Page 20 of Lord of Mistrust

She answered his question with two of her own. “How do you know him? Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

“There’s no error. His signature, his seal.” Both were branded on Robert’s memory. Residing with his man of business was a document that required him to repay a large sum of money he’d lost to Sir Mortimer at the gaming tables. He’d only been trying to pay back the money he’d borrowed to fund Meg’s marriage before the interest rate climbed any higher. The memory of the debacle made Robert grit his teeth—the debt was an open wound, a persistent pain.

None of it was Sir Mortimer’s fault, of course. He’d beaten Robert fair and square, and Robert had had too much pride to explain the situation and seek the man’s mercy. Besides, owning his reasons openly would expose Meg’s shame, and he could never do that. She was an innocent who’d been seduced by a philanderer.

He felt sick. He’d been about to seduce Sir Mortimer’s daughter, still thinking her a cunning and clever whore. Putting lust aside, if he thought about it, her response to him had been warm but untutored. He’d erred again—she was no doxy.

He thrust the letter at her. “Tell me about your mother and father. What happened?”

She crawled beneath the bed covers, pulled them up to her chin, then glared balefully at him. “Very well. I’ll tell you what you want to know. So long as you tell me how I can find my father.”

He nodded and forced himself to take some deep breaths.

“Dela Riviere is my mother. Her real name is Patience Gage. Her family cast her out after a liaison with my father—the result of which was me.”

Robert could hardly believe his ears. This untarnished beauty was Mistress Riviere’s daughter? His knees gave way, and he sank down onto the lid of his chest.

“Of course, I don’t remember this,” Chloe continued. “My aunt and uncle, who raised me from when I was small, let me believe I was orphaned. But when I eventually found my mother, she told me she had done what she could to support us both by honest means. But ere long, she had discovered her physical charms and experience to be her best financial assets.”

Chloe paused, and a blush stole over her face. “You can imagine the rest. Anyway, my lady mother’s straitlaced sister Philippa had, by that time, wed Matthew Emmerson, attorney-at-law. The union proved childless, so a bargain was struck. My mother was convinced that it was for the best to give me up, and did so. I might have been an encumbrance anyway, in her chosen profession.”

She paused and swallowed. “I’ve only found this out very recently. My mother refused to surrender my father’s name, certain he would shun me and, mayhap, take vengeance on our family. Tell me, is he that unforgiving, my father?”

That was something they were both about to find out. Robert chewed on his lip. “I don’t know him well,” he hedged, needing to hear the rest of the story. “Pray, go on.”

“There’s no more, really. I had to steal the letter you have before you. I took it from what appeared to be a batch of love letters.”

He let out a mirthless laugh. The idea of Sir Mortimer ever being in love! But he’d been young once and was probably handsome in his prime. Now that Robert knew the truth, he could see Chloe took after her mother, who—although mature—was still very striking.

He glanced at Chloe, recalling the taste of her kiss, the feel of her fingers in his hair. And the swell of her breast beneath his eager tongue. He’d seduced an innocent young gentlewoman, with a rich and powerful father who just happened to the be the man holding Robert’s future in his hands.

Add to that the fact that he’d spent a considerable amount of time alone with her in his chamber, and his doom was complete. Could the matter be hushed up? Unlikely. Could Sir Mortimer be kept ignorant of how Robert had drugged, searched, and seduced the man’s daughter? He could only hope.

But such things had a way of coming to light. Besides—even though he was a spy, he was still a gentleman. As far as he could see, there was only one course open to him.

He got to his feet and took her hand. “Mistress Emmerson—I deeply regret embroiling you in this dangerous affair of mine. Had you told me the truth of your quest at the outset, matters might have been different. But as things stand, I think it would be best for your reputation—and for what remains of my honor—if we were to become betrothed. If you will have me, of course.”

Her fingers felt limp in his, and she looked bewildered. Then her eyes narrowed as the color returned to her face. She whipped her hand away.

“I do not pretend to understand you, sir. I have no intention of marrying you, or anyone else at present. All I wanted was to be known to my true family. I had no intention of saddling myself with a husband as well. Now, begone, break your fast, and we shall forget all about your foolish suggestion.”

“Nay!” He stepped toward her. “You don’t understand.” Dare he tell her of Meg’s shame, the need to borrow money, and his debt to Sir Mortimer? It would be unfair on his sister to expose her good name to the whims of a young woman whom he barely knew.

As if reading his thoughts, Chloe snapped, “You insult me with your offer, sir. We are but strangers. What happened just now was an unfortunate lapse of common sense, but the circumstances were exceptional. To be united as the result of a moment’s indiscretion would be the utmost folly. Now, go below and eat, and we’ll say no more about this.”

“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.”