Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  “I regret, more will need to be said. As soon as you return to your aunt and uncle, questions will be asked. And if you go to your father, you’ll be condemning me to his wrath.”

  Her jaw slackened. “You know him? Personally? Tell me—what has passed between you?”

  Curse him for his loose tongue! She hadn’t needed to know that. He might as well tell Walsingham to retire him from his spying duties right now—he’d made a tanner’s midden of things thus far.

  “Chloe, I beg you—be patient. I would tell you of my dealings with your father, but the reason must remain private. ’Tis not my secret to tell.”

  Her lips formed a thin, angry line. “Then even more reason for me to fling your proposal back in your face, sir. Wherefore should I trust you, if you won’t trust me? Fie on you, you two-faced—”

  “Janus?” he supplied.

  “Nay. I was thinking more of Loki, the trickster and mischief-maker of Norse legend. Or Odysseus, cunning fox and spinner of tales. I can tell from your face that you know exactly where my father is to be found but, for some reason, you won’t tell me.”

  She tossed her head back. “No matter. I have his name now and am not without resources of my own. I’ll find him, tell him I’ve met you, and see what is to be learned.”

  He grasped her wrist. “I beg of you, don’t do that.” The last thing he needed was a public scandal. “There’s more than my neck at stake here. You’ve seen the manner of enemy we’re up against. Take my word for it that if I’m exposed, many innocent people may suffer. Pray, keep silent. Or marry me. I shall lay all I have at your feet, and try my utmost to make you happy.”

  “A pretty speech, sir. But I won’t stir from my decision.”

  He could tell from the glint in her eyes that she was becoming angrier by the minute. Mayhap he should excuse himself until she calmed down. Ye gods, if this was how she behaved when he offered to save her reputation, how would she react if she knew he’d drugged and searched her?

  “If I swear not to mention your name to my father, will you tell me where he is?”

  “I dare not.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Will you not tell me the nature of your dealings with him, then?”

  “I cannot.” Robert felt wretched. He’d just made the biggest mistake of his life and was about to reap the consequences.

  “Then, get out of this chamber, sir.”

  “I can’t go. Not until we’ve resolved this.”

  “Go. I never want to set eyes on you again.”

  “Chloe.” He straightened his spine. “You’re being unreasonable.”

  There was a sudden flurry of movement, and before he could react, she’d taken one of the dags from his luggage and was pointing it at him with a trembling hand.

  “Wrong. Now, I’m being unreasonable. Get you gone. Send someone else to collect your chest. Be sure not to follow me to London—or ever again repeat your insulting suggestion that we be wed.”

  Was she holding the gun that was still primed, or the one that wasn’t? He dared not take the risk. Flinging up his hands, he bowed his head.

  “As you wish. Though I have to say I wish things were otherwise.”

  “Go.” She waved the gun.

  He went. He could see no other choice.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It had been some time since Chloe had last succumbed to tears. Yet as she shakily replaced the gun in Sir Robert’s luggage, hot drops coursed down her cheeks. Shame? Chagrin? She barely knew. The events of the past few hours would have overset anyone. But she’d been particularly hard on Robert. He was a vile seducer, liar, and deceiver, aye—but threatening him with a gun was not the way to find out her father’s location. He’d probably never tell her now.

  She collapsed on the bed, head in hands. Foolish wench! She should have gone along with his proposition, played the same covert game he did, lulled him into a false sense of security, and gradually wheedled his secrets out of him. Should she chase after him and declare she’d changed her mind? Was she capable of such duplicity?

  Forcing herself to her feet, she crossed the room and washed the tears from her face. She must put on a brave face and get her plans in order for her return to London, putting the recent unfortunate events behind her.

  There was a knock on the door. Her heart leaped to her throat. Had Robert returned?

  But it was only the potboy, Sim. Her shoulders sank.

  “Begging your pardon, Mistress. Sir Robert said you was to break your fast in your room as soon as may be. He’s ordered a litter for you at eleven of the clock to take you to London. ’Tis all arranged, he said, and paid for.”

  As Sim turned away, eager to be about his business, Chloe caught the flicker of a wink, and her cheeks flushed. Should she hasten after the boy, and bribe him to say naught of the association between herself and Robert? If the man was known to be ordering transport for her, surely tongues would wag as to the reason why? People would draw the wrong conclusion about their relationship.

  For an unsettling moment, she wished for her mother. Dela Riviere was exactly the kind of worldly woman who’d know how to deal with an impossible situation.

  Ah, well. Mayhap Chloe would feel more herself with food in her stomach.

  Half an hour later, after mulled ale—which she drank with great caution—manchet and eggs, she felt much revived. Robert’s chest had been collected by Master Hazelthwaite, but there was no sign of the man himself. The wench who’d brought her repast told her the mended alum cart had left earlier for London, carrying all its passengers with it.

  Assuming Robert and his baggage had gone along, too, Chloe was thus thrown into confusion when she entered the taproom to see a familiar figure occupying the settle.

  He rose immediately, and she fought the urge to flee back up the stairs. She must face him as if she cared not one whit for his opinion of her. Or his arousing touch.

  “God give you good day, Mistress Emmerson. I trust you’re feeling well?” He bowed deeply.

  Her heart began hammering in her breast. “Very well, I thank you, sir.” She hoped her voice sounded steady. None of the rest of her felt steady at all.

  He waved a hand at the ever-present Sim. “Mistress Emmerson’s bag needs to be brought down, and tell Goodwife Hazelthwaite to put together a cold collation for my lady to eat later.”

  Unsure what to do, Chloe sank onto the nearest bench and twined her hands in her lap.

  Robert resumed his seat. “I’ve taken the liberty of hiring a private conveyance to take you to London. I feel that after yesterday’s adventures, it would be safest. The horses will need to be changed, of course, and you’re welcome to call the litter to a halt whenever you feel the need. I shall bear all the cost myself—’tis the least I can do. I deeply regret having distressed you.” He leaned nearer and lowered his voice. “And having misjudged you.”

  She shot him a haughty look.

  “Still angry with me?” He pulled a wry face. “I quite understand. Even though I sense you would abhor my presence, I must, nonetheless, apologize for not giving you my protection en route. The repercussions resulting from our adventure last night require me to remain here.”

  Chloe was glad of the distant politeness with which he now spoke to her. Were it not for the heat stealing from her face to her neck and bosom, no casual listener would ever imagine that she and he had recently been so intimate.

  Addlepated fool—fancy suggesting that they should wed! No one at home would ever know what passed between them. At least, so long as Uncle Matthew accepted her word about her visit to Southampton and didn’t make his own inquiries. She let out a slow breath. All might be well, if only she remained calm and poised.

  “You’re most kind, sir. Thank you for your efforts on my behalf. I’ll await my luggage outside, and wish you a safe journey of your own. Good day to you.”

  Good. Those did not sound like the words of someone who’d been bucking and writhing on a bed
in response to this gentleman’s caresses. She rose and walked briskly past him and out into the sunshine of the stable yard.

  But Sir Robert Mallory was not yet done with her. As she bent to enter the litter that waited outside, he caught her elbow.

  “I seriously wish you’d reconsider my offer, Chloe. My fortune may not be great, but I mean to labor hard and increase it. I can boast a fine manor—Blacklands—in Berkshire, where you’d live very comfortably. I wouldn’t trouble you with my presence if you wished to be left alone, and should I die in pursuit of this country’s foes, you’d be an eligible widow. You would have your pick of all the local gallants, as well as the unwed nobles at court. Your reputation would remain intact, and I’d be freed from my burden of guilt.”

  Tugging her arm away, she huffed at him, then settled down in the cramped, dark litter. Sim came running out to bestow her bag and a tied cloth containing vittles at her feet. The sooner she was gone from this place, the happier she’d be.

  The moment Sim was out of earshot, she glanced up at Robert. He looked tired—his fair hair was tousled, and his bright eyes were dim from lack of sleep. But she mustn’t allow herself to feel sorry for him. Or to be flattered by the fact he’d repeated his offer.

  “You paint a grim and lonely picture of wedlock, Sir Robert. I’ve already spurned one suitor who would have made my life a misery. I, therefore, have no compunction in refusing another.”

  Any match between them would be a disaster. He’d only seduced her because he thought her a whore. Marriages were not—as far as she knew—based on lust and misunderstandings. Her pride revolted at the idea of marrying him to assuage his guilt and save her reputation. There must be more to wedlock than that, or naught but misery would result.

  Although a fake betrothal to him would keep her out of Lord Brooke’s clutches a while longer. Mayhap, she should reconsider.

  “Sir—”

  But Robert was already gone. The litter tipped as it was lifted and she heard the jingle of harness as the two horses were attached to the shafts, one before and one behind. She stuck her head out through the opening to call Robert back, only to see him disappearing into the inn.

  She fell back against the cushions as her conveyance jerked into motion. Alas—it was too late now to change her mind. It was doubtless for the best—one should never rush into decisions of such gravity, no matter how critical the circumstances.

  She remained lost in thought as the litter was borne to the highway, where it turned up in the direction of London. It was going to be a damnably uncomfortable journey, bouncing around in this cramped vehicle, feeling every movement of the horses’ hooves, every stone, every pothole. But at least she was protected from the sun and would have the changing scenery to look at, a welcome distraction from the confusion of her thoughts.

  A sudden shout disturbed her musings. The litter lurched and came to a halt. Before she could complain or question, a dark figure filled the opening. A stifling cloth was thrown over her head, and strong hands dragged her bodily out of the litter.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Despite the uneasy feeling that they had unfinished business, Robert forced the delectable Chloe from his mind and applied himself wholeheartedly to his work. His colleagues, Whiteley and Tilshead, would soon return from interrogating the weasel-faced man, so they could coordinate the search for the traitors’ stronghold. The White Hart could serve as their center of operations for the moment. Hazelthwaite’s hospitality was generous, his opinions sound. Robert could bespeak a private parlor, and the landlord would ensure it stayed private.

  He’d barely arranged matters with his host when word came via Sim that the gentlemen he’d been expecting had arrived.

  “Whiteley, Tilshead.” He nodded and invited them to sit and join him in a mug of mulled lambswool, made with freshly picked crab apples.

  “What, exactly, have we learned from my would-be killer?”

  Tilshead gave him a wry grimace. “I shan’t repeat all the fellow’s words, as many weren’t fit to be heard. But this particular nest of plotters consists of a further six vermin, I believe. They skulk nearby at a place called ‘The Whirlpool’.”

  “The Whirlpool? Is that a tavern name? I can’t believe it’s a genuine whirlpool—one tends not to associate such phenomena with the leafy lanes of Hampshire. Where is this place?”

  “Near the river somewhere. Close to a crossroads. I’m unsure—the fellow was mumbling a bit by then.”

  Robert suppressed a grimace. “Persuasion” was not a task in which he wished to be involved. He stood and gazed at a framed map on the wall, but could see naught that resembled a whirlpool. “We’ll have to rely on local knowledge.”

  There was no time to waste. As soon as the conspirators discovered one of their number was missing, they’d either flee or descend on the White Hart in search of their comrade.

  Robert patted his hidden pocket, comforted by the feel of his dispatch. His mission was now twofold—first, he had to get the damned thing to Walsingham while it still held any value for the queen’s spymaster. Second, he had to track down the network of conspirators to which their prisoner belonged.

  “Where are you keeping our friend?”

  Tilshead spat an apple pip into the hearth. “In a barn just north of Newbury. He’s well-guarded. What’s our next move to be?”

  Robert ran a finger around the inside of his collar. He was more than eager to get out of the stuffy parlor and head off on a fast horse in pursuit of his country’s enemies. It was no longer just a case of patriotism—the matter had now become personal. Not only had the weasel bested him, but he’d done so in front of an audience. And had the audacity to then turn his weapon on Chloe. Ignoble gutter-spawn!

  “I warrant Walsingham would advise us to separate and go in search of this whirlpool place, then report back here. Did the fellow reveal anything else?”

  “Nay. He fell into a faint. But he’ll have revived by the time we return to him. He may even be ready to give us the location of their hideout.”

  “Very well. Whiteley, you go west and make inquiries. I’ll go north. Tilshead, you can take the villages to the east. I’ll question the landlord here before I make my search, then meet you back at the inn around three of the clock. We can then determine our next move. If we’ve learned nothing more, I’ll have to leave our captive in your capable hands and continue my journey to London, as I have my urgent dispatch to deliver. Godspeed.”

  The other men emptied their cups, bowed, and left the room. Robert rose and headed to the stables, to seek out whichever nag looked to be the fastest and the fittest. He was just about to call for a groom when a shout from behind sent him spinning around, his sword ready in his hand.

  A bedraggled figure was dragging itself through the archway of the inn, one bloodied hand clutching the timberwork for support.

  Sim was there in an instant, bearing the injured man up. Robert sheathed his blade and hurried over. The unfortunate fellow’s face was covered in blood, his skin ashen and grey. Robert took the man’s other arm and helped him into the inn.

  It was the driver of the horse-drawn litter—the very one that had conveyed Chloe out of this yard not half an hour since. But where was its passenger?

  Goodwife Hazelthwaite hurried in with a crock of water and began sponging the rider’s face. The man’s eyes focused on Robert as he struggled to find the breath to speak.

  “I was attacked on the road, just up past Gallows Corner.”

  Robert felt nauseous. His voice was little more than a growl as he demanded, “Your passenger. The young lady. Where is she?”

  “They took her, sir,” was the devastating reply. “But they told me to give you this.”

  The man pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt and handed it to Robert.

  With a shock, Robert recognized it. It was Chloe’s precious letter, the one from Sir Mortimer to her mother. The pox-ridden scum who’d taken Chloe had scrawled something on the back of
it.

  “Mallory,” he read. “If you wish to see your wife again, return our friend, unharmed, to the new church on Ralston Hill. Come alone. Bring your dispatch. Be here by five of the clock. If you’re tardy, we shall feel obliged to kill her.”

  Robert’s hand was no longer steady. Rage swamped him.

  He would find Chloe, whatever the cost to himself. And if those demons had harmed her in any way, he’d cut them to pieces and feed them to the fishes, no matter what useful information they might have to divulge. Walsingham would be furious, but that was of little consequence now. He must get Chloe back, or die in the attempt.

  His hand shook as he refolded the note and tucked it away, resisting the urge to rip it into a thousand pieces. Fixing his eyes once more on the pitiful spectacle of the wounded driver, he knew a fury that he could hardly conceal.

  He nodded to the man. “You’ve acquitted yourself nobly and well. I can see you did what you could to defend your passenger. Despite your injuries, you’ve delivered this message to me as fast as you could. Rest now, in the assurance that your blow on the head shall be paid for in kind, with interest.”

  Once the litter driver had been removed upstairs to be nursed by Goody Hazelthwaite, Robert was at liberty to plan his strategy. It was no easy thing to accomplish—he could hardly think for the fury that boiled inside him. How dare any man attack the innocent Chloe! The thought that she might be dead froze his blood.

  He strode to the door and sucked in several deep breaths, then turned to face the landlord. “I need to find Mistress Emmerson’s abductors immediately—if I wait until the appointed hour for the exchange, she could be beyond our help. Can you think of anywhere around here that might be called ‘The Whirlpool’?”

  The man scratched at his beard. “Could be something to do with water. There are no waterfalls around here—the ground doesn’t rise high enough. The watermills have to use dams to get enough power.”