Page 47 of Lord of Mistrust

This was encouraging. But first, Chloe was desperate to discover the state of his health.

“He’s too ill to go out and about at present, so I know not how we can progress your scheme.”

“Simplicity itself. We shall call on him in a few days’ time, you and I, to ask after his health. Until then, be patient. We may need to lure your guardians into a false sense of security.”

Chloe smiled. She’d been struggling through a slough of despond at Robert’s apparent rejection. But her indefatigable mother had given her cause to hope.

Within a seven-night, two at most, the man she loved would be hers.

Chapter Thirty-One

It was now mid-October, and Robert was feeling much recovered. He still couldn’t bend a longbow or achieve much with a sword, but he could wield a dagger and had been teaching himself tricks using his left hand, enough to confuse a foe.

One might have hoped, in view of his illness, that Walsingham and Sir Mortimer would have released him from his commission to spy on Lord Brooke. Yet it seemed neither man had any compassion—no sooner was he up and about again than he was expected to return to the saddle.

Though aware—because Whiteley had kept him informed—that Lord Brooke was still courting Chloe, he hadn’t had to witness them together as yet. He was dreading that moment, even though he knew she’d never be allowed to marry a suspected traitor. But how could he countenance seeing the fellow in attendance on her, bestowing gifts on her, kissing her hand, or mayhap even her cheek?

As Fate would have it, the first time he saw Chloe after his illness was on his own doorstep, and not in the company of Lord Brooke at all, but—surprise of surprises—in the company of Mistress Riviere. Had it not been for Whiteley’s insistence, Robert would have forbidden the ladies entrance, but Whiteley knew nothing of his promise to Sir Mortimer, and naught would satisfy him but that Chloe and her mother should be admitted.

Robert skulked upstairs for a while, listening to the feminine voices, Whiteley’s enthusiastic boom, and the rattle and clatter of plates and mugs as refreshment was brought and served by a cheerful-sounding Goody Chandler.

He supposed he must go down—they would think him a craven coward if he made no appearance. But it took more courage than he’d needed before rescuing Chloe from the fulling mill. His vanity goaded him that he wasn’t looking his best—the illness had left him pale and gaunt, or so the tiny Venetian glass mirror he used when shaving told him.

After rattling around his chamber in an increasing state of agitation, he made up his mind. He’d go down and make the best of it but not encourage Chloe in any way. He washed his face with scented soap, combed his hair, and drew on a fine doublet of embroidered Flemish wool with matching paned hose in dark blue and gold. He might be living in Sir Mortimer’s pocket at present, but he didn’t want Chloe to think him a pauper.

Everyone rose as he entered the parlor, so he gave them his most courtly bow, then made a show of kissing the ladies’ hands, though he dared not allow his lips to touch Chloe’s. He feared he would catch afire if he did and reveal to all the depth of his feelings for her. Instead, he made an effort to be polite but distant, even as he took his seat close by Chloe’s side.

“I trust you are well, Mistress Riviere, Mistress Emmerson. Forgive me if I’m not as courteous as you deserve—I’ve been out little in society of late.” Only to watch Lord Brooke, who never seemed to do anything of interest, other than hunt in the fields around Hampstead Heath. It had been a challenge to spy on him there, as the man was a fast rider, and it was impossible to follow without arousing suspicion.

“I am sorry to hear you’ve been ill, sir. It is to reassure ourselves of your recovery that we’ve come. My daughter told me she owed you her life, so I would not rest until I could meet and thank you personally.” Mistress Riviere was all good manners and subtle clothing today. Quite unlike the woman he’d occasionally seen at the bawdy house in Southampton.

“No gratitude is required. Indeed, Chloe has also saved me, mayhap on more than one occasion, for which I’m forever in her debt.” He still could not bring himself to look directly at Chloe. He must keep his feelings in check, and give her no cause to think he cared for her. But once Lord Brooke was dealt with, he would find a way for them to be together. The waiting would be a sore trial, as he was not the most patient of men.

“No doubt we shall be seeing you at some of the entertainments this autumn, Sir Robert, now you are recovered?” Mistress Riviere smiled sweetly at him, and he suddenly saw in her the same handsome features she’d bequeathed to her daughter.

He risked a glance at the young woman by his side, and every feeling he had for her, every shaft of desire, came thundering back. Her hazel eyes met his with a sophisticated coolness that fired his blood still further—this was Chloe Emmerson as he’d never seen her before, a true English gentlewoman, poised and perfect.

It took a moment for Robert to remember that he’d been asked a question.

“Ah, well, indeed. Aye. I mean to enjoy the season’s entertainments. Mummer’s plays amuse me, and, um, mystery plays likewise. I like to ride in Hampstead, and I look forward to returning to the archery contests when my arm is better—”

He glanced around him, unsure if his words had made any sense.

“Indeed, Sir Robert?” Chloe raised an eyebrow at him. “I, too, enjoy such entertainments, and my betrothed has been squiring me to several of these events. But we’ve never noticed you in attendance.”

He shot her a warning frown. She hadn’t spoken about him to Lord Brooke, had she?

She smiled and waved a hand at him. “Fret not, Sir Robert—he knows naught of our escapades in Hampshire. In fact, only the people within this room know the truth of what happened.”

Robert nearly groaned aloud. Chloe had told her mother? She’d revealed his mission to a gossipmongering brothel keeper? Chloe’s eyes twinkled at him. The cheeky wench—she knew he was desperate to discover what had been said, and what remained a secret.

He found his voice again. “I tend to keep a low profile, Mistress. I’m certain you understand my reasons.”

“Of course. Though it is a great pity you didn’t think to send me word of how you fared. Surely a note would be considered ‘low profile’. But ’tis of little matter now. I’m too busy planning my nuptials and enjoying the sensation of being courted by a gentleman.”

He frowned. He didn’t believe her for a minute. She hated Lord Brooke—unless something had changed. His curiosity was piqued.

Mistress Riviere leaned forward in her chair. “We’re all going to a masque at Whitehall Palace next month. Chloe has the most delightful Roman matron’s costume to wear. Well, when I say matron, I mean, adjustments have been made in deference to her youth. The cloth of her tunic is fine silk, dyed a fetching rose color. It cost a fair penny, but we both decided to make the most of my visit to London and not cavil about cost. Will we see you and Master Whiteley there? I know you’re not courtiers, but anyone of any consequence will be present, I’m certain.”