I tried to look impressed but tales such as these made me feel very far from Court life.

When we reached Temple Stairs, I roused Frankie and we huddled in our cloaks as we crossed the Thames in hired wherries.

“I hope my husband appreciates the discomfort I suffer for his sake,” she grumbled. I thought he might. The seduction of Lord Essex was a project in which Frankie’s brothers had recently involved themselves, mainly for sport, but also because the discontent of the Essex faction, further stoked by Overbury’s machinations, was increasingly plain. If Frankie could produce an heir, a child in whom mingled the blood of enemies, they thought the Essex crew would need to complain less, or at least more quietly, at being overlooked for Court positions.

“He did not wish to accompany you tonight?” I asked.

“He abhors Christmas. He is forced to spend time with people and occasionally to dance. He is in very choleric humor.”

As we neared Paris Garden stairs, Frankie handed me a full-face mask.

“Wait,” Theophilus said as he uncorked a silver flask, took a long swallow and handed it round. I went last, not cheered by the grimaces of the others as they drank. The liquid tasted so strong my mouth puckered, as if filled with vinegar, but almost immediately a sense of hot vitality flooded my body from crown to toe. All tiredness vanished and my eyes felt larger and able to see in the dark.

“What is this?” I asked, thinking to take it after sleepless nights with Mary.

Theophilus winked and grinned. “You are not the only potion-maker, Mistress Turner. Come, the Queane of Holland awaits!” He climbed the stairs as he tied on his mask, then walked off, arm-in-arm with his brothers. I followed, mystified, until I stopped so suddenly that Frankie barged into me.

“I have heard such scandal of the place I did not believe it existed!”

“The most wicked in all the world,” agreed Frankie, the glee in her voice not muted by mask and hood. She linked her arm in mine and pulled me along, not wanting to lag too far behind her brothers. I felt as I had done when Harry related his tales of gambling: out of my depth off an alien coast. Holland’s Leaguer was the most infamous brothel in all these Isles and, possibly, beyond.