Lord Northampton moved away and walked to the head of the bed. I thought he had not seen me there, but he began talking so quietly that I alone could be his intended audience.

“The King has made clear his continued love for the Earl of Somerset, but his opponents muster forces.” I did not know whether an answer was expected of me, so I remained silent. “A meeting is to be held soon at Barnard’s Castle between the Lords Pembroke, Herbert, Russell, Seymour and Essex, to discuss how best to oust the King’s favorite and the House of Howard.” I thought of the covered portraits in Larkin’s studio. Were these out-of-favor nobles having themselves painted to immortalize this meeting? “Frankie’s father and the Earl of Somerset are unwilling to recognize the dangers, and my niece runs headlong into them. I strongly suggest that she take heed and advise her husband to do likewise.”

I looked directly at the Earl for the first time. His eyes were brown like Frankie’s but full of calculation. I felt not seen but assessed.

Frankie was climbing down from the bed and I moved to shield her from the prying eyes of those searching out smears of virgin blood. We went to the garderobe and I bolted the door as Frankie sat and leaned her head against the cold bricks of the outside wall.

“They hate me, all of them, for escaping tyranny. I will have satisfaction against the Archbishop and Essex and all their faction,” she said, looking tired.

“If you like, you can,” I agreed.

“Yet I feel afraid. I think Robin preferred me as a mistress.”

“That is not unusual. He needs time to adjust.”

“I pray I fall pregnant at once, so I can leave this place,” said Frankie, and I thought how much she had changed.

“Maybe you should stay. Your great-uncle just warned me that Essex plans to unseat Robin,” I said, relaying Northampton’s warning.

“That man would see danger in an infant’s crib,” said Frankie, standing once more.

“But now that Robin is married, there will be times when he is not by the King’s side.”

“Let us hope so,” she said.

I unlocked the door and Frankie walked through the crowd, dignified, but twisting her lace cuffs between thumb and forefinger. I had tried and failed to cure her of this habit, for it revealed all that her face disguised.

I thought of the only person who did not care that Frankie was a despoiler of lace, Mistress Bowdlery. A vivid picture came to mind of the lace-maker sitting on her doorstep earlier that week, watching me remove from Paternoster Row to Frankie’s household.

“You’ll forget us once you’re with your countess.”