Page 49 of Lord of Mistrust

“So I can watch Brooke parading her about on his arm? I’d rather not.” Robert bit his lip. Nonetheless, the masque was exactly the kind of event Sir Mortimer wanted him to attend, to see who Brooke had in his entourage, and to whom he spoke. If he disguised himself well enough, he might even win the hand of Chloe for a pavane without arousing Brooke’s suspicions.

His stomach tightened. Why not? Why not permit himself an evening in her delightful company? The fact that their association was forbidden would add savor to the event. And he might garner some information for Sir Mortimer and Walsingham into the bargain.

“Very well, Master Whiteley. You’ve convinced me. I’ll gain admittance to this masque, and do what I may to amend matters with Chloe.”

And if he could steal a kiss in a dimly lit passageway, all the better. He would soon find out whether or not she had genuinely given her affections to the treacherous Lord Brooke.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chloe was so thrilled at the prospect of a masque in the banqueting house at Whitehall Palace, she was able to forget about Robert Mallory—occasionally. It was no easy task dismissing him from her mind completely, however. She wondered where he was, how he was, with whom he was spending his time. Would he be in attendance at the masque? Was it the kind of event he’d enjoy?

As she donned the costume she and her mother had contrived, she couldn’t help but wonder what Robert might think of it. It was a boned gown in deep pink Spitalfields silk, with no shift beneath and one shoulder bared, with a separate sleeve, making her look like an Amazon queen. A string of pearls and an emerald-studded chain draped her throat, and she had a diadem on her head that caught the light whenever she moved.

Aunt Philippa and Uncle Matthew were not permitted to see this costume. Dela was a woman of strong character and, as Chloe’s real mother, demanded the casting vote in any decisions to be made concerning her daughter. If her sister or Matthew demurred about anything, she threatened to go straight to Sir Mortimer and create a scandal. Chloe watched these skirmishes with amusement, although she felt sorry for her guardians. But while the threat of marriage to Lord Brooke was still on the cards, she was happy to have so forthright a supporter as her mother.

Thus it was that, on a fine day in late October, she left the house, swathed in a woolen cloak, and stepped into a litter, to be conveyed to the riverside at Queen Hithe. This made her nervous, recalling her last experience in a litter, but she was comforted by the fact her mother was close behind and that Lord Brooke, who was squiring her that evening, accompanied them on horseback. From Queen Hithe, their party took a covered tilt-boat down the Thames, at Lord Brooke’s insistence. At this season of the year, the weather could be most unpredictable, and he wanted neither of the ladies to be rained upon.

As Chloe sat opposite him, she stole a covert glance at her supposed husband-to-be. The flickering light of the sconces showed him to be as grim-faced as usual, silently disapproving of the frivolity and laughter from the other masqueraders on the boat. He’d replaced his hat with a laurel wreath, but from what she could see beneath his cloak, he’d done nothing more to fit the classical theme. He wore a sober grey doublet with matching Venetians and a modest ruff at his neck.

What would Robert wear to such an entertainment? There was no reason to suppose he was going, but if he did, would he not look resplendent in a toga or a chiton? She would have to look out for him, so long as Lord Brooke didn’t become suspicious. Robert had told her in no uncertain terms that Lord Brooke was never to know of their association. If only he’d had the gallantry to tell her why.

Her mother tapped her on the knee. “Here we are, my love. Court Hithe, where we alight for Whitehall. Faith, but I shall be grateful to be indoors. There’s already a mist on the river, and I fear catching a chill in this flimsy costume.”

Brooke gave Chloe his hand to help her from the swaying deck and onto the steps of the hithe. There, she waited with her mother as he chivalrously allowed all the other passengers off first.

“Do your best to please,” Dela whispered in her ear. “Be pretty, charming, and lively, as I know you can be. And remember our plan—if you see Sir Robert, pretend a greater interest in Lord Brooke. If Sir Robert cares for you as I believe he must, he’ll be too jealous to avoid you. Deny him, avoid him, tease him—and soon, he’ll be eating from your hand like a pet pigeon.”

Chloe’s heart picked up a pace. How was she to manage it, when she adored Robert and hated the wan-faced Brooke? Now, where was the man? A chill breeze blew up from the river, and she huddled her cloak more tightly around her neck and gazed down to where the tilt-boat bobbed on the swell. Ah, he was settling their account with the boatman. And giving him something else besides. What was it? It looked like a sealed paper, but the boatman tucked it away so quickly that she barely glimpsed it. How strange!

Before she had time to ponder further, Brooke had mounted the steps with a vigor that belied his age and joined them. “I’m honored to be escorting two such fine ladies to watch this night’s masque. I expect to be the envy of Whitehall.”

So, he could flatter when he wanted to. And smile, although his smile showed too many teeth, few of which were in good condition. Chloe repressed a shudder. But she had her instructions, and she’d carry them out to the letter, even if it meant being touched by those long, cold fingers and gazing into those passionless eyes.

She stared about her, impressed at the sprawl of grand buildings that constituted Whitehall Palace. They entered the courtyard after passing a tilting ground and walking under the arch of the enormous gatehouse. The formal gardens in front of the banqueting hall were illuminated with flambeaux, and ribbons stretched between them were strung with tiny bells that tinkled in the breeze. The place was a mass of glittering lights, smoke, loud voices, and the heady scent of exotic woods and resins burning, dispelling the vile miasma that occasionally wafted through from the Thames.

The banqueting hall seemed a teeming morass of people, but Chloe gradually discovered some manner of order to the affair. The queen’s close companions occupied a dais at one end of the room, and there was an empty space in front of them. All along the walls were benches, but currently, few were seated, preferring to parade their fancy costumes, tread a measure or two, or just generally mill about.

Having secured the ladies a glass of Malmsey wine each, Lord Brooke advised them to be seated on one of the front benches, so they might better see the queen when she processed in, and the entertainment that would follow as soon as she was ready.

Chloe struggled not to kick her heels. Once seated, she wouldn’t be able to see everything or establish if, by any chance, Robert might be present. She also preferred not to drink on an empty stomach. This didn’t seem to concern Lord Brooke, who sent back his glass as soon as it was emptied and called for another. Ah, well. Mayhap his mood would soften, and he’d prove a better companion if he was in his cups.

Suddenly, her heart raced. Through a brief gap between the dancers in front of her, she spotted a familiar figure making his way to the benches opposite.

Robert. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. It seemed her heart had forgotten to beat in all that time and was only now discovering its true purpose. He hadn’t seen her, so she drained her glass and gazed her fill.

He looked very well, indeed. The pallor of his illness had fled from his skin, and his eyes were bright. To her disappointment, he hadn’t garbed his superbly proportioned body in clinging classical robes but was attired in a black velvet doublet with slashed sleeves, showing white silk through the slashes, and matching hose. The stark contrast between his white linen shirt and black attire suited him well, and the fiery light of the torches turned his tawny hair to gold. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Ah, I’m neglecting you, mistresses. Come, shall we fill our stomachs before the entertainments begin?”

Lord Brooke helped Chloe to her feet, sending an admiring glance down her body. She repressed a shudder but attempted a smile. She was feeling lightheaded, and food was exactly what she needed. To her alarm, her mother elected to remain behind and watch the dancing, saying she would keep their places and that they could bring her something when they returned.

The supper table was a wonder in itself. Brooke chuckled at her expression.

“I take it you’ve never seen a board so gaily caparisoned as this one? Our queen delights in extravagance, you know.”

“It would appear she does.” Chloe stared at a bowl of fruit that seemed to be covered in frost, although it must be sugar. How much would it have cost merely to make the food look impressive? There was also a model of a fountain, from which yellow liquid emerged. The model was entirely made from marchpane, and the liquid looked—and smelled—like mead.

“Such a waste. Why turn food into something that can’t be eaten?” Brooke shook his head, smiling ruefully. “But don’t let me put you off. If Bess is prepared to empty the country’s coffers to put on a display, who are we to question her?”