Page 3 of Lord of Mistrust

He rescued her bag from the gutter where it had fallen, brushed the dirt from it, and handed it to her. “Come.”

So, she was doomed to his company, at least as far as the tavern. Perchance she could slip away while he returned the pitcher. And if she got lost again and needed a stranger to direct her, it would not be one with piercing blue eyes that seemed to expose all her secrets.

She shouldered her bag, keeping it between the pair of them as they left the town quay. Oddly, his elbow kept brushing against it, and she realized he was walking with a peculiar gait.

She couldn’t restrain her curiosity. “Is there something wrong with your leg, sir? You walk oddly.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “This is just one of my many walks. I can also march, stagger, and on a good day, stroll. Nay—’tis but a temporary encumbrance. I have a blister on my heel from a long and unexpected walk after being thrown by a hired nag. Now, tell me about yourself. With a bag of such size, you mean to stay awhile with your grandmother. From where have you traveled today?”

“My aunt and uncle live in London.” She would reveal no more than that.

“Have you visited Southampton before? Where does your grandmother dwell? I’m here often, but I’m certain I’ve never seen you.”

They’d drawn level with the Red Lion now. She gazed up at its imposing façade—it was easily as tall as any of the timbered buildings she’d seen in London.

“Verily, I would not be here at all were it not for the worrying news we have of Grandmother.”

Sir Robert stood aside and gestured toward the open doorway, but she shook her head. “Nay. I’ll not go within—I’ll await you here, sir.”

“Very well.”

He ducked his head to avoid the low beam over the entrance and disappeared into the gloom of the inn.

Chloe glanced up and down the street, then took to her heels and ran.

Chapter Three

Sir Robert Mallory stood in front of the “Red Lion” tavern and gazed after the scurrying Claude. He debated chasing him, as the lad must have some nefarious reason for running off—but his foot was too sore to make the effort.

His lips tilted as he thought of how Claude had held himself when they walked to the inn, swaggering and trying to look as if he owned the whole town. Many a young innocent behaved thus in a strange place, desperate to conceal their insecurity.

Robert’s sister, Meg, had been just the same when she had left for Queen Elizabeth’s court, covering her weakness with a poise that fooled all but him. Despite her bravado, her naivety had rendered her helpless against Baron Adam Townley. The handsome devil had seduced Meg and put a babe in her belly, then refused to marry her, because her dowry was too small. Curse his rotten hide!

Robert frowned. It was little wonder both he and Meg no longer trusted anyone. He ought to act on his suspicions about Claude—the boy had refused to reveal his destination, as well as haring off like that.

Sighing, Robert reminded himself that it was now his purpose in life to trust no one. He was paid to investigate unusual events, move around in circles both high and low, and report back to Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. He wasn’t in the man’s employ by choice—he’d borrowed a large sum of money to entice Townley to wed his sister. Then, in hopes of paying the loan back quickly, he’d decided to try his luck at the gaming tables. A disastrous mistake—he’d lost badly to Sir Mortimer Fowler, and now owed him a small fortune.

Whatever Claude was trying to hide could be of no interest to Walsingham. A lad who’d had a close brush with Death, and wanted to hide whatever part of town he was headed for, was unlikely to be plotting against the queen. But Robert wasn’t prepared to take any chances. He waited until the boy’s footsteps died away, then peered around the corner to see where he’d gone.

Claude hadn’t entered any buildings on the street but was hurrying around the next corner. So, the sick grandmother didn’t live “just behind the Red Lion” after all. If she even existed!

He didn’t like being lied to. Humming nonchalantly, he sauntered the length of the street and turned the corner. It took him into an area where the houses weren’t so well set up as those he’d just passed. Mayhap they’d been grand in their day, but much of the plaster had fallen off, exposing the lathes beneath. The carved woodwork over some of the doorways was cracked and splintered.

He was familiar enough with Southampton to know that this area wasn’t as unsafe as the docks, or the Arcades, but it wasn’t exactly salubrious. It was too close to the stews for that. He continued on with his hand on his sword hilt.

Claude’s retreating back was now in full view, and it would be hard to follow without being seen. Robert slipped into a gap between two houses, seeking their concealing shadow, and allowed the youth to get farther away. He was enjoying himself, his hunter’s instinct coming to the fore—although the present prey was unlikely to reveal any secret worth delivering to Walsingham.

After a few moments, Robert looked out from his hiding place just in time to see Claude dart down an alley behind the most popular bawdy house in town.

Astonishment stole his breath. Then he stepped into the street, chest heaving with laughter. He’d been completely taken in. The wide-eyed, artless boy was no stranger to this place at all—he was in the employ of Mistress Dela Riviere, the brothel keeper. What had been in that voluminous bag? Low-cut bodices or sheer lawn nightgowns for the trulls who plied their trade there, mayhap? Or maybe her clients had a taste for pretty boys with long eyelashes, slight figures, and a tendency to blush. His lip curled in distaste.

“Nay, don’t accompany me home. My poor old, sick grandmother.” Hah! How could Robert call himself a spy when he couldn’t see through such obvious falsehood? He was vexed at having been taken for a fool but amused at the same time. There was no harm done. The accident with the masonry block had been genuine, and he’d have helped anyone in such a situation, whatever their station—or occupation—in life.

It must be time to return home for a meal. Still chuckling to himself, he reached for his pocket sundial. The smile froze on his lips. The sundial was where it should be—but his locket was gone.

A frantic patting of hidden pockets ensued, and he flung off his cloak and doublet so he could search under his shirt as well. He must have looked to the casual passersby as if he were being attacked by a swarm of invisible bees. But nay—the locket was not to be found.

He marshaled his thoughts. Ever since its chain broke, he’d kept the jewel in the secret pocket in his doublet. He’d definitely had the locket when he’d set out this morning—it had rubbed at his chest with a familiar pressure, a reminder, albeit an uncomfortable one, that he needed to get it fixed.