“Do you really think she cares for Brooke? You should regard her more highly than that.”
Robert shook his head. “Forgive me, sir. I have a mistrustful nature, which constantly interferes with my happiness. ’Tis a fault which only I can remedy.”
Whiteley moved across to the hearth and stirred the ashes with his booted foot. “So, what will you do now? I could tell Chloe was disturbed by your behavior toward her.”
“I have not dealt well with her, sir, not well at all. I think, under the circumstances, she would be well rid of me.”
“I disagree, though ’tis not my place to play matchmaker. You will break her heart, you know, if you do nothing. Why not attend that masque at Whitehall Palace? I’m certain Walsingham could get you admitted. Chloe’s mother all but invited you.”
“So I can watch Brooke parading her about on his arm? I’d rather not.” Robert bit his lip. Nonetheless, the masque was exactly the kind of event Sir Mortimer wanted him to attend, to see who Brooke had in his entourage, and to whom he spoke. If he disguised himself well enough, he might even win the hand of Chloe for a pavane without arousing Brooke’s suspicions.
His stomach tightened. Why not? Why not permit himself an evening in her delightful company? The fact that their association was forbidden would add savor to the event. And he might garner some information for Sir Mortimer and Walsingham into the bargain.
“Very well, Master Whiteley. You’ve convinced me. I’ll gain admittance to this masque, and do what I may to amend matters with Chloe.”
And if he could steal a kiss in a dimly lit passageway, all the better. He would soon find out whether or not she had genuinely given her affections to the treacherous Lord Brooke.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chloe was so thrilled at the prospect of a masque in the banqueting house at Whitehall Palace, she was able to forget about Robert Mallory—occasionally. It was no easy task dismissing him from her mind completely, however. She wondered where he was, how he was, with whom he was spending his time. Would he be in attendance at the masque? Was it the kind of event he’d enjoy?
As she donned the costume she and her mother had contrived, she couldn’t help but wonder what Robert might think of it. It was a boned gown in deep pink Spitalfields silk, with no shift beneath and one shoulder bared, with a separate sleeve, making her look like an Amazon queen. A string of pearls and an emerald-studded chain draped her throat, and she had a diadem on her head that caught the light whenever she moved.
Aunt Philippa and Uncle Matthew were not permitted to see this costume. Dela was a woman of strong character and, as Chloe’s real mother, demanded the casting vote in any decisions to be made concerning her daughter. If her sister or Matthew demurred about anything, she threatened to go straight to Sir Mortimer and create a scandal. Chloe watched these skirmishes with amusement, although she felt sorry for her guardians. But while the threat of marriage to Lord Brooke was still on the cards, she was happy to have so forthright a supporter as her mother.
Thus it was that, on a fine day in late October, she left the house, swathed in a woolen cloak, and stepped into a litter, to be conveyed to the riverside at Queen Hithe. This made her nervous, recalling her last experience in a litter, but she was comforted by the fact her mother was close behind and that Lord Brooke, who was squiring her that evening, accompanied them on horseback. From Queen Hithe, their party took a covered tilt-boat down the Thames, at Lord Brooke’s insistence. At this season of the year, the weather could be most unpredictable, and he wanted neither of the ladies to be rained upon.
As Chloe sat opposite him, she stole a covert glance at her supposed husband-to-be. The flickering light of the sconces showed him to be as grim-faced as usual, silently disapproving of the frivolity and laughter from the other masqueraders on the boat. He’d replaced his hat with a laurel wreath, but from what she could see beneath his cloak, he’d done nothing more to fit the classical theme. He wore a sober grey doublet with matching Venetians and a modest ruff at his neck.
What would Robert wear to such an entertainment? There was no reason to suppose he was going, but if he did, would he not look resplendent in a toga or a chiton? She would have to look out for him, so long as Lord Brooke didn’t become suspicious. Robert had told her in no uncertain terms that Lord Brooke was never to know of their association. If only he’d had the gallantry to tell her why.
Her mother tapped her on the knee. “Here we are, my love. Court Hithe, where we alight for Whitehall. Faith, but I shall be grateful to be indoors. There’s already a mist on the river, and I fear catching a chill in this flimsy costume.”
Brooke gave Chloe his hand to help her from the swaying deck and onto the steps of the hithe. There, she waited with her mother as he chivalrously allowed all the other passengers off first.
“Do your best to please,” Dela whispered in her ear. “Be pretty, charming, and lively, as I know you can be. And remember our plan—if you see Sir Robert, pretend a greater interest in Lord Brooke. If Sir Robert cares for you as I believe he must, he’ll be too jealous to avoid you. Deny him, avoid him, tease him—and soon, he’ll be eating from your hand like a pet pigeon.”
Chloe’s heart picked up a pace. How was she to manage it, when she adored Robert and hated the wan-faced Brooke? Now, where was the man? A chill breeze blew up from the river, and she huddled her cloak more tightly around her neck and gazed down to where the tilt-boat bobbed on the swell. Ah, he was settling their account with the boatman. And giving him something else besides. What was it? It looked like a sealed paper, but the boatman tucked it away so quickly that she barely glimpsed it. How strange!
Before she had time to ponder further, Brooke had mounted the steps with a vigor that belied his age and joined them. “I’m honored to be escorting two such fine ladies to watch this night’s masque. I expect to be the envy of Whitehall.”
So, he could flatter when he wanted to. And smile, although his smile showed too many teeth, few of which were in good condition. Chloe repressed a shudder. But she had her instructions, and she’d carry them out to the letter, even if it meant being touched by those long, cold fingers and gazing into those passionless eyes.
She stared about her, impressed at the sprawl of grand buildings that constituted Whitehall Palace. They entered the courtyard after passing a tilting ground and walking under the arch of the enormous gatehouse. The formal gardens in front of the banqueting hall were illuminated with flambeaux, and ribbons stretched between them were strung with tiny bells that tinkled in the breeze. The place was a mass of glittering lights, smoke, loud voices, and the heady scent of exotic woods and resins burning, dispelling the vile miasma that occasionally wafted through from the Thames.
The banqueting hall seemed a teeming morass of people, but Chloe gradually discovered some manner of order to the affair. The queen’s close companions occupied a dais at one end of the room, and there was an empty space in front of them. All along the walls were benches, but currently, few were seated, preferring to parade their fancy costumes, tread a measure or two, or just generally mill about.
Having secured the ladies a glass of Malmsey wine each, Lord Brooke advised them to be seated on one of the front benches, so they might better see the queen when she processed in, and the entertainment that would follow as soon as she was ready.
Chloe struggled not to kick her heels. Once seated, she wouldn’t be able to see everything or establish if, by any chance, Robert might be present. She also preferred not to drink on an empty stomach. This didn’t seem to concern Lord Brooke, who sent back his glass as soon as it was emptied and called for another. Ah, well. Mayhap his mood would soften, and he’d prove a better companion if he was in his cups.
Suddenly, her heart raced. Through a brief gap between the dancers in front of her, she spotted a familiar figure making his way to the benches opposite.
Robert. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. It seemed her heart had forgotten to beat in all that time and was onl
y now discovering its true purpose. He hadn’t seen her, so she drained her glass and gazed her fill.
He looked very well, indeed. The pallor of his illness had fled from his skin, and his eyes were bright. To her disappointment, he hadn’t garbed his superbly proportioned body in clinging classical robes but was attired in a black velvet doublet with slashed sleeves, showing white silk through the slashes, and matching hose. The stark contrast between his white linen shirt and black attire suited him well, and the fiery light of the torches turned his tawny hair to gold. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Ah, I’m neglecting you, mistresses. Come, shall we fill our stomachs before the entertainments begin?”
Lord Brooke helped Chloe to her feet, sending an admiring glance down her body. She repressed a shudder but attempted a smile. She was feeling lightheaded, and food was exactly what she needed. To her alarm, her mother elected to remain behind and watch the dancing, saying she would keep their places and that they could bring her something when they returned.
The supper table was a wonder in itself. Brooke chuckled at her expression.
“I take it you’ve never seen a board so gaily caparisoned as this one? Our queen delights in extravagance, you know.”
“It would appear she does.” Chloe stared at a bowl of fruit that seemed to be covered in frost, although it must be sugar. How much would it have cost merely to make the food look impressive? There was also a model of a fountain, from which yellow liquid emerged. The model was entirely made from marchpane, and the liquid looked—and smelled—like mead.
“Such a waste. Why turn food into something that can’t be eaten?” Brooke shook his head, smiling ruefully. “But don’t let me put you off. If Bess is prepared to empty the country’s coffers to put on a display, who are we to question her?”
Chloe picked up a pewter plate and stationed herself in front of a mountain of blancmange, surrounded by a quivering lake of cubes of jellied milk. And felt a tingle down the back of her neck.
Robert was on the opposite side of the table. His blue gaze bored into her, and she sucked in a breath. This was when emotion must be put aside, and her own personal masque must begin. She acknowledged his presence with a slight nod of her head, then turned her attention back to Brooke.
“How can anyone make inroads into the dessert? It is so piled up that the blancmange will suffer an avalanche if anyone dares show it a spoon.”
Brooke snorted. “If you’re feeling brave, Mistress Emmerson, mayhap we should attempt it later. You may make the first cut, while I stand poised to drag you out of harm’s way should the whole lot begin to tumble.”
He was trying to amuse her. She laughed, too loud, and too long, holding his gaze as long as she could. When she glanced past the towering blancmange once more, Robert was gone.
Whatever hurt she felt at the fact that he’d made no effort to approach her was soon swallowed up in the excitement of the queen’s arrival. As soon as the horns sounded, everyone scrambled for their places on the benches, then bowed low or curtsied as Gloriana and her glittering entourage swept past. Brooke kept herself and her mother entertained by naming virtually every one of the courtiers who accompanied her. Chloe wondered how he’d come by such knowledge, as he was no courtier himself. For one who disapproved of extravagance and a queen who appeared to embody that vice, he was oddly well-informed.
Chloe gazed around the hall, trying to discover where Robert had gone, but he seemed, at least for the moment, to have vanished. It wasn’t until some shockingly scantily clad nymphs and satyrs had performed their dance for the queen’s pleasure, that she spotted him again, arms folded across his chest and watching the dancing.
As soon as she saw him turn his head in her direction, she leaned toward Lord Brooke—affording him an excellent view of her cleavage—and commented on the musicians’ skill. When she sat back to watch the dancing once more, she noticed Robert was no longer standing where he had been.
Moments later, Brooke excused himself and disappeared. Her mother immediately shuffled up close to her.
“Your performance is most convincing, Daughter. Trust me, I know—I’ve seen many. You have Lord Brooke dangling on a ribbon.” She paused, then inquired, “Have you seen your young gentleman?”
“Aye, I’ve seen him.” They’d agreed never to refer to Robert by name, lest Lord Brooke overhear. Robert’s warning still rang in Chloe’s ears, though she didn’t understand why he didn’t want Brooke to know of their association.
“And did he see you?”
“I believe so.” Though with barely a blink of recognition.
“Smiling or scowling?” Dela glanced around to make sure no one was listening.
“I would say scowling.” But even when glowering, Robert was the most handsome man Chloe had ever seen, and she instantly recalled the heat of his lips against hers. And ached with all her being to taste them again. A curse upon it! It would have been better not to see him at all, not to bring back those delicious, forbidden memories.
“Another glass of wine, fair ladies?” Brooke’s smile almost reached his eyes as he handed both Chloe and her mother another drink. He leaned close over Chloe as he handed her glass to her, and she felt the waft of his hot, foul breath on the exposed tops of her breasts. Fie on the fellow! For all his puritanical aspect, he was as lecherous as the next man. Suddenly, she needed a moment to compose herself.
“I beg your pardon. I will be back directly.”
Gathering up her flimsy silk skirts, she stood and hastened off toward the banqueting table. Perchance more food would give her courage, and enable her to continue with her ploy of encouraging Brooke so she could make Robert jealous. But not sugared fruit, or gilded nuts, or dates in marchpane. Something filling and plain. A manchet roll and butter would be perfect.
She was just reaching for one, when a familiar voice whispered, “A word with you, Chloe.”
Spinning around, she met Robert’s penetrating gaze. He was too close, setting her a-tremble. She tried to admonish him for startling her, but her words tangled in her throat and nothing emerged.
“Go out to the gardens. I’ll find you in but a moment. ’Tis imperative we talk. Anon.”
Before she could muster a response, he’d slipped away. So, her plan was working faster and better than expected. He was jealous! Seething with it, in truth. She’d done her job well. Now all she need do was reap her reward.
She broke the white roll, spread some butter on it, and took a bite, then meandered toward the main door of the banqueting hall. She dared not look to see if Lord Brooke was about—it would arouse suspicion if she seemed self-conscious. She was just a guest at a royal masque, having a bite to eat, and taking the air. The very chill air.
Several couples were strolling around the gardens, and soft whispers came from the areas where the light of the flambeaux failed to reach. Feeling somewhat adrift, she found a bench where she sat down to wait, hoping she’d be clearly visible when Robert sought her out.
Her fists clenched and unclenched. Was this the moment for which she’d waited so long? Had her scheme—and her mother’s—goaded him into repeating his offer for her? Though she wanted it more than anything else in the world, she was now terrified. Would she do or say the wrong thing? What if it wasn’t what he had in mind at all?
Suddenly he was there, catching her around the wrist and drawing her into the shadow of a high yew hedge. She felt his presence, warming her like a cloak, making her forget the cold night air. She gazed up and knew this was the only face she wanted to see, the only man who could truly make her happy.
“Robert.” Her voice was breathy, seductive. She’d been practicing all night on Lord Brooke, but now she was no longer pretending.
“Despite my warning—and my promise—you’re allowing Lord Brooke to lavish attention on you. Not just allowing, but positively encouraging him.”
How very unchivalrous. Was this all he had to say to her, after all this time? She felt as if a chasm
had opened beneath her feet, and she was teetering on the brink of it. Robert surely knew he didn’t have to warn her off other gentlemen? All he need do was repeat his offer of marriage, and everything would be perfect. What was stopping him?
Anger supported her teetering emotions. “Why should I not encourage Lord Brooke? You have given me no reason. What, pray, is your interest in the matter?”
“He is, at the very least, a rogue and a scoundrel. He has few friends since no one can stand him.”
She wasn’t surprised. “He does have some friends, of the lesser sort.”
“What do you mean?” Robert had taken her elbow in a powerful grip. She shook herself free.
“Only that I saw him give something to the boatman who brought us down to Whitehall. It looked as if they knew one another, and it wasn’t merely payment.”
“What? What did you see?”
Why were they talking about Lord Brooke? This was not the conversation she’d hoped for. “Damn you, Robert Mallory. Why are you questioning me as if I were one of your traitors? And if you genuinely think I’m throwing myself at Lord Brooke, you don’t know me at all. I’m almost inclined to hate you and your suspicious nature.”
She turned away, so he wouldn’t see the angry tears, and headed back toward the banqueting hall. But she’d barely taken two steps when he took her by the wrist again. He pulled her back into the shadows.
“Forgive me. I cannot explain myself. What did this boatman look like?”
“He looked like he’d been pilloried—and had his ear nailed to the post. But what has that to do with anything?”
“It could be the answer to my prayers.” Robert was grinning now, his face so close to hers that his breath caressed her cheek.
She struggled in his grip. Abominable knave! If he was keeping a secret from her, if he knew something about Lord Brooke, she had a right to know.
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 17
