“I have brought Lady Frances’s clothes so that Larkin might finish her likeness,” I said, seeing her portrait displayed on an easel near the group. “Won’t you come and look?”

He pronounced it “very good,” which I thought untrue. Larkin had captured the intensity of Frankie’s gaze perhaps, but not her playfulness, nor the fierceness with which she pursued her desires.

A burst of laughter caused me to look at the young man being painted. I tried not to stare but could not help myself.

“He is like Tiziano’s Adonis, is he not?” Mr. Palmer said, quietly.

“Only more alluring,” I said, such was the perfect, smooth beauty of the long-limbed youth. “Who is he?”

Mr. Palmer sighed and looked down at his hands, rubbing them together as if paint clung to them. “His name is George Villiers,” he said quietly.

“George Villiers?” I repeated. “I have not heard of him.”

“I believe you will,” said Mr. Palmer, who was about to say more when Larkin called over: “To whom is the portrait to be sent when completed?”

Mr. Palmer grew as mute and stiff as one of Larkin’s figures. In the end, it was George Villiers who spoke, in a voice so high that I could not help smiling. He was just a boy. A very beautiful boy. But his reply wiped the smile from my face.

“My Lord of Essex.”

All pleasure drained from me at those words. Essex had found his instrument of revenge. I pictured Robert Carr beside the exquisite George Villiers and saw that this young man stood a very strong chance of ousting Carr from his place at the King’s side.

“Mr. Palmer, forgive me, I am late for a meeting with an old friend.” His strange behavior suddenly made sense to me. I saw by his expression that he regretted as much as I the circumstances of this meeting. He took my hand to stop me hurrying away.

“I arranged for the portrait before I knew of whom, and for whom, it was. I hope you believe me.”

“I do, sir,” I said. He did not release my hand but looked into my face with concern.

“May I call on you again?”

“I hope you will, Mr. Palmer,” I said with a curtsy, and meant it.

I chivvied the maids to finish their lacing and sent them in the coach back to Whitehall while I made my way to Charing Cross, my mind churning with thoughts of George Villiers and the consequences I could foresee if the King were lured to the bait. They were not all catastrophic; played well, Carr might enjoy greater freedom from the King to spend more time at home. Babies would arrive more quickly, they could become a proper family and Carr might at last have his own bed.