Page 9 of Lord of Mistrust

Robert snorted. Young lad, indeed! He waved at his housekeeper to continue.

“She said there was quite a crowd around you, including a young cub she knew for a pickpocket. She didn’t see him take anything but, afterward, as she walked up Bugle Street, she saw the boy in a fight with that jailbait peddler, Will Gough. The boy handed him what looked like a locket. Gough opened it, took one look, and gave the lad a cuff around the head that sent him reeling. Gough was in a right fury about something, and Goodwife Fairclough was that upset at seeing the lad be struck, she yelled at the pair of them, and the boy ran off.”

“Foolhardy of her, to shout at a miscreant who would have cut her throat for a penny.” Completely untrue, but both he and Gough were happy to perpetuate the myth.

“It was, sir. Quite mad! Anyway, Gough said the boy had robbed a fine gentleman and he didn’t want any trouble. Then he asked if Goodwife Fairclough knew anything about the locket and she said she’d been there when it was taken. She said she knew you and your abode, so Gough made her bring it back here.”

The incredulity in Goody’s voice made Robert glance up. It must sound odd, indeed, that a rogue like Gough should pass a valuable item to a woman he barely knew. However, his housekeeper didn’t know that Gough was his best informant in the whole port of Southampton. If there was anything in the wind, Gough would know of it. For any plotters to succeed in toppling Queen Elizabeth, they’d need mercenaries, weaponry, shot, and powder. None of this could be bought openly without arousing suspicion. However, Gough knew everything that went on behind closed doors in Southampton. He knew what passed in the stews, alehouses, and ships’ holds as well. Thank heaven the whelp who’d stolen Robert’s locket had gone to Gough to fence it!

“We should be thankful Goodwife Fairclough is an honest soul. And I’m sure Gough wouldn’t have given up the jewel had she not caught the pair of them red-handed. I thank Dame Fortune for its return.”

So, what was he to do now about naive, innocent “Claudette”? He’d have to return her belongings to her, not hold them as a surety as he’d planned. Could that wait until the morrow? He was already tired and his foot plagued him. He could be up at cockcrow and return her things to the Red Lion before anyone was astir.

“There was another item. Pushed under the door, you said?”

“Aye. A folded page. I haven’t opened it.”

Robert took the sheet of parchment she held out to him. He unfolded and recognized it immediately.

All weariness fled, and his heart pumped painfully, but he gave no outward sign of his excitement.

“What a bore. I have some business to attend to in London.” He cast the paper aside as if it meant nothing, then stretched and yawned.

“Thank you, Goody. That will be all—I shall head for bed forthwith. Be sure all the candles are snuffed and the door bolted. Rest well tonight, for if my business keeps me in town, I may send for you to come up, too.”

As soon as she’d gone, he tucked the paper inside his shirt and gathered up his clothing. He’d be getting dressed again later. The paper informed him that his new orders had been left in the agreed hiding place. Sir Francis Walsingham had a vital mission for him, and there was little chance he’d get any sleep tonight.

Chapter Eight

Chloe might have thought she’d dreamed that bizarre encounter with Sir Robert Mallory. Only, when she popped her head out the door in the morning, her bag was lying in the passageway outside.

She grabbed it, emptied the contents onto her bed and sifted through them. Nothing was missing as far as she could tell, thank heaven. She couldn’t trust the man not to have rifled through its contents, however. At least her most important possession was still on her person—the letter she’d purloined from Dela Riviere the previous day.

She was becoming quite the cunning fox, stealing information from her unsuspecting elders. Doubtless, she’d feel guilty about it at some point but, for now, she congratulated herself on being enterprising. She’d already discovered her mother and was on the way to uncovering her sire’s identity, too. Of course, it would have been much easier had her mother just told her his name, instead of forcing her to rifle through the room the instant she was left alone.

Fortunately, Dela had been gone for an age, giving Chloe time to discover a box of letters under the bed. There was no difficulty finding those from the year of her birth—the letters were bundled together by date. Presumably one didn’t get to be a successful “trader”—as Dela called herself—without being organized.

Removing the missive from under her pillow, Chloe crossed to the window to examine it again. Last night, she’d pored over it by candlelight, but the signature had remained indecipherable. Even in daylight she couldn’t make it out. Nor could she learn anything from the seal, which remained attached to the page, but she could research that when she returned to London.

But did she still want to find her father? The sentiments expressed in his letter to her expectant mother were unsympathetic. Even if Chloe discovered who he was, he might refuse even to see her, let alone rescue her from the prospect of wedlock with the soul-sucking Lord Brooke.

There was a knock on the door. Throwing her coat over the man’s long shirt she wore as a nightgown, she opened it a crack and saw young Frederick, her mother’s errand boy.

“God give you good day… er… Mistress.” He looked awkward, as if unsure whether he was meant to be talking to a male or a female. “My mistress sends her regards and a packet of food for the journey. She wishes you to know there’s a load of alum headed up to London at eight of the clock. The wagon has space for passengers as half the cargo was impounded at the customs house—she knows not why. The man will be glad of the extra coin, she says, as the dye-works he takes it to pays only for the number of barrels, not the cost of transport.”

Perfect. The wagon was probably not covered, but as it promised to be another fine day, that wouldn’t be a problem.

“What is the hour?” She hadn’t been paying attention to the cries of the Watch—she’d been too preoccupied. Not only by the letter, it must be said. The touch of Sir Robert Mallory had been looming larger in her thoughts than she cared to admit.

“It lacks a quarter of the hour. You must hurry… er… Mistress.”

Chloe accepted the cloth-wrapped bundle of food and bade Frederick a hasty farewell. Now—a vital decision must be made. Would she travel back to London as a boy, or as a maid?

The brash sunlight penetrating the leaded panes of her window made her mind up for her. She must travel as a woman. That way, she could wear her straw hat to protect her from sunburn. She’d just have to hope her fellow travelers weren’t a mob of lusty young men who’d give her grief the entire journey. Well, at least she had that trick with the knee now, and one or two other things she could try for self-protection.

No more than ten minutes later, she was on the alum cart, seated atop her bag and surrounded by barrels. There was no need to be uneasy about her fellow traveling companions—one was an elderly woman with a basket of eggs on her lap, the other a clergyman clutching a small, leather-bound book. Neither seemed overly inclined to speak, which mattered not at all. Relieved, Chloe opened up her food parcel to break her fast on game pie, hard cheese, and sweet apples. Her letter resided safely in her bosom, out of sight and out of danger of discovery.

The carter tapped on the tail of the wagon. “Master, mistresses—I’m not going off yet awhile. There’s a couple more gentlemen to come, and I can’t afford not to wait for them.”