I heard the tolling bell, aware now that it was for Henry Howard, Lord Northampton, ringing out every year of his life. The peals reverberated across the Parish, throughout Whitehall, along the lines of patronage, duty and debt to his estates, the Cinque Ports over which he ruled and down through the younger generations of Howards to whom he had been patriarch. I wished he still lived, to steer us safely away from the siren power of this beautiful boy.

I came to a halt across the street from Northampton House and watched the dead Earl’s servants, in full mourning, cover the gateway and windows with black cloth. It was clear that his death had been anticipated, if not by us. Frankie was being kept away from the center of the spider’s web by her father and her husband.

Weston arrived at the final bell and with uncharacteristic reverence pulled off his cap.

“Seventy-four,” he said. “My sister lives in one of his almshouses and receives a gown a year and a hat in every seven. He was a generous man.”

I did not agree that to relieve a few paupers when you have created a thousand was so great a deed. The misery of Mistress Bowdlery and countless others like her was increased by high taxes on raw materials that made Northampton wealthier than they could ever imagine, but I said nothing.

“You’ll need to tread warily now,” said Weston. I was both embarrassed and touched by his instinct to protect me that had not abated despite all I had asked of him. “The Earl took care of the business the Countess and…” he could not say “her husband”; as a Catholic of the last century he did not believe that Robin was Frankie’s husband, it was beyond his faith and his experience “… don’t bother with. He kept people in their places by scaring or rewarding them. If your friends are so much in love with themselves they forget their clients and their enemies, they’ll suffer for it—and you with them.”

I heard more than Weston’s resentment at not being rewarded as he had been promised by Frankie; the smell of turpentine and pigment filled my nose. He turned and began walking on his bandy legs across the busy street toward St. Martin’s Lane. I kept pace with him.

“I suppose the Earl of Northampton’s honors will be divided between the Countess’s father and Robert Carr … How does she do?” he asked, without enthusiasm.