“I’m surprised Master Holbein was agreeable in observing me under such conditions,” I say, turning the exquisite necklace over in my palm. “He doesn’t seem the kind of man who relinquishes control of his artistic environment.”
“He did grumble about the circumstances. When we arrived at Dover Castle, he demanded that you either sit for him or he wouldn’t complete the work,” Lady Anne says. “As a compromise, we asked your mother’s help in providing a reasonable likeness of you so Master Holbein could finish the painting by the time we arrived here at Greenwich.”
I turn to Fagin who shrugs. “I remembered that beautiful charcoal rendering the Spanish artist drew for your birthday.” She fidgets a bit. She knows how I feel about surprises.
“I don’t recall that one,” I reply, folding my arms in a tight knot across my chest.
When the hell did Nico have time to—
“I can draw every curve of you from memory.” Nico’s voice buzzes through the earpiece, answering my thoughts. “Don’t worry. I filtered this transmission. You’re the only one who can hear me.”
“For your sake, mademoiselle, we shall forgive your mother’s ill choice of patronage with a Spaniard.” Anne wrinkles her nose and her dramatic black eyes flash. No doubt, her thoughts are on the Spaniard impeding her path to the throne which doesn’t dispose her kindly toward any Spaniard.
“I would like to know the artist’s name, so I can thank him for his part in this...surprise.” Actually, I’d like to throttle him. Did I mention that I hate surprises?
Nico picks up on my annoyance and returns the volley, a laugh tucked inside his wry commentary. “I’m shaking in my boots. Remind me to faint when you get back.”
I play along like a good soldier. “Offering a simple ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem adequate for this treasure, but thank you both,” I say, offering a curtsey. From the depths of this obeisance, I glimpse the item Lady Anne holds as it slips through her fingers. She catches the leather cord before the thing drops to the floor.
A ripple of adrenaline makes my breath catch in my chest, and I have the sudden urge to scratch the itch in my palms. It’s Anne’s portrait miniature, the one Trevor added to the acquisition list. Lady Anne’s silver locket, when shut, forms a seamless closure beneath the lapis lazuli cabochon—so blue it’s almost black—embedded in the locket in a way that allows it to straddle both sides of the locket wings when closed.
“Your locket is exquisite, my lady. Is there also a limning inside?”
“There is,” she says as she slides her fingertips around the rim of the silver filigree edging and flips a tiny hidden latch. The locket opens to reveal the famous Anne Boleyn portrait—the red dress, pearls, and the “B” initial necklace she wears now.
The necklace is an intricate puzzle that mimics a solid piece of jewelry; one would never know there is a portrait miniature inside unless you knew how to open it.
“It’s a present for the king,” she says. “I’m giving it to him tonight at the banquet.”
Anne’s ladies-in-waiting squeal over their own limnings and plot which eligible bachelor will receive their portraits as precious tokens of courtly love. Some of the prospects elicit eager sighs, confirming the target’s desirable status. Others induce lectures from the older women for their more rakish and questionable attributes. When Grace Parker jokingly suggests Will Somers — the King’s fool — as the only acceptable choice of romantic suitor for a discerning noblewoman, visions of the jester in his parti-colored tunic, hose and floppy, three-horned hat, unleash gales of laughter.
Lady Margaret Douglas wipes tears from her eyes. “Take care that Master Somers doesn’t aim his sharp tongue at you for those words, my dear.”
“Nonsense. Being a merry and pleasant fellow, he may take liberties without offense.” Grace selects a fig from a platter of dried fruits. “His humor is done with such goodwill that if the King himself is not displeased by his jests, it’s impossible for anyone else to truly be injured by him. Except, perhaps, the Spanish ambassador.” She frowns in disapproval. “He was quite churlish when Will teased him.” She twists her face into an exaggerated impression of the comic — cheeks puffed out, eyes wide and wild — only inches from Madge Shelton’s face. “Sir, what say ye with your fat face?”
Madge screeches and turns away, laughing. “I shall tell Master Somers that you swoon for him. You can give him your likeness so he may dream on it every night,” she teases, and a spirited game of keep-away—with Grace’s locket as the prize—begins. Madge tosses it to the other side of Lady Anne’s temporary privy chamber. Anne Gainsford elbows a sullen Jane Rochford out of the way to catch it.
Grace dashes around the room in vain attempts to intercept the next throw as the locket flies from hand-to-hand. When it lands with Jane Seymour, she takes pity on the poor victim and returns the necklace.
“My ladies.” Anne pokes Madge Shelton in the ribs. “Give your treasure to one worthy of its value. Villains will only break your hearts and sully your reputations.”
“Which treasure do you mean, madam?” Madge replies with a breathless giggle. “I can think of more than one.”
“Virtue is the treasure you should protect,” Lady Margaret cautions. “It’s more valuable than any else you possess.”
Eyes collectively roll, but no one dares contradict her. Cheekiness with this elder stateswoman of the court is cause for dreadful lectures and shorter leashes to curb bad behavior.
“Lady Douglas is a stern taskmaster, but she means well,” Lady Anne shoots a teasing look at Lady Margaret, who exhales a soft pffft in response. “Master Holbein
