Page 42 of Lord of Mistrust

He must be feeling a little better today—he had enough energy to pluck at his bedclothes and fling them back when he felt too hot, and to chafe at being forced to remain abed when he had his commission to carry out for Sir Mortimer. A commission that could restore his fortunes and those of his family.

“Robert? Are you awake?”

“Aye.” He had little energy for speaking, so one-word answers would have to do.

Whiteley entered the chamber, bearing a horn beaker. “Time for your dose. Mistress Emmerson said you must have some before the doctor arrives.”

Mistress Emmerson? She’d been here?

“Chloe?” His voice was little more than a croak.

“The very same.” Whiteley grinned at him. “She seems much taken with you, oh most fortunate of men!”

Robert groaned softly. This was not the time for her to dance attendance on him. Lord Brooke must not know the pair were acquainted, or yet another mission would be endangered. Neither his pride nor his pocket could stand it.

“She must not come,” he managed. “Meg?”

Whiteley helped Robert sit up enough to take the bitter draft. He coughed and spluttered. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“It’s feverfew. I didn’t know how much honey to put in.”

Robert rolled his eyes. “More than you did.”

Whiteley removed the emptied cup, refilled it with water, and handed it back. A few sips and a swilling of his mouth removed some of the bitterness.

“Meg?” he repeated. There had been ample time for her to be informed of his illness and come down to look after him. Unless, of course, she couldn’t bear to leave her new husband—curse the philandering dog.

“You’ve received a message from Meg. I took the liberty of reading it since you were dead to the world.”

“Ever the spy,” Robert complained. “Have I no privacy anymore?”

“Not when you’re so weak, no. You should know you can trust me by now, sir. The news is not good. Her husband is apparently sicker than you—knocking at the gates of heaven. Or so it would seem, from your sister’s hastily scrawled note.”

“He won’t get in.” Robert had never liked Adam Townley. The man was too glib, too good-looking, and a total coxcomb. He’d bluntly refused to marry Meg until her dowry was increased. Having been forced to sail close to the wind due to his late father’s debts, Robert had felt he had no choice but to agree. He had Meg’s reputation to consider, and despite her folly with Townley, he loved her dearly.

All the same, it was a blow. He’d have felt more comfortable having her here—she knew his wishes and ways and wouldn’t tax him with questions.

“Don’t look so crestfallen. Mistress Emmerson means to return.” Whiteley gave him an encouraging smile.

“She must not. Not safe. Keep her away, Whiteley.”

The other man glanced at the light streaming through the open window. “Methinks I just heard a bell chiming the hour. I fear ’tis too late to prevent her.”

At that moment, there was a knocking on the street door. Whiteley moved to the window and looked down.

Robert’s heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Is it Chloe?”

“Not unless she has decided to disguise herself as a member of the medical profession.”

Robert rolled his eyes. She’d dressed as a boy before—he wouldn’t put anything past her. He held his breath as the sound of footsteps on the stairs reached his ears.

With a mixture of mingled disappointment and relief, he saw a middle-aged man enter, wearing a black skullcap and sporting a neat grey beard.

“How does the invalid fare this day?” he inquired, addressing Whiteley.

“I think he fares somewhat better, sir.” Whiteley gave Robert an encouraging nod.

“Ah, you’re awake, I see.” The doctor approached the bed. “I know not if you remember me, as you’ve been either dead to the world or delirious during my visits. I’m Doctor Bower.”