“Exactly,” I say grimly. “And that is one of the reasons I pay for double guards, why I never cease watching, and why I can promise you that there are no plots in my household.”

We find Bess, as I knew we would, in the room which should be the muniments room, the room to store the records of the family, pedigrees, peerages, records of the joust and standards, and the like. Under Bess’s command all this history of honor has been discarded and the shelves and drawers are filled instead with records of the income and expenditure from Chatsworth, yields from the flocks of sheep, timber from the woods, lead from the mines, stone from the quarries, coal production, ship-building reports, and the traveling chest which she takes with her everywhere is filled with all the records of her other lands and estates. These are all mine now, they came to me on marriage. They are all in my name and ownership as her husband. But Bess was so perturbed at the thought that my stewards would manage the estates—though they would do it perfectly well—that she has gone on keeping the records of her old properties, while I merely collect the income. It makes no difference to me. I am not a tradesman whose pleasure is weighing his gold. But Bess likes to know how her lands are doing; she likes to be involved in the tedious business of shepherding, quarrying, mining, and shipping. She likes to see all the business letters and reply to them herself. She likes to add everything up and see her profit. She cannot help herself. It is her great pleasure, and I allow it to her. Though I cannot help but find it far beneath the behavior one would expect of a countess of England.

I can see that Herbert Gracie is a little taken aback to find Bess in her lair, surrounded with books written up in copperplate and with two clerks heads down and scribbling to her dictation. So I take the moment of his discomfort to step towards her, take her hand, and kiss her, and so whisper in her ear, “Beware.”

She has not the quick understanding of the Scots queen. “Why, what’s the matter?” she asks, out loud like a fool.

“This is Herbert Gracie; he comes from Cecil.”

At once, she is all smiles. “You are welcome,” she says. “And how is the Master Secretary?”

“He is well,” he says. “But he asked me to speak with you in private.”

She nods to the clerks, who pick up their pens, ready to go. “Here?” she asks, as if a countess should do business at a clerk’s office.