Page 53 of Lord of Mistrust

“My greatest difficulty is that I’ve fallen in love with Chloe. Yet, I’ve never been further from being able to wed her than I am at this moment.”

“Would she have you if all these difficulties were surmounted?”

“I know not. I’ve used her most ill.”

“Tell me.”

Robert thought back to his suspicions of her in Southampton, of his subsequent searching of her at the White Hart.

“I’d rather not.”

“Please yourself, sir.” Whiteley sounded chagrined. But some of what had passed between Robert and Chloe was too private even for the ears of a friend.

“I think,” Whiteley continued, wandering across to the hearth and prodding the log pile with his foot, “that the only way to atone for your sins is to make a full confession to the young lady. If she’s prepared to forgive you, you’re a lucky rogue, and I envy you.”

“Mayhap I should, whether there is any hope for us or no. It would salve my conscience, at least, and perchance one day, my fortunes will have improved enough for me to offer her marriage. If she hasn’t already been taken by some damnable rogue who is luckier than me.”

“It sounds as if that man will not be Lord Brooke, at least. If he was groping her as you say, her guardians will be unimpressed. And if we can take the fellow down and have him executed for treason, then your problem is solved.”

“You forget, Whiteley—no one is meant to know about Lord Brooke’s guilt. I was supposed to spy on him, and all I have gathered to date is that he is a boor and a scoundrel. I also know that he detests bear-baiting, cockfighting, the theatre, and Queen Elizabeth. Now, you are sworn to secrecy. I suppose what I must do is go to Sir Mortimer and confess my mission has failed, and be prepared to be in debt to him for the next ten years. And even when I’m paid up, I very much doubt he’d let me marry Chloe after I’ve proved myself both a hothead and an incompetent spy.”

“You weren’t born to this, Robert, but you’ve done well and fought bravely. Why don’t I take over the watch on Lord Brooke and report back to you? I swear I won’t break my cover by hitting him at a royal masque.”

“I don’t know if he saw or recognized me. It happened too fast. But ’tis a risk I dare not take.”

A shadow passed the window, and there was a sudden pounding on the street door. Robert’s cup slipped to the floor. “Who is it?” he hissed, moving toward the parlor door.

“A boy with a message, by the looks of it. This could be the summons from Lord Brooke you’ve been expecting. Seems he did recognize you, after all.”

Robert straightened and took a deep breath. Time to meet his fate and pay the price of his folly. He made sure to buckle his sword around his hips before leaving the room.

Goodwife Chandler intercepted him. “A note for you, sir,” she announced, handing him a paper. “The lad didn’t wait for a reply.”

The weight of approaching doom settled over him. Almost, he welcomed it. A contretemps with Lord Brooke had been in the offing for weeks. Soon, everything between them would be settled, for better or worse.

He opened up the note, then stared at it in astonishment. “It’s not from Brooke.” He read it again, to make sure he’d understood it aright.

“’Tis from Sir Mortimer Fowler. He bids me meet him at the Emmersons’ house at Moorgate. I must go at once.”

“Shall I come, too?” Whiteley reached for his hat.

“Should we be seen together?” Robert was struggling to marshal his thoughts. Sir Mortimer had no reason to challenge him to a duel. At least, not one that he could possibly know about.

“I don’t think that matters now. Let’s have our horses saddled up, and head for Moorgate, where we shall see what’s afoot.”

It took but a moment to ready themselves—working for Walsingham had taught his men to be prepared for action at a moment’s notice. As they headed off toward London’s northern boundary, Robert shot Whiteley a rueful look.

“I’m sorry I caused you to be involved with this. It was never my intention to put others at risk.”

Whiteley grinned. “When I signed up with Sir Francis, I had all my wits about me, I swear it. I confess to enjoying the danger, being tested time and time again, and outwitting our foes. Don’t tell me you don’t care for it?”

He did care for it. It made him feel alive. But something fired his blood still more—Chloe Emmerson. He must be circumspect about what he did in the future if he was ever fortunate enough to take her to wife. He’d never be forgiven if he left her a widow.

Robert advised Whiteley to make the rest of the journey in silence, not wishing to let drop any word that could fall upon the wrong ears. London was filled with pimps, vagabonds, cony-catchers, and cutpurses, any one of whom would sell their soul for a groat. There was no way of knowing how many loyal Catholic supporters of Queen Mary of Scotland might skulk among their ranks—hiding in plain sight, as it were.

It wasn’t long before he found himself once again at Chloe’s door. Then, he’d been returning her to her guardians. Now, he knew not what awaited him.

“Shall I come in with you?” Whiteley offered.