Campion smiled. “Do you really want him to marry Lady Clarissa?”

Enid had brought the wine into the room. “She’d have killed him if he had.”

“Enid! I’ve had occasion to correct you in the past!”

“Yes, my Lady.” Enid smiled over Lady Margaret’s shoulder, then handed them each a glass of the sweet wine.

“How’s his wound?” Campion asked.

“He’s lost two fingers,” Lady Margaret held up the two small fingers of her left hand, “which embarrasses him. He wears a glove. His shoulder’s very stiff, but truly his recovery was remarkable. I quite thought he’d die on the way here.”

“When will he be back?”

“I thought you were happy talking to me!”

“I am, Lady Margaret, you know I am! As happy as I could be!”

“I doubt that, child, but you said it very prettily. Toby won’t be back till evening, so we’ve plenty of time. You must tell me everything. You can leave, Enid, that table’s quite adequately dusted.”

They talked through the afternoon, still talking as Lady Margaret and Enid cut and curled her hair. Caroline, who would have done it, was staying with her sister and brother-in-law. There was only Lady Margaret, Toby, and one servant apiece in Oxford. Lady Margaret chose a dress from among those Marta Renselinck had purchased and gave it grudging approval. She gave the story of the seals and the Covenant much greater approval. “So you’re rich?”

“If I assemble three seals.”

“It’s very useful for a girl to be rich.” She had refused to take Campion’s money draft, saying it must go to Sir Toby as head of the household. “You say that noisome little toad Cony has two of the seals?”

“Yes.”

“And that quite horrid brother of yours is helping him?”

Campion straightened her stomacher, looking at herself in a long mirror. “You haven’t heard the best news.”

“Tell me, child.”

Campion turned to face Lady Margaret. “I’m not a Slythe.” She blushed, not sure whether the truth was such good news to a prospective mother-in-law. “I’m one of Kit Aretine’s bastards.”

Lady Margaret, with her penchant for genealogy and erudition about the most extraordinary families, loved it. “Kit Aretine! Your father! I’m so glad, dear, I’m so glad! I’ve often thought I didn’t want Slythe blood in my grandchildren, but Aretine blood is really quite acceptable. There’s Scottish blood there, but that can’t be helped.”

“Scottish?”

“Sweet Lord, yes! Kit’s mother was a McClure, with some heathenish name like Deirdre. A pretty woman, I believe, but definitely Scotch, though I think she lived long enough in England to lose the worst of that legacy.” She sniffed in disapproval of all things Scottish. “So Kit’s your father!”

“Yes.”

“And on the wrong side of the blanket! Well, we’ll just have to ignore that. He always was a scoundrel. He was put in the Tower.”

“For calling King James ‘that Scottish thistle of ungendered prick.’”

“You acquired some very charming language in prison, child.” Lady Margaret sniffed. “Where is your father now?”