Page 38 of Lord of Mistrust

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 adornment 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.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t take her longer than ten minutes to make her way down to the service door. If any servant saw her speaking to Master Whiteley, she’d brazen it out or bribe them. But she just had to find out what was happening, and Whiteley was her only link to Robert. God forbid her aunt and uncle should catch her!

There was a footstep on the boards outside the solar. Chloe seized up her needlework and scurried across to the deep windowsill opposite the window she’d opened.

“Chloe?”

“Yes, Aunt Philippa?”

Her aunt waved a hand. “No need to rise, child. You’ll get your silks in a tangle. How do you fare?”

Praying her aunt wouldn’t notice the rapid rise and fall of her breathing, Chloe held out her work. “It proceeds apace. But I’m feeling stiff. Mayhap I should walk about a bit.”

“In good time. We could stroll about together—the unseasonable heat has eased, and the garden’s very pleasant. Do you really need that window open?”

“Oh, nay. I was releasing a trapped bee.” Chloe tried to put another stitch into her work, then discovered her fingers were trembling. She sucked at the loose end of her thread and smiled at her aunt. “You may close it now, by all means.”

She made another attempt to repair the embroidery.

“Lord Brooke has made an offer for you.”

The trembling became an uncontrollable shake, and she stabbed her needle into her thumb. “Ouch!”

“Have a care, child. You don’t want to bleed on that. ’Tis your uncle’s favorite nightshirt.”

Chloe thought quickly. “One moment, I pray. I’ll run down for a bandage and be back directly.”

Before Aunt Philippa could make any objection, Chloe had leaped from her seat and clamped a hand around the finger, concealing how minor the wound actually was. She hastened from the room, dragging an old handkerchief from her bosom as she went and tearing into it with her teeth to create a bandage.

Swift as a hare, she hurried downstairs and into the passageway leading to the service door. After a brief wrestle with the bolt, she opened it and was relieved to see Master Whiteley waiting patiently in the shadows.

“Quick, I pray. Will you tie this about my finger? No time to explain—I’ll be missed. Forgive me—I understand my guardians pretended they were out?”

Whiteley nodded. “Alas, they did. I know not what fault I’ve committed.”