Page 13 of Lord of Mistrust

It was the carter himself who helped Chloe and Goodwife Ramsay back onto the wagon. Sir Robert seemed to have forgotten Chloe’s very existence, giving the lie to Goody Ramsay’s assertions. He leaned still as a stone in an oak’s leafy shade, one hand pressed to his heart as if he had a pain there. Suddenly, he bent, skirted the tree, and scanned the ground round about as if looking for something.

Chloe tutted to herself. Surely, he hadn’t lost his locket again? Whatever it was, he refused to abandon looking for it until the carter started grumbling that it was time to be off. Sir Robert stalked across and heaved himself atop the wagon.

As he sat opposite her once more, she saw his expression was grim, and his face pale. Concerned despite herself, Chloe pulled the stopper from her costrel and offered him what remained of the elderflower wine. He accepted it, sniffed at it—then gave it back to her, scowling.

“You look unwell, sir. I fear you’ve overexerted yourself in this heat.”

He raised an eyebrow and leaned closer. “Are you telling me you don’t know what’s amiss?”

“Of course not,” she whispered back. She realized he was simmering with fury, but trying not to show it. He glared at her for a moment, then bent his blue gaze on the man she’d decided to christen Weasel Face. Before she could question Sir Robert any further, the wagon lurched off, and she had to cling on to avoid being jolted about.

He didn’t deserve her concern. He was a nuisance, an inconvenience—and she wasn’t in the least bit flattered by his interest in her. There was nothing noble about his intentions, and she thoroughly disliked his lack of trust in her.

Nothing more was said, but Sir Robert’s mood weighed her down and leached all pleasure from the day. It was a relief when they trundled to a halt before an inn bearing the name of the White Hart. He was out of the cart before anyone else, helping the passengers down. She was left until last but, this time, his hands didn’t linger, and he immediately turned away. She hung about uncertainly in the yard while the other passengers disappeared, and the cart headed off to be repaired.

Would they have to spend the night at this inn? It couldn’t be much past midday now, but she’d no idea how long it would take to fix the axle. She’d stayed at an inn on her journey south, but she’d been in the guise of a boy then. She didn’t feel half so safe in her present garb. Mayhap she could share a chamber with Goody Ramsay and her basket of eggs.

“Carry your bag, Mistress?” A boy emerged from the doorway and gave her a gap-toothed grin.

“Greetings, Sim! How goes it?”

He’d done it again—Sir Robert had snuck up on her.

He seemed to know the potboy. “Sir!” The lad gave an awkward bow. “I’ll run in and tell them you’re here.”

Chloe sighed. It looked as if she’d be carrying her own bag.

Sir Robert seized it from her. “I’ll take this. My chest is already gone inside. I’m sorry you were left until last.”

Though he smiled, there was no warmth in his voice. Whatever had angered him had not yet been resolved. She hoped it was nothing to do with her.

“You know that boy?” she queried.

“Sim? Aye. I’ve been this way before. The landlord is called Hazelthwaite—a sound fellow.”

“Shall we be forced to stay here, think you?”

“I’d bespeak a room, if I were you, just in case. We shall, at the very least, be taking our midday meal here. Dine well and rest while you can—the carrier won’t want to make too many more stops now that he’s been delayed.”

Chloe stepped through the shadowy tavern doorway and waited for her eyes to get used to the gloom. The coolness of the flagstones was welcome, and the smell of baking bread enticing. Some of the tension left her.

“Hazelthwaite!” Sir Robert had a mighty loud voice when he chose to use it. Chloe jumped, then glanced around to ensure no one had seen her.

The taproom was empty but for Weasel Face, who touched his cap at her, then continued with his drink.

A thin-faced man strode in and beamed at Sir Robert.

“All is in readiness, sir. I made sure no one took your preferred room as soon as I spied you arriving.”

“You have my thanks, Master. But you have another customer waiting.” Sir Robert bowed and indicated Chloe.

The landlord’s face fell. “Begging your pardon, Mistress, but that was the last of the rooms. Someone will put you up in the village for a groat or two, I’m sure—I’ll send Sim to knock on a few doors.”

Chloe’s heart sank. This was a complication she could do without.

“I won’t hear of it.” Sir Robert nodded in her direction. “Mistress Emmerson must have my room. I’ll go to the village, or make up a pallet in your hayloft.”

Her urge to be impressed by his generosity was eclipsed by the fact that he knew her name. How long had he known it? Why call her Madam Mystery if he knew who she was—what manner of game was the man playing?