I close the door behind me, and I see someone stir in the big four-poster bed. “Oh, welcome!” Dudley says, a chuckle in his voice, and he throws off the covers and stands beside the bed, stark naked as if he is expecting a lover. When he sees it is me, he starts back at my astounded face, pulling some of his bedding to tie around his waist. His naked shoulders are broad and his chest is muscled and strong. I cannot help but wonder who he was expecting, naked in his bed, so darkly handsome, dozing till she could come to him. I cannot help observing that he is well made, and I think any woman would be glad to have Tamworth show her to this bed, as he is obviously used to doing.

“You can go, Tamworth,” Dudley says shortly. “Wait outside, keep the door.”

Tamworth throws his cloak around his night robe and goes out of the door. I hear the chair creak as he sits down in the gallery to guard our privacy, and I note that he knows exactly what to do.

Robert glances to the other door to his bedroom. “Keep your voice down,” he says.

“Is that the queen’s room?” I can hardly believe that even on progress they are given adjoining bedrooms, and so all the gossip must be true.

“Never mind. Keep your voice down.” He goes quietly to the adjoining door and slides an oiled bolt to lock it shut. “What do you want, Lady Katherine? You should not be here.”

“I am in trouble, I am in terrible trouble,” I tell him.

He nods. “What?”

I hardly know where to begin. “Ned Seymour and I were secretly betrothed,” I start.

His dark eyes are on my face. “Foolish,” he says shortly.

“Then we married in secret.”

His gaze narrows. “Madness.”

“Then he went to France and now Italy with Thomas Cecil.”

Now he says nothing, he just watches me.

“And I am with child.”

His jaw drops. “Good God.”

“I know.” My voice trembles, but for once I don’t weep. I think I have got to a place that is beyond tears. I am as low as I can be brought, telling a shameful secret to the queen’s lover, in his bedroom after midnight. And this is the only way that I can think to survive this terrible series of events.

“Does William Cecil know?”

I think—this is how it is. I have become a counter to be played by great men.

“No, I came to you. Only you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have come to me,” he says bluntly. “Not for a matter like this.”

“Who then?” I demand. “For I have no friends, and I am an orphan.” I meet his critical dark gaze. “I have no older sister to advise me,” I remind him, the man whose plotting led to her death. “I have no father.” Thanks to you too, I think.