Page 2 of Lord of Mistrust

She wriggled off and stood, handing the man his cloak. It was a splendid one, dark blue velvet with a woven silk braid—not the garment of a pauper. He must be a wealthy merchant, at the very least.

“Forgive me, sir,” she managed. “I hope your cloak’s not too soiled.”

“I don’t really need it in this heat. Just wearing it from vanity, I suppose.” His eyes twinkled at her. “Sir Robert Mallory, your servant.” He bent his knee, making her an elaborate bow.

It was at that point she discovered her very public collapse had gathered quite a crowd. This was the last thing she wanted, for the more attention she got, the sooner her subterfuge would be discovered. The people would think her a cutpurse or a cony-catcher, and throw her into the pillory, or find some other vile punishment.

She felt her cheeks reddening. Time to make a speedy departure.

“Here, let’s make you more comfortable. You’ve had too much sun, lad, methinks. You don’t look like you’re used to it.”

Before she could object, she’d been led over to a limestone mounting block and made to sit. At a frown from her companion, their audience melted away. Much to Chloe’s relief, the woman he’d referred to as Goodwife Fairclough then returned, bearing the pitcher of ale. Sir Robert untied his tankard from his belt, filled it, and offered it to her. She took a sip. The ale was warm but welcome.

“There now, child, do you feel better?” Goodwife Fairclough wore an expression of kindly concern. “What a terrible thing to have happened—it could so nearly have proved fatal! Those masons shouldn’t be allowed to work over the streets like that. They should block it off, if it’s dangerous, say I. I shouldn’t be surprised if some of them were French. Never did care for life nor limb, the French. A person is entitled to walk along the quay without having half the buildings fall upon their heads. What say you, Sir Robert?”

“The lad has had a fortunate escape and will doubtless offer thanks to his Maker in a suitable fashion come Sunday.”

Chloe grimaced. The man sounded just like the puritanical Lord Brooke. Only—there was a glint in his eyes that belied his words.

No matter. She must be about her business. Her fingers holding the tankard were all a-tremble—she’d not feel safe until she was beneath her mother’s roof. The place she sought could not be far away—if only she’d had longer to memorize the direction before returning the purloined letter to her aunt’s box.

How long had Aunt Philippa intended to conceal the fact from her that she had a mother, who was not only alive but keen for news of her daughter? The story had always been that Chloe was an orphan, and she’d never questioned it until the day her aunt had raced to rescue those documents. The papers had, when Chloe stole a look at them, turned out to be letters from her birth mother, Aunt Philippa’s sister, Patience.

“Claude. Claude!” Chloe was roused from her reverie by the grip on her elbow. “Are you quite well?”

“His eyes look glassy.” Goodwife Fairclough leaned in, and Chloe received a waft of oniony breath on her face. “Mayhap we should seek a physician.”

“Nay, nay.” Chloe rallied quickly, drained her tankard, and thrust it into Sir Robert’s hand. A physician would want to examine her. That would never do.

“I am well. I must be gone.” She stood and gazed back the way she’d come. “You have both been most kind, and I’m grateful. I have not far to go.” She attempted a smile.

“Charming manners, Claude. What say you, Goodwife Fairclough? Should I take him on as a page boy? He’s comely enough.”

She felt her cheeks flush again. “I don’t need employment—just to reach my destination. Pray, don’t trouble yourselves.” She had no intention of letting Sir Robert escort her anywhere.

“You can’t go on your own, not after the fright you’ve had. Or the ale, which is stronger than you think. I’ll see you to your door, and then be on my way.”

“You have a good heart, sir.” Goodwife Fairclough beamed her approval, clapped Chloe on the shoulder, and left. Chloe’s heart sank.

If she was in woman’s garb, it might be a different matter strolling down the street with Sir Robert. They would make a fine pair—she with her long, chestnut locks and he with his deep chest and broad shoulders. To think she’d been lying with her head in his lap! God forbid her aunt and uncle should ever find out. And whatever would Lord Brooke say?

Her mouth twisted. How she’d love to see Brooke’s face at the sight of her in boys’ clothing!

“If that smile is aught to go by, you must be feeling better.” There was a teasing warmth in Sir Robert’s voice that made Chloe’s spine tingle. “Now, whither are we bound, young Claude? You’re not of French extraction are you, by the way? I wondered, because of the name. If so, please ignore Goody Fairclough’s robust opinions on foreign artisans—her views are based on neither fact nor experience.” He chuckled.

Shaking out his cloak, he tied it around his neck, checked that his sword was settled snugly in its scabbard and gazed at her expectantly. “Now, which way do we go?”

What place could she name in Southampton without giving away her mother’s location? Her affairs were her own, and no matter how obliging—or handsome—Sir Robert Mallory might be, neither he nor anyone else need know her shameful history.

It had been devastating to discover from her mother’s letters that she’d been born the wrong side of the blanket. There was the added blow that she’d been given up when she was tiny. Disappointingly, the letters had failed to reveal the name of Chloe’s father. However, if her mother, Patience, was prepared to take her in, her problem with Lord Brooke would be solved.

“I’m only visiting relations,” she lied. “A street or two up from the Red Lion. My grandmother has been unwell, and I’m eager to see her. I don’t want to take you out of your way, good sir. You’ve been most kind.”

“Nay, I insist. Let me see you past the Red Lion, at least. I can return their pitcher en route. And stand between you and any temptation you might find there.”

Temptation? What did he mean?

He chuckled on seeing her frown. “I refer to alcohol. Don’t take it up as the mariners have. It will empty your purse, and render you foolish.”