll never marry Lord Brooke. I’d rather die.”
She could feel hot tears welling up again. Standing straight and stiff, she lifted her chin and stalked from the room with as much dignity as she could muster. There was a sudden babble of voices behind her, but she didn’t linger to hear what was said. She hovered in the passageway, wondering if she should walk around outside until she felt better, or lock herself in her chamber and give vent to the threatening tears.
The latter option won. She scampered up the stairs, but then heard someone ascending behind her. A brief glance showed her it was Dela. She paused. Surely, someone who had lived so scandalous a life as Dela Riviere would not be chasing after her in order to preach?
She turned at the top of the stairs. “I’m going to lie down awhile. Pray, excuse me.”
“I’m coming with you. You’ll not turn me away when I’ve only just arrived, will you?”
Chloe noticed for the first time since her mother’s arrival how soberly dressed she was. There was no plunging neckline, there were no fine silks or fancy ruff. Instead, she wore a modest russet bodice with matching kirtle, and a long-sleeved wool jacket with wide skirts. There was no makeup on her face, her hair was mostly concealed, and she looked every inch the respectable gentlewoman.
These efforts would be appreciated. Uncle and Aunt were very particular about their visitors and sensitive to the opinions of their neighbors.
Chloe’s shoulders sagged. “Come up, then. But I am not much inclined to chatter, I fear.”
“I’ve no intention of chattering.” Dela’s face was solemn as Chloe opened the door to her chamber and indicated a chest where she might sit. Chloe settled on the edge of the bed.
But Dela had other ideas. She stood over Chloe and unpinned her coif, letting down her hair. “Where’s your comb? Ah, here. I’ve often found that having my hair combed soothes my troubled mind. I’m hoping it might help you. You needn’t speak to me if you don’t wish to.”
Chloe shifted to a more comfortable position. She had no objection to her mother pulling the bone comb through her thick, chestnut locks. There were bound to be snags and tangles—it would be good to be rid of them.
“Let me say, first of all, that if you don’t wish to wed this Lord Brooke, then you shall not do so. He has visited my establishment and various others—and the word is that he has a cruel streak. I’ve heard something else besides that makes me warn you off him, though I cannot recall exactly what. But be of good cheer—I shall come up with a scheme to rid you of him. But you must be patient and continue as normal. Let your aunt and uncle think you have relented. Then they will lower their guard. Now, I want to know about this other fellow, the one who brought you home after you were waylaid by footpads. Tell me all. He sounds a far more interesting prospect.”
So, though she’d never expected to unburden her heart to anyone save the keeper of it, Robert Mallory, Chloe found herself spilling out the whole sorry tale to her mother.
When she’d finished, Dela began gently pinning up her hair. “Knowing what I do of men and their ways, I would say this Robert Mallory is as eligible as any you might meet. I recall him visiting my establishment on several occasions, but only to drink and play at dice. If he’s the fellow I think he is, no man that handsome need ever pay for a lady’s favors. Ah! I see you blush. You know exactly what I mean. Selling favors for coin is my profession, and I’ll not pretend otherwise.”
“But Robert forbade me to come near him, and literally cast me at Lord Brooke like a hambone thrown to a dog. He can no longer be interested in me.”
“Let us leave aside his reasons for this apparent change of heart. I tell you now you will win him back, and I only hope he proves worthy of you, and that you still want him at the end. I’m as great a schemer as Francis Walsingham himself, and any one of those fawning courtiers surrounding Queen Bess. At the end of the day, you will have your man.”
This was encouraging. But first, Chloe was desperate to discover the state of his health.
“He’s too ill to go out and about at present, so I know not how we can progress your scheme.”
“Simplicity itself. We shall call on him in a few days’ time, you and I, to ask after his health. Until then, be patient. We may need to lure your guardians into a false sense of security.”
Chloe smiled. She’d been struggling through a slough of despond at Robert’s apparent rejection. But her indefatigable mother had given her cause to hope.
Within a seven-night, two at most, the man she loved would be hers.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was now mid-October, and Robert was feeling much recovered. He still couldn’t bend a longbow or achieve much with a sword, but he could wield a dagger and had been teaching himself tricks using his left hand, enough to confuse a foe.
One might have hoped, in view of his illness, that Walsingham and Sir Mortimer would have released him from his commission to spy on Lord Brooke. Yet it seemed neither man had any compassion—no sooner was he up and about again than he was expected to return to the saddle.
Though aware—because Whiteley had kept him informed—that Lord Brooke was still courting Chloe, he hadn’t had to witness them together as yet. He was dreading that moment, even though he knew she’d never be allowed to marry a suspected traitor. But how could he countenance seeing the fellow in attendance o
n her, bestowing gifts on her, kissing her hand, or mayhap even her cheek?
As Fate would have it, the first time he saw Chloe after his illness was on his own doorstep, and not in the company of Lord Brooke at all, but—surprise of surprises—in the company of Mistress Riviere. Had it not been for Whiteley’s insistence, Robert would have forbidden the ladies entrance, but Whiteley knew nothing of his promise to Sir Mortimer, and naught would satisfy him but that Chloe and her mother should be admitted.
Robert skulked upstairs for a while, listening to the feminine voices, Whiteley’s enthusiastic boom, and the rattle and clatter of plates and mugs as refreshment was brought and served by a cheerful-sounding Goody Chandler.
He supposed he must go down—they would think him a craven coward if he made no appearance. But it took more courage than he’d needed before rescuing Chloe from the fulling mill. His vanity goaded him that he wasn’t looking his best—the illness had left him pale and gaunt, or so the tiny Venetian glass mirror he used when shaving told him.
After rattling around his chamber in an increasing state of agitation, he made up his mind. He’d go down and make the best of it but not encourage Chloe in any way. He washed his face with scented soap, combed his hair, and drew on a fine doublet of embroidered Flemish wool with matching paned hose in dark blue and gold. He might be living in Sir Mortimer’s pocket at present, but he didn’t want Chloe to think him a pauper.
Everyone rose as he entered the parlor, so he gave them his most courtly bow, then made a show of kissing the ladies’ hands, though he dared not allow his lips to touch Chloe’s. He feared he would catch afire if he did and reveal to all the depth of his feelings for her. Instead, he made an effort to be polite but distant, even as he took his seat close by Chloe’s side.
“I trust you are well, Mistress Riviere, Mistress Emmerson. Forgive me if I’m not as courteous as you deserve—I’ve been out little in society of late.” Only to watch Lord Brooke, who never seemed to do anything of interest, other than hunt in the fields around Hampstead Heath. It had been a challenge to spy on him there, as the man was a fast rider, and it was impossible to follow without arousing suspicion.
“I am sorry to hear you’ve been ill, sir. It is to reassure ourselves of your recovery that we’ve come. My daughter told me she owed you her life, so I would not rest until I could meet and thank you personally.” Mistress Riviere was all good manners and subtle clothing today. Quite unlike the woman he’d occasionally seen at the bawdy house in Southampton.
“No gratitude is required. Indeed, Chloe has also saved me, mayhap on more than one occasion, for which I’m forever in her debt.” He still could not bring himself to look directly at Chloe. He must keep his feelings in check, and give her no cause to think he cared for her. But once Lord Brooke was dealt with, he would find a way for them to be together. The waiting would be a sore trial, as he was not the most patient of men.
“No doubt we shall be seeing you at some of the entertainments this autumn, Sir Robert, now you are recovered?” Mistress Riviere smiled sweetly at him, and he suddenly saw in her the same handsome features she’d bequeathed to her daughter.
He risked a glance at the young woman by his side, and every feeling he had for her, every shaft of desire, came thundering back. Her hazel eyes met his with a sophisticated coolness that fired his blood still further—this was Chloe Emmerson as he’d never seen her before, a true English gentlewoman, poised and perfect.
It took a moment for Robert to remember that he’d been asked a question.
“Ah, well, indeed. Aye. I mean to enjoy the season’s entertainments. Mummer’s plays amuse me, and, um, mystery plays likewise. I like to ride in Hampstead, and I look forward to returning to the archery contests when my arm is better—”
He glanced around him, unsure if his words had made any sense.
“Indeed, Sir Robert?” Chloe raised an eyebrow at him. “I, too, enjoy such entertainments, and my betrothed has been squiring me to several of these events. But we’ve never noticed you in attendance.”
He shot her a warning frown. She hadn’t spoken about him to Lord Brooke, had she?
She smiled and waved a hand at him. “Fret not, Sir Robert—he knows naught of our escapades in Hampshire. In fact, only the people within this room know the truth of what happened.”
Robert nearly groaned aloud. Chloe had told her mother? She’d revealed his mission to a gossipmongering brothel keeper? Chloe’s eyes twinkled at him. The cheeky wench—she knew he was desperate to discover what had been said, and what remained a secret.
He found his voice again. “I tend to keep a low profile, Mistress. I’m certain you understand my reasons.”
“Of course. Though it is a great pity you didn’t think to send me word of how you fared. Surely a note would be considered ‘low profile’. But ’tis of little matter now. I’m too busy planning my nuptials and enjoying the sensation of being courted by a gentleman.”
He frowned. He didn’t believe her for a minute. She hated Lord Brooke—unless something had changed. His curiosity was piqued.
Mistress Riviere leaned forward in her chair. “We’re all going to a masque at Whitehall Palace next month. Chloe has the most delightful Roman matron’s costume to wear. Well, when I say matron, I mean, adjustments have been made in deference to her youth. The cloth of her tunic is fine silk, dyed a fetching rose color. It cost a fair penny, but we both decided to make the most of my visit to London and not cavil about cost. Will we see you and Master Whiteley there? I know you’re not courtiers, but anyone of any consequence will be present, I’m certain.”
Robert’s jaw tightened. It was exactly the kind of rout Sir Mortimer would expect him to attend in order to collect intelligence and spy on Lord Brooke. Yet watching Brooke and Chloe dancing together was the very last thing he wanted to do.
“I’m not sure I’m fit to dance.”
“Well, no one’s expecting you to do the galliard, with your sore arm. But you could manage a stately pavane, surely?” Chloe’s hazel gaze had become penetrating, as if she saw through his bluff denials to the true nature of his feelings.
He rubbed a hand across his brow. This was becoming awkward, and he knew not how to respond. “Forgive me, ladies, but I’m ashamed to admit I tire easily. Would you excuse me?”
Before either woman could respond, he bowed deeply and retreated back upstairs to his chamber. It was there that Whiteley sought him out some quarter of an hour later, after the front door had closed on their visitors.
Though his status was not so high as Robert’s, and Robert his superior when it came to the chain of command amongst Walsingham’s men, Whiteley had become a bosom friend. As such, he evidently had no qualms about speaking his mind.
“What ails you, sirrah? I would have thought you’d be delighted to see Mistress Chloe again.”
“Nothing ails me. I have my reasons, which I’m unable to vouchsafe to you.” He didn’t like concealing the truth from his friend, but he was determined to prove himself true to his word. A lot depended on him keeping his promise to Sir Mortimer.
Whiteley took several turns about the room, then halted in front of Robert and looked him squarely in the eyes.
“Mistress Emmerson and I are friends—or mayhap I should say, fellow conspirators, since I contrived to bring her to your house in an effort to save your sorry skin. I would have thought she deserved a little more thanks for her efforts.”
“You think me ungrateful, do you?” He couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. Whiteley was shooting wide of the mark.
“It looks like it, aye. Chloe slipped out of her house into the dark streets of London—risking grave consequences from her family if she was caught—to bring you succor. Her tisane broke your fever, she cleaned your wound and banished the infection. You should have seen her face, Robert, when she worked with those maggots—she hated every minute of it. That woman is made of strong stuff.”
Not strong enough to evade the suit of Lo
rd Brooke. Indeed, she’d sounded almost as if she relished that traitor’s attentions.
“I’m in no doubt of Mistress Chloe Emmerson’s admirable qualities. If you think I appeared churlish, I shall send her a note of apology.”
“Send her a note?” Whiteley looked as if he was about to explode. “What the devil is going on? That young woman’s in love with you. Can’t you be a bit more gallant about it?”
In love with him? By the rood—if only that was true! But even if it was, he couldn’t act upon it. Frustration made him churlish.
“So, you’re her confidante, are you? Why would she tell you her innermost feelings? Am I not worthy to hear them for myself?”
“Mayhap you were too ill to see what I thought plain. She didn’t need to confide in me—I thought her feelings obvious. And I believed them reciprocated. So, evidently, did our little clutch of traitors, when they used her as bait to capture you.”
Robert sat on the edge of his bed and leaned forward, cupping his head in his hands. “This is a sorry mess. Had I not decided to take on Sir Mortimer at cards to raise coin for my sister’s dowry, I would even now be free to offer for Chloe.”
“But there’s more to it, isn’t there?” Whiteley came to stand before him. “Will you not tell me what this is all about? I detest melancholy. And subterfuge, even though I’m involved in it every day.”
“I’ve sworn to tell no one. Besides, she’s now betrothed to Lord Brooke, and seemingly content with him.”
Whiteley emitted a groan. “Whoever said love was blind didn’t know the half of it. She’s trying to make you jealous, of course, because you cast her off.”
“I did not cast her off! I hadn’t even begun to court her.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t arouse her expectations. Did you not offer for her, to save her reputation, after you put up together at the White Hart?”
“It wasn’t quite like that.” Robert stared at the oak floorboards, wishing his heart was not so full. How could Chloe have responded so ardently to his kisses, then thrown herself into the arms of another, one she purported to despise? Many women he knew were fickle and manipulative. But was Chloe Emmerson like them? One of the things he’d most liked about her was the fact that she was not.
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 16
