Infuriating knave! Why could he not have told her what he’d planned? They’d had plenty of opportunity during their long ride. And why could she not be present when he met her father? Surely, she had more right than Robert. It was abominable that women were so seldom permitted to be involved in such matters. Were the words, opinions, and insights of the gentler sex not of value, too?
As she neared the house, her aunt and uncle’s voices drifted to her ears from the open parlor window.
Her aunt, who sounded much recovered, was speaking. “Can we trust to the discretion of the gentlemen not to noise Chloe’s misadventure abroad? I would not have it known she’s the kind to get herself into a scrape. Lord Brooke would never approve.”
Chloe’s heart sank. Were they still thinking of uniting her to Lord Brooke? Had her perilous exploits been to no avail? She must trust Robert to talk Sir Mortimer around. Indeed, her father was the only one who could veto her guardians’ decision.
“They seem pleasant enough fellows, my dear. I doubt there’s any cause for concern.”
“But scandal has a way of rising to the top, like scum on a fishpond. Other people were involved in Chloe’s rescue from those rogues in Hampshire, and they may have been of the lesser kind, and disinclined to hold their tongues.”
Chloe crouched low below the window, eager to hear what she could. A peep into the room showed Uncle Matthew standing by the fireplace, one booted foot resting on the hearthstone.
“The only solution that I can see is to give the girl distraction and, at the same time, secure her reputation. Forgive me, but seeing what happened with your sister, I warrant we can take no chances with Chloe. Should she prove to have the same willful, volatile nature… I hate to speak ill of Patience, but there it is.”
Chloe flushed. She was not one bit like her mother. Why did Uncle Matthew think of her as volatile?
“Then, the best solution, Husband, is that Chloe should be wed as soon as possible. She’ll have the protection of her husband’s name, and the distraction of a house to run and a family to bring up. Do you think Lord Brooke will have her if we can keep this escapade quiet?”
Chloe peeped in the window again and saw Uncle Matthew sucking on his finger. “There’s always Sir Robert, of course. He seems personable enough and can be relied upon to keep her secret since he was involved in her mishap. He seems to like the wench. And he’s already acquainted with Sir Mortimer. I wonder if that sanctimonious hypocrite can ever be availed upon to recognize his own flesh and blood.”
This sounded a far better solution than being packed off to Lord Brooke. Chloe forced her shoulders to relax.
But Aunt Philippa had other ideas. “What seems unfair is that Chloe should be foisted onto a fellow we barely know, despite his obvious advantages. She may have had her head turned by him as he’s rescued her from dire circumstances, but we can’t rely on her being either safe or happy with him. At least we know Lord Brooke. He’s a sober soul, albeit a stiff-neck, and knows how to treat a wife, having had two already. He would soon calm Chloe’s rebellious spirit. She’d be secure, quiet, and content with him. Robert Mallory is too much of an unknown quantity.”
Chloe’s shoulders tensed again. If they forced her to wed that gloomy old shell of a man, she’d wither away and die. Or be forced to run away and never see her aunt and uncle more. Mayhap her mother would be more forthcoming if she paid another visit to Southampton.
“So, you think Robert Mallory might be a dangerous influence on Chloe?” Uncle Matthew was now pacing about the room.
“I fear he might. And he might not support such a scheme in any case. We know for certain Lord Brooke is eager for a wife, and the sooner he gets Chloe, the better.”
“Then it’s settled.” Uncle Matthew’s fist hit the fireplace lintel with a decisive thump. “She shall wed Lord Brooke, as originally planned. Sir Robert’s attentions—if he wishes to press them—will not be welcomed. And neither he nor Master Whiteley will be allowed to see Chloe again.”
Sinking to her knees beneath the window, Chloe struggled to breathe. After everything she’d been through, she was right back where she’d started. And even if Robert managed to talk to her father and find a solution, what could he do if he was forbidden from the house?
This was a disaster. And at present, she could think of no means to overcome it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Robert presented himself to Sir Francis Walsingham the following day, he knew he wasn’t looking his best. His arm had pained him throughout the night, depriving him of rest, and even when a heavy dose of laudanum had dulled the pain, he was subjected to nightmares. These generally involved some unspeakable harm befalling Chloe.
Sir Francis had elected to meet him in the Half Moon tavern, a dark, seedy establishment near Charing Cross. The place had changed its name many times and also seemed to change its staff as often as a respectable gentlewoman changed her linens. Sir Francis had bespoken a private parlor, where it was unlikely any dealings he had would be overheard.
So, feeling unwell and certain of being taken to task over his failures, Robert was dismayed to discover his employer was not alone. With his high crowned hat placed on the table in front of him, Sir Mortimer Fowler sat toying with his bejeweled riding gloves.
Neither man stood or bowed as Robert ducked his head and entered the dingy room. This did not bode well.
“Good day to you, Sir Robert.” Walsingham tapped some documents on the table. “I have here Master Whiteley’s report on events down in Hampshire, as well as your dispatch, which was delivered to me a couple of days ago.”
What was Sir Mortimer doing here? Why should he be a party to what was supposed to be a highly sensitive matter? Robert raised an eyebrow.
“I understand you already know Sir Mortimer.” Walsingham fixed Robert with his penetrating gaze. “You know, I believe, of his interest in this matter. It concerns the involvement of a certain Mistress Chloe Emmerson.”
Robert swallowed hard. “I appreciate that, but—”
His employer waved him into silence. “What you do not know—as I prefer my operatives to be ignorant of one another where possible—is that Sir Mortimer is an old acquaintance of mine and has occasionally provided me with invaluable information. Now, to business. You may wish to sit down.”
Robert certainly did. He also wished for a cup of strong spirits to ease the throbbing in his wounded arm. Managing the reins of a series of sprightly mounts on the journey to London had put a strain on the injured limb. He was now paying the price.
“It is unusual, Sir Robert, to involve the populace at large in our clandestine activities. And yet, that is what you appear to have done regarding Sir Mortimer’s daughter.”
Robert could have pretended he knew not that they were father and daughter, but Walsingham had a way of making one tell the absolute truth. There was no point in dissembling.
“I knew nothing of Mistress Emmerson’s connection with Sir Mortimer until we were forced to take refuge at the same wayside tavern. Our meeting was not of my devising. I would never have deliberately put her in harm’s way. Nor anyone else for that matter. You have my word on it.”
Walsingham glanced at one of the papers. “And yet Whiteley’s report says our quarry, the Queen of Scots’ supporters, used Mistress Emmerson as bait to ambush you, capture your packet, and doubtless torture out of you everything you know about my organization.”
Robert grimaced. “I was eager to avoid that, if at all possible.”
“My point is, sir, that the plotters may have already known Mistress Emmerson was Sir Mortimer’s natural daughter, and would therefore be a valuable asset. Or they had reason to believe you were sufficiently enamored of her to trade places.”
Robert straightened his shoulders. He’d hazarded his life to save both Chloe and the dispatch, yet he was being treated like a wayward child. Some gratitude, indeed!
“I cannot say which is true, sir. I know not what the conspirators sa
w, or thought they saw, but my chivalry to Mistress Emmerson was nothing out of the ordinary. It went no further than giving her the use of my usual bedchamber at the White Hart when our wagon broke down.”
He could feel Sir Mortimer’s eyes upon him and turned to face the man.
“The lady had set out on her own account to find her mother, she told me. After that, she was determined to find you.” It was Sir Mortimer who should feel guilty, abandoning the woman he’d brought to child-bed, and subsequently her daughter. If it hadn’t been for the generosity of the Emmersons in taking her in… Robert narrowed his eyes at Sir Mortimer. Mayhap he’d known all along where Chloe was being brought up—had colluded in it, even. Yet he refused to visit or publicly acknowledge her.
Well, that was his loss. And when he’d paid his debt to Sir Mortimer, and the man no longer had him in his pocket, he’d tell him exactly what he thought of him.
Sir Mortimer said nothing, but his brows came together, his expression growing more inimical by the minute. Robert must remember he was on treacherous ground.
Walsingham glanced at the report again. “Setting aside the unfortunate involvement of Mistress Emmerson, there is the question of your extremely… er… destructive foray into the old fulling mill. Was it necessary to enact such slaughter? The information we might have obtained from these blackguards would have been invaluable.”
“I’m aware of that, Sir Francis, and truly regret the loss of life. In my defense, I was operating alone and with little time left to me. With none to watch my back, I had to disable the ruffians as speedily as possible, lest any harm come to Sir Mortimer’s daughter.”
“So, you felt you had no other choice? I’d so hate to think you dashed in there like any youngblood, with a death or glory attitude. I cannot tolerate foolish bravado amongst my operatives.”
Robert inclined his head at Walsingham. “I assure you—I did not act irrationally. And we still have Master Harris in custody. There’s also the man with the torn ear—has he been captured or interrogated yet?”
“Thereby hangs a tale. I could not find that you ever opened your dispatch, or that our enemies had time to do so either. I understand it did leave your hands for a short while, thanks to Master Harris?”
The pointed stares of both men were becoming distinctly unnerving. Robert lifted his chin.
“I regret that it did leave my hands, sir.” What was coming next? Hopefully, nothing further to do with Chloe.
“The dispatch implicates a certain Lord Brooke in a plot to free Mary Queen of the Scots from Tixall Manor in Staffordshire. ’Tis a clear successor to the Babington plot, and equally as dangerous to the realm. The farrier local to the mill where Mistress Emmerson was held recalls dealing with a foreign-sounding fellow who claimed to be from Staffordshire. He remembered him, he says, because he had a torn ear and—though dressed as a servant—he rode a fine horse. The animal bore a crested shield on its harness, which he didn’t recognize. But he was able to describe it. It turns out to be Lord Brooke’s armorial device.”
Lord Brooke, Lord Brooke. Where had he heard that name before? Robert shook his head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met the man.”
“Well, it’s my intention that you shall do so soon. Sir Mortimer, would you like to take over at this point?”
Sir Mortimer coughed, and—for the first time since the meeting began—looked uneasy. “I know not if she has told you so, Sir Robert, but Lord Brooke has shown an inclination toward my daughter. Very occasionally, I meet with her uncle to ensure he has sufficient funds to keep her comfortable. That’s how I discovered this association with Brooke.” He took a deep draft from the tankard at his elbow before continuing. “I now find myself in a delicate position. Before I discovered Lord Brooke was under suspicion, I would have given my wholehearted support to the match. Now, of course, there’s no question of a betrothal to Chloe. Yet if I forbid, or rather, instruct Matthew Emmerson to forbid it, Lord Brooke will want to know why. We cannot afford to have anything startle the man. He’ll be on his guard after the massacre at the mill, and any change in Chloe’s family’s demeanor toward him will give him pause for thought. I’ve discussed this with Sir Francis, and we feel Brooke should be closely watched, so we may learn his habits, note those with whom he has regular contact, and keep track of his movements. At the same time, he must be made to feel at his ease.”
Robert pressed his lips together. He had a fair idea where this conversation was going, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
“What Sir Mortimer is leading up to, Sir Robert, is that I have a new commission for you. You are to keep a watchful eye on both Lord Brooke and Mistress Emmerson. On the one hand, you must ensure no harm comes to her. On the other, you must learn everything you can of Lord Brooke.”
Robert ran a hand over his aching arm. Perfect. He was supposed to see Chloe and Lord Brooke together and not intervene. He’d have to suffer Lord Brooke’s courtship of her, encourage it even—yet be unable to explain to her the reason why.
He just couldn’t do it. “I regret, sirs, that I have to decline your offer. I have an injured arm, and need to take my ease—I had thought to return to my manor in Berkshire.” This last was a falsehood—he’d intended to rest up at his London house and see as much as he could of the delectable Chloe.
Sir Mortimer’s bushy eyebrows came together. “May I remind you, Sir Robert—that manor in Berkshire is largely mortgaged to me.”
Robert’s head shot up, and he glared back, his pride stung. “I do not forget it, sir. I’m endeavoring to honor my debt to you through the tasks I perform for Sir Francis.”
“That debt will be written off if you agree to do this.”
Robert stared at Walsingham, then at Sir Mortimer. His debt would be written off? Temptation, indeed! Would it really be so difficult to watch Lord Brooke making calf’s eyes at Chloe, and not strangle the man?
“My deepest apologies, sirs, but I need time to consider my answer. I’m weary, and my arm pains me.”
“Dammit, sirrah, there’s no time to lose.” Sir Mortimer no longer looked uncomfortable. He was not, as Robert had already discovered, a man to be crossed.
Robert leaned forward, touching a hand to his brow. His forehead felt hot as a blacksmith’s fire. “Forgive me. I think I need something to drink and some vittles. When I’m feeling more myself, I shall give you my answer.”
He stood, intending to find a serving wench and order some refreshment, but his body no longer knew which direction was upright. His knees buckled, and he collapsed back into his chair.
Then darkness overtook him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A week had passed and Robert hadn’t called upon Chloe. He’d thus been spared the ignominy of not being welcomed, but she couldn’t understand why he hadn’t made the attempt.
Despite not being permitted to leave the house, she managed to avoid thinking about Robert every minute of the day. But there was no keeping him out of her dreams, which he haunted with frightening regularity. The variety of situations in which he featured ranged from the mundane to the bizarre. Sometimes he was clothed in the finery befitting a man of his station, sometimes unclothed. The latter dreams were usually the best, and she awoke from them with a hot thrill of desire that made her flush with both anticipation and shame.
The only visitor who was welcomed at the Moorgate house was, of course, Lord Brooke. A tall, gaunt gentleman approaching his fortieth summer, Brooke was politeness itself. As she’d been gone from home but a few days on her jaunt down to Southampton, he had no knowledge of her escapade. Therefore, he had no reason to think any less of her as a suitable prospect for a wife. Unfortunately.
It was a shame he made her flesh crawl. But there was something about those hooded grey eyes that made her uncomfortable. When he smiled, he bared his teeth, and there was no warmth of expression. How vivid and alive Robert was compared to this animated cadaver! Brooke looked puritan to the hilt, with no adorn
ment about his person and none of the usual accouterments of wealth.
In conversation, he said nothing of either interest or consequence. There was no sport of which he approved, no luxury in which he indulged, and no music he liked, although he paraded his smile when she was forced to perform “Pastime with Good Companie” on her shawm for him.
Despite the coolness of his address and the apparent indifference with which he took his leave, Chloe’s aunt and uncle were greatly pleased. Chloe dared not offer an opinion, for fear of giving away what she’d heard through the window the previous week. But she felt the peril of her situation ever more keenly, and her longing for Robert to rescue her again formed an ache around her heart.
Fortunately, she had not long to wait before tidings of him reached her. But they were not what she wanted to hear.
She was up in the solar, making the most of the light to complete repairs to some blackwork embroidery when someone banged on the front door. Peering out the window, she recognized the form and attire of Master Whiteley.
“Sir, good morrow!” She waved down at him, her heart leaping. But the visage he lifted to her was solemn. Before any more could pass between them, Chloe heard the door open, and the voice of the family’s manservant, Rackham.
Whiteley nodded at the servant. “Master Whiteley for Mistress and Master Emmerson, if you please.”
“I regret, sir, they’re not able to see you.”
Fie on her aunt and uncle! They were carrying through their threat of forbidding Robert and his associates in the house. She’d rather hoped they’d thought better of it by now. Whiteley paused, then nodded his acquiescence. There followed the ominous sound of the door thumping shut.
Horrified, she pushed as far out of the window as she dared. “Master Whiteley!”
Glancing up, he put a finger to his lips, then indicated the side of the house, where a service door opened onto the street. She lifted her hands, fingers spread, and he nodded, then vanished from her view.
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 13