“Six wives,” I said.

“Did he? I thought it was eight.”

I suspected Algie wouldn’t last long at his post. But at that moment my thoughts were turned elsewhere as I saw Darcy coming toward us. Algie frowned. “What’s that O’Mara chap doing here?”

“Coming with us to the studio, since he happens to be my young man and he’s come all this way to see me. Isn’t that romantic?”

Algie was still frowning. “I thought they didn’t allow visitors on the set,” he muttered.

“Darcy doesn’t need to be on the set, but I do want him to come to the castle with me.”

“What oh,” Darcy called, coming up to us. He frowned as he noticed Algie. “Broxley-Foggett, isn’t it? Didn’t you vomit all over the quad when you first came up to Oxford? Right in front of the master too?”

Algie winced at the memory.

“What are you doing out here?” Darcy asked, staring at Algie so that they looked like two aggressive dogs who had just met.

“He’s the script consultant and expert on the Tudors,” I said.

“The Tudors? In what way?”

“Well, you know, old chap, family history and all that.”

“If anyone should be an expert then it’s me. My great great great and many more greats grandmother was Henry the Eighth’s sister.”

“We’ll mention that when you meet Mr. Goldman,” I said, slipping my arm through his. “It will be a good feather in your cap.”

“I say, won’t that make him want to chuck me out?” Algie asked.

“Probably. Unless your great great and many greats grandfather was Henry the Eighth himself,” I said, giving Darcy a grin. “I’ll summon the car.”

We rode to the studio in uncomfortable silence. Algie was clearly put out by Darcy’s appearance and I wondered if he might have secret designs on me. I remembered the unpleasant kiss on the boat. We reached the studio, sneaked in and stood in darkness near the door to watch Stella, Juan and Mummy in a particularly tense scene. Stella looked anything but an eighteen-year-old virgin. Juan kept stumbling over his words and Mr. Goldman was about to explode.

“Take a break,” he said at last. “Get a coffee. Snort some cocaine. Anything to get this goddamned scene finished.”

He came stalking toward us and stopped short when he saw Darcy. I braced myself for another explosion when he said, “And who is this?”

“The honorable Darcy O’Mara, son of Lord Kilhenny and my young man,” I said. “What’s more, a direct descendent of Henry the Eighth’s sister.”

“Is he?” He was prowling around Darcy as if he were a new and fascinating antique. “Interesting. That look—real aristocratic. He may be just what I’m looking for right now. Can you act, young man?”