“Wyatt.” George Boleyn says, “This dance is mine. Go back to your poetry.”
“The lady has had quite enough of your charm,” Sir Thomas Wyatt says with a thinly veiled smirk. He whisks me away from Boleyn with a smooth, graceful turn before the lecher can protest more.
An hour later, the dancers show no sign of slowing down, but Fagin’s blood pressure has likely raised by twenty points waiting for Nico to give the green light to search the king’s chambers.
Still emboldened by what he thought was an invitation to my bed, George tries to cut in on Sir Thomas Wyatt three more times. Luckily, Wyatt resists. I can’t tell whether his unwillingness to part with me is because I’m captivating company or he just wants to frustrate Boleyn’s efforts to get what he wants.
Fagin has extricated herself from the group by feigning breathlessness. She waves off her partner and retreats to one corner where she can see the whole room. Still panting from the exertion, Fagin says, “Nico, tell me you’ve got something. We can’t be stuck here all night.”
“Not yet. Still searching through the footage from the hidden cameras installed throughout the palace. We don’t have a camera in the royal apartments. If Lady Anne gave him the portrait miniature in those rooms, we won’t be able to see it.” He pauses. “I don’t suppose there’s time for Dodger to search both rooms tonight.”
“It would be tough,” she replies. “The royals are night owls; retiring for the night usually occurs somewhere between eleven o’clock and midnight. I’m not sure there’d be enough time to get in and out of both royal apartments before everyone goes to bed.”
Dodger would have a hell of a time explaining to Anne why she’s in Henry’s bedroom if she’s caught there.”
“It’s well after nine o’clock now. I’ll keep looking.”
There’s a muted voice on the periphery of my attention, like an echo in an empty, cavernous room. It’s only when Thomas Wyatt pulls me out of the dance circle and leans in close, his eyes boring into me, that I realize he’s talking to me.
“Mademoiselle. I asked if you require assistance. Rochford is, for lack of a more polite term, a libertine. If he harasses you further, I am at your disposal to—”
“Thank you for the kind offer, Sir Thomas. I can manage George Boleyn on my own. I am quite used to fending for myself.”
He sighs. “Is it difficult for you here? A French woman in our court? Do you have many problems with my countrymen pressing their advantage?”
It would be a bad idea to tell him that Lady Anne, herself, is responsible for pushing me into her brother’s arms. “For the most part, everyone has been welcoming, and Lady Anne has been very accommodating of me and my mother since we’ve arrived. She is a generous mistress.”
“Aye. Generous,” he says with a small laugh. “She is that.”
“She gave me this locket. Isn’t it beautiful?” I glance down at the ornament around my neck and open it to show the treasure within. “There’s a portrait of me inside. Lady Anne wants me to find a lover so I can give it to him as a token of my undying love and affection.”
“Master Holbein’s work.”
“It is. All of the ladies have one. I confess to being quite at odds over whether I want to fall in love or not. It seems quite a painful exercise for most women of my acquaintance.”
With a small, sad smile, he looks askance at Lady Anne, who is entwined in Henry’s arms. “It’s often painful for men, too.”
“Ah, well, the course of true love never did run smooth.”
He looks back at me with wide-eyed appreciation. “That’s rather good. Are you a poet, too, mademoiselle? I’ve heard you have a clever wit.”
“Not a poet on the same level of skill and talent as you are, sir. Take it. It’s yours.”
“Are you certain, mademoiselle? There are one or two pieces of my current work where a sentiment such as that would fit well.”
“I insist.”
Nico cuts in. “I can’t believe you just quoted the Bard to Thomas Wyatt. What if Shakespeare never writes anything because you gave his work to Wyatt?”
“Back to work, Garcia.” Fagin says, countering the intrusion. “We’re on a deadline, here.”
Ignoring both of them, I keep my attention on Sir Thomas. “Poetry is the language of l’amour courtois. Had you stayed in France after the royal visit to Calais, you would have done very well with my countrywomen.”
“The ladies of the French court are lovely. Alas, my home is here. I don’t think I could leave it for long.” His gaze flits, once again, to Anne.
“I think what you are saying is that you couldn’t leave the one who gave you a limning as a token of undying love and affection. Perhaps it is someone you cannot have?”
He catches on that I’m looking in Anne’s direction, and bristles at the implication. He diverts his attention to the dancers, clearing his throat several times before speaking. “I have no such token from anyone, not even from my wife. She and I are...well...” he pauses and gives me a similar sideways glance, “not on good terms.”
“That is a shame, sir, because you seem to be a true and loyal friend any woman would be glad to have as a lover.”
His muscles grow more tense, causing his shoulders to inch up further toward his ears. He takes a deep breath. “You are very kind, mademoiselle. The woman I love is lost to me now. Sometimes we must bear our longing and pain in silence, for there is nothing else to be done.”
He still loves her. This could be useful.
“Perhaps, your lost love still longs for you, too?”
“I doubt it. She now occupies a station that is so far above me, that—” he catches himself, seemingly embarrassed—or maybe fearful—that he’s said too much. “It’s enough to say she is lost to me. I also have the consolation
