Page 36 of Lord of Mistrust

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 saw, 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.”