Page 4 of Lord of Mistrust

There’d been a crowd around the insensible Claude for a while, and he’d been distracted. He’d taken off his cloak—had that revealed the telltale bump? But surely, no one had been close enough to see and take his locket—except Goodwife Fairclough, who could be discounted. Which left only Claude.

The sly little mongrel! The boy had chosen a valuable piece to thieve—the gold was worth more than the contents of Robert’s purse, and the locket was his most valued possession. It contained a miniature portrait of his sister, Meg. The likeness had been taken shortly before she went to court—he’d have sold all he owned before giving up the locket.

Gritting his teeth, he took a determined step toward Dela’s bawdy house, ready to demand the locket’s return. Then he halted, aware that for a spy to draw attention to himself in any way could prove fatal.

It wasn’t part of his mission to stir up a hornets’ nest in the stews. They were useful places for gathering intelligence. Even high-up officers of state let their secrets slip in a moment of passion or after being plied with brandywine. If he wanted to avoid attention, he couldn’t charge into the place like a rampaging bull.

The best thing he could do to get his locket back was to lie in wait until Claude re-emerged.

And when he did, there would be a reckoning.

Chapter Four

“Merciful heaven!” The buxom woman in the tightly-laced bodice flung up her hands and stared at Chloe. “It can’t be. I don’t believe it. More light, Frederick, more light.”

The diminutive youth who’d shown Chloe up the stairs obligingly drew back the heavy drapes, revealing wide-open windows. It was still so sultry outside, not one whiff of breeze disturbed the heavy perfume that filled the room.

Sunlight poured in, with a penetrating radiance that made the matron fling up her hands again, this time to cover her eyes.

“Forgive me. I cannot abide daylight until I’ve been up a whole two hours. One has to stay up late in this profession.” She tilted her head at Chloe. “You do know what manner of place you’re in?”

Struggling to settle her nerves, Chloe nodded. She’d already had one shock today, and now she was reeling at the fact that her natural mother ran a bawdy house.

“There may be some mistake.” Her voice came out as a croak. “I may have remembered the address wrong, I suppose.” But there was something familiar about the woman in front of her that couldn’t be denied. If she wasn’t Chloe’s mother, she must be a near relation, particularly with those straight, serious-looking eyebrows and those curling chestnut locks.

“Pray, sit. Frederick, bring refreshment, I pray.”

Chloe collapsed onto the settle, while the woman she’d been told was called Mistress Dela Riviere draped herself over the four-poster bed. Could she, indeed, have the wrong person? Gage had been her aunt’s maiden name, not Riviere.

The lady shaded her eyes. “Are you dressed as a boy?”

“I am, Mistress. I thought it best as I was coming alone.”

“Call me Dela. So, you’re a runaway, are you? Who are your parents?”

“I assumed you were one of them, but only if Dela Riviere is a false name. In the letters sent to Aunt Philippa bearing this as the return address, the writer signed herself ‘Patience Gage’.”

The woman on the bed went still. She was silent so long, Chloe wondered if she’d fallen asleep.

“Don’t fidget, child.” Dela’s voice was lower, more natural now. She exhaled slowly. “I suppose I knew this moment would come. But Philippa must have upset you greatly to make you seek me out. It is extremely dangerous for a young woman to be willful. Why, I myself—but nay. That tale can wait. Ah, Frederick, thank you. A cup of watered wine for our guest, and my usual tisane for me. Almond cakes, my dear? They’re made with the finest white breadcrumbs, and honey from our own hives.”

Chloe nodded and was offered a wooden platter heaped with well-browned cakes. She took a bite of one. It was dry and crumbly but sweet. She washed it down with a deep draft of wine, then took another bite of her cake, unsure what to say or do next. This wasn’t exactly how she’d expected her adventure to play out.

“Don’t tell me.” Dela stabbed a finger in her direction. “You’ve reached the age where they want to be rid of you, to have you wed. And your suitor pleases you not. Have I the right of it?”

Chloe coughed and took another swig of wine. “So, are you my mother?” It seemed essential to settle that fact before sharing any confidences.

“Aye, indeed. If you’ve been adopted by Philippa and that straitlaced husband of hers, then you are my daughter. But if you’re in trouble, why not go to your father? He has more influence than I.”

“I wasn’t sure if I had a father.” How stupid that sounded. Her mother would think her addlepated.

Dela shifted self-consciously. “Of course, you have. But you wouldn’t know about yours, would you? Far rather assume he’s dead because there’s no help to be found there. If he wouldn’t protect me when I wore my apron high, he’s unlikely to lift a finger to help his bastard child. Especially as she’s merely a daughter. Ah, my plain speaking offends you. Well, if we’re to have any acquaintance at all, I advise you to accustom yourself to it. One doesn’t become a successful trader by beating about the bush.”

A successful trader? Well, running a brothel was a trade, of sorts, and judging by the velvet drapes and ornately carved furnishings, her mother had done well out of it.

“You have to go back to Philippa. I cannot keep you here. It would be neither meet nor proper.”

Chloe gaped. Her mother was sending her away, without even a kiss or an embrace? Heartless strumpet! Although taking refuge in a bawdy house probably wouldn’t advance her cause. Or would it? She was certain Lord Brooke would never set foot in such a place—nay, not even to retrieve his potential third wife.