Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  When he failed to release her, she tilted her chin and glared at him. “Let me go.” Her voice, though soft, held a warning.

  He ignored it. “Forgive me for this, too.”

  Before she could react, he’d released her hands, cupped her face, and pressed his lips hungrily over hers. She gulped and tried to pull away, but his merciless fingers dug into her shoulders, and he began his onslaught once more. His desire hit her full force, like a dam breaking, his need encompassing her, unstoppable, irresistible.

  Digging one hand into her hair, heedless of the elaborate coiffure which completed her classical costume, he pressed her head against his and deepened the kiss, working his mouth back and forth over hers. She gave way under the pressure and parted her lips to let him in.

  Her breath was tight in her throat, her blood thrumming through her veins. When his hands slid down to her waist and boldly pulled her hips hard against his, she didn’t try to move away. She was overcome by the strength of his need and shocked at the urgency of her own. Under the relentless probing of his kiss, she felt like one drowning.

  With a little moan, she slid her hands down to his waist and then around his back to pull him closer. Reaching up on tiptoe, she kissed him back with a fierceness that surprised her.

  She felt a tremor pass through his body. He lifted his head and gently disentangled himself from her embrace. Then he stepped back, maintaining his grip on her wrists.

  “That should never have happened. I’m an intemperate fool. Forgive me.”

  “Mistress Emmerson? Are you out here?”

  The blood pounded in her temples—Brooke had come in search of her. She had succeeded in making Robert jealous, quite patently, but the last thing she wanted was a confrontation between the two gentlemen.

  “Robert—”

  But she was alone beneath the yew hedge. How had he managed to disappear so quickly and completely?

  “Mistress, ’tis chill out here. And the gardens are full of unscrupulous drunkards and lechers, no doubt. Just because a man is a courtier and dressed like a peacock does not make him a gentleman. Here, take my cloak. See how chivalrous I am!”

  She sagged with relief. Lord Brooke gave no sign of having spotted her with Robert. She was grateful for the shadows which hid her blush, her bruised lips, and her—doubtless—damaged hairstyle.

  Brooke was definitely leering at her as he removed his cloak. She didn’t like the way his hand brushed her breast as he swung the garment around her shoulders. Expecting to be escorted back to the masque, she was puzzled when he made no move to return indoors.

  “It is so rare for us to have time alone, Chloe. You always seem to have a relation in tow, or that dratted boy, William. I cannot wait to make you my own, so we may be together without interruption. Then I can show you the delights of being wed to an experienced man.”

  “You are too forward, sir.” He was holding her close, using the cloak to trap her. His eyes were fastened on her mouth.

  “Not at all, wench. ’Tis not unusual for a man to sample the wares before he purchases them.”

  What had he said about lechers and drunks? When Lord Brooke was in his cups, it appeared he was no better than those he had earlier decried.

  “Release me, I pray. You have forgotten how a gentleman behaves.”

  “That is because he’s no gentleman.” Robert’s voice was cold with fury.

  Chloe saw an arm snake past her nose, and then Lord Brooke was sprawling on the sward, his eyes staring in dazed confusion at the night sky. Robert stepped over the fallen man and took her in his arms.

  “I’m so sorry you had to witness that, my love. But when he began pawing at you, I couldn’t help myself. Now, forgive me, but I must go. If I cannot remedy this, I may have just struck the most costly blow of my life.”

  With one last, searing kiss, he was gone.

  She didn’t know what astonished her most—the fact that Robert had called her “my love”, or that he’d hit Lord Brooke. Why had he run off and left her to deal with the bleeding nobleman? Feeling slightly sick, she fished for a handkerchief and pressed it under Brooke’s nose, then called for assistance.

  As the groaning man was helped away by other guests, she thrust his cloak to the ground and stalked back into the banqueting house to find her mother.

  “My dear girl, whatever has happened?” Dela broke off her conversation with a well-dressed gentleman, who appeared to be hanging on her every word. “I beg your pardon, Sir Francis. I think we must say our farewells.”

  “One moment, Mistress.” The gentleman rose, a slender, dark-eyed fellow, soberly dressed. He made Chloe his bow. “So, this is Mistress Chloe Emmerson?”

  She gave a tut of annoyance. She was in no mood for small talk with strangers.

  “It is, indeed,” her mother answered, sounding proud.

  “Francis Walsingham, at your service. I understand your escort is indisposed, and you may welcome some protection on your journey home.”

  Faith! How did he know about Lord Brooke? Did this man have eyes and ears in every corner? If so, he probably knew Robert had hit the man, too.

  Walsingham gave her a thin smile. “I’m always happy to oblige a lady, Mistress Emmerson. How fortuitous I should be here at this moment—I don’t normally attend such routs.”

  How did one talk to a man with so fearsome a reputation as Sir Francis Walsingham? And did one even need to talk at all, when those eyes seemed to penetrate one’s very thoughts?

  He released her from his probing gaze for a moment and helped both herself and her mother on with their cloaks. Then he opened his scrip and produced some masks. “I prefer to travel incognito. We are revelers, returning from this classically themed masque, still wearing our Grecian masks of Tragedy and Comedy. Permit me.”

  Chloe submitted to having the mask tied on, as did her mother. Both immediately looked as if they belonged to the company of nymphs who had performed the entertainment before the queen. Fortunately, Bess had already vanished into one of the anterooms at the top end of the banqueting hall, else it would have been the height of discourtesy for them to leave before she did.

  Walsingham threw a cloak about himself, donned a tragic mask, then stole a decorative wreath from one of the sconces and placed it on his head.

  “And thus the next act begins,” he announced cheerfully as he ushered them from the building.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “A pox on it, Whiteley! I fear I’ve ruined everything.” Robert gazed gloomily into his wine cup.

  His colleague stood by the window, sipping a tankard of small beer. He’d informed Robert it was far too early in the day to be drinking anything so strong as wine, but Robert felt he’d explode if he didn’t have something to calm his nerves.

  “I suspect you’ve ruined Mistress Emmerson’s chances with Lord Brooke, from what you’ve told me. And probably the man’s noble nose in the bargain. You should expect a summons to a duel this morning—if I’m not mistaken.”

  Robert rested his head in his hands. “That would please neither Sir Mortimer nor Walsingham. Although I hope the fact that I found and delivered another of the Catholic traitors to the latter last night will appease them somewhat.”

  “Well done! But how could you have done that and not involved me? Haven’t you learned yet you can’t be trusted to work alone? Did you deliver the man with all his pieces still attached?”

  Robert huffed out his indignation. “But of course! He was already missing a part of one ear—punishment for some earlier misdemeanor—but I was gentle with him. He was acting as a courier and piloting one of the tilt-boats up and down the Thames. He doesn’t swim too well, I discovered. There was little fight left in him by the time I fished him out of the river.”

  He paused. He was relieved to have rounded up one of the few remaining conspirators in this particular nest of vipers, but he’d acted without seeking permission.

  “I doubt I’ll receive any more commissions from Sir Fra
ncis or Sir Mortimer. I have an unfortunate habit of not following orders.”

  “What has Sir Mortimer to do with it?” Whiteley came to stand over him. “If you don’t tell me what all this is about, I may be forced to choke you.”

  With a sigh, Robert decided he had little to lose by informing a trusted member of Walsingham’s team of spies. So out came the whole sorry story—his gambling debt to Sir Mortimer, the fact that Chloe was Sir Mortimer’s daughter, and his promise to covertly watch over Lord Brooke, so he could be relieved of his debt.

  “My greatest difficulty is that I’ve fallen in love with Chloe. Yet, I’ve never been further from being able to wed her than I am at this moment.”

  “Would she have you if all these difficulties were surmounted?”

  “I know not. I’ve used her most ill.”

  “Tell me.”

  Robert thought back to his suspicions of her in Southampton, of his subsequent searching of her at the White Hart.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Please yourself, sir.” Whiteley sounded chagrined. But some of what had passed between Robert and Chloe was too private even for the ears of a friend.

  “I think,” Whiteley continued, wandering across to the hearth and prodding the log pile with his foot, “that the only way to atone for your sins is to make a full confession to the young lady. If she’s prepared to forgive you, you’re a lucky rogue, and I envy you.”

  “Mayhap I should, whether there is any hope for us or no. It would salve my conscience, at least, and perchance one day, my fortunes will have improved enough for me to offer her marriage. If she hasn’t already been taken by some damnable rogue who is luckier than me.”

  “It sounds as if that man will not be Lord Brooke, at least. If he was groping her as you say, her guardians will be unimpressed. And if we can take the fellow down and have him executed for treason, then your problem is solved.”

  “You forget, Whiteley—no one is meant to know about Lord Brooke’s guilt. I was supposed to spy on him, and all I have gathered to date is that he is a boor and a scoundrel. I also know that he detests bear-baiting, cockfighting, the theatre, and Queen Elizabeth. Now, you are sworn to secrecy. I suppose what I must do is go to Sir Mortimer and confess my mission has failed, and be prepared to be in debt to him for the next ten years. And even when I’m paid up, I very much doubt he’d let me marry Chloe after I’ve proved myself both a hothead and an incompetent spy.”

  “You weren’t born to this, Robert, but you’ve done well and fought bravely. Why don’t I take over the watch on Lord Brooke and report back to you? I swear I won’t break my cover by hitting him at a royal masque.”

  “I don’t know if he saw or recognized me. It happened too fast. But ’tis a risk I dare not take.”

  A shadow passed the window, and there was a sudden pounding on the street door. Robert’s cup slipped to the floor. “Who is it?” he hissed, moving toward the parlor door.

  “A boy with a message, by the looks of it. This could be the summons from Lord Brooke you’ve been expecting. Seems he did recognize you, after all.”

  Robert straightened and took a deep breath. Time to meet his fate and pay the price of his folly. He made sure to buckle his sword around his hips before leaving the room.

  Goodwife Chandler intercepted him. “A note for you, sir,” she announced, handing him a paper. “The lad didn’t wait for a reply.”

  The weight of approaching doom settled over him. Almost, he welcomed it. A contretemps with Lord Brooke had been in the offing for weeks. Soon, everything between them would be settled, for better or worse.

  He opened up the note, then stared at it in astonishment. “It’s not from Brooke.” He read it again, to make sure he’d understood it aright.

  “’Tis from Sir Mortimer Fowler. He bids me meet him at the Emmersons’ house at Moorgate. I must go at once.”

  “Shall I come, too?” Whiteley reached for his hat.

  “Should we be seen together?” Robert was struggling to marshal his thoughts. Sir Mortimer had no reason to challenge him to a duel. At least, not one that he could possibly know about.

  “I don’t think that matters now. Let’s have our horses saddled up, and head for Moorgate, where we shall see what’s afoot.”

  It took but a moment to ready themselves—working for Walsingham had taught his men to be prepared for action at a moment’s notice. As they headed off toward London’s northern boundary, Robert shot Whiteley a rueful look.

  “I’m sorry I caused you to be involved with this. It was never my intention to put others at risk.”

  Whiteley grinned. “When I signed up with Sir Francis, I had all my wits about me, I swear it. I confess to enjoying the danger, being tested time and time again, and outwitting our foes. Don’t tell me you don’t care for it?”

  He did care for it. It made him feel alive. But something fired his blood still more—Chloe Emmerson. He must be circumspect about what he did in the future if he was ever fortunate enough to take her to wife. He’d never be forgiven if he left her a widow.

  Robert advised Whiteley to make the rest of the journey in silence, not wishing to let drop any word that could fall upon the wrong ears. London was filled with pimps, vagabonds, cony-catchers, and cutpurses, any one of whom would sell their soul for a groat. There was no way of knowing how many loyal Catholic supporters of Queen Mary of Scotland might skulk among their ranks—hiding in plain sight, as it were.

  It wasn’t long before he found himself once again at Chloe’s door. Then, he’d been returning her to her guardians. Now, he knew not what awaited him.

  “Shall I come in with you?” Whiteley offered.

  The door sprang open, and a serving wench bobbed to them. “God give you good day, sirs. The young mistress says I’m to show Sir Robert Mallory in. If he brings anyone with him, she bids me say they must wait by the foot of the stairs. None may come up until the bells have rung eleven.”

  Robert doffed his hat and stepped inside, his mind charging hither and thither. “Mistress Chloe commands you?”

  “Aye. Everyone else is out at present—including all the servants but me. Mistress Chloe is indisposed, but says she can tolerate a visit from you alone, Sir Robert.”

  His mouth twisted. She could “tolerate” him? “Do Master and Mistress Emmerson know I’m due to visit?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.” The wench dipped her head at Whiteley and indicated a high-backed chair near the foot of the stairs. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting there, sir, I’ll show the other gentleman up. None are to go above for the next half an hour—those were the young mistress’ orders.”

  Whiteley winked. “A tryst, Sir Robert, by my life! I shall unsheathe my sword and make sure you’re not disturbed.”

  Robert avoided Whiteley’s eyes. A tryst was the best he could hope for, a tirade the worst. The latter seemed the most likely.

  He was shown upstairs, and into a cozy, darkened room that smelled of beeswax and rose petals. The shutters were closed against the chill, and embers glowed in the tiny hearth. The room was dominated by a carved oak bed with embroidered curtains and canopy. A female shape lay beneath the coverlet.

  “My lady.” He swept Chloe a deep bow, failed to find a chair, so perched himself at the foot of her bed. “How do I find you after last night? Not taken a chill, I hope?”

  She flung back the covers, and he realized she was fully dressed, but minus shoes. She sat on the edge of the bed, easily within kissing distance. His stomach tightened.

  “I’m absolutely fine, Robert, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. We have unfinished business, you and I.”

  “You cunning little fox—there’s naught wrong with you at all.” As he’d suspected.

  “Ah, but there is.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “You’ve severely wounded my pride.”

  “How so?”

  “You once offered to marry me, but never repeated that offer. Ever since, I’ve been wondering what it is about my per
son, or my character, that so offends you.”

  “Jesu!” Robert seized her hand. “It’s naught to do with you—the fault is all mine. I’ve never before met so charming, beautiful, great-hearted, or brave a lady as you.”

  “Go on. I require you to do penance. Flattery is a fine beginning.”

  “I would have offered for you again—Lord knows I want to, but my hands are tied. I have nothing to offer you, my love.”

  “Ah, there it is again. The word ‘love’. You used it last night as well. I wonder if you have any idea how much store a woman sets by that word.”

  He tightened his grip. Of course, he knew. He’d not used the word lightly.

  Her hazel eyes locked with his. “Forget not that the main thing you have to offer is yourself.”

  He pressed her knuckles against his cheek, then kissed them. He shouldn’t offer her hope or dare to dream. Sir Mortimer would veto any union between them. Especially now that Robert had failed in his duty to net Lord Brooke.

  “Don’t do this, Chloe—don’t make it any harder than it is. You’ve only just begun in life. Don’t think yourself in love with the first man who crosses your path. I am unworthy.”

  “Shh.” Chloe laid a finger on his lips. “I cannot change the strength of my feelings. I know you like me and I can’t understand what’s holding you back. Your reticence hurts me deeply.”

  He ran his hands over his face. She was right. She deserved an explanation, so why shouldn’t he make a clean breast of it? He had nothing left to lose. If she thought the worst of him after his disclosure—well, he’d learn to live with it. He released her hand and turned to face her.

  “I am, or was, in debt to your father, Sir Mortimer Fowler.”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought you had a fine estate in Berkshire?”

  “I do, but our assets had been depleted by my father, and after his death, I needed coin in order to save the honor of my sister, Meg. A contemptible rogue by the name of Townley lay with her. He would have left her to bear a bastard babe, had I not amassed a generous dowry for her.”