rich aroma of roasted meats, fragrant sauces and spiced wine was intoxicating. Though she had no appetite, Frances could not but admire the countess’s lavish hospitality, even if she wondered at its cause.
‘Please, my dear.’ Lady Buckingham steered Kate towards the chair next to her son. Frances moved to sit on her other side, but the countess was there before her. ‘Your seat is over there, Lady Tyringham.’
Frances hid her irritation as she moved to sit down. Kate looked thoroughly miserable as she stared at her plate. She reminded Frances of a lamb that had wandered into a den of wolves.
‘May I help you to some oysters, my lady?’ Without waiting for a response, Buckingham reached across Kate and spooned a few onto her plate. Frances noticed her cringe as his arm brushed against hers. He helped himself and began to eat, his eyes never leaving Kate as he swallowed each one.
‘How do you like Chelsea, my lady?’ Frances asked, determined to divert the attention away from her beleaguered friend.
‘Well enough,’ Lady Buckingham replied airily, ‘though it lacks society.’
The conversation turned to banalities. Frances helped herself to some pickled herring as the countess droned on about the forthcoming masque, the King’s planned hunting expedition, Count de Gondomar’s expected return to court to revive negotiations for Prince Charles’s marriage to Infanta Maria . . . Each subject was punctuated by the arrival of more courses. Every time the servers entered the hall, Frances hoped to see them bearing the wafers and hippocras that would signal an end to this interminable feast. She glanced at the clock above the fireplace. It was almost ten. They would soon have to depart or they would miss the tide.
‘Tell me, sweet Kate, how does your father fare?’
Frances bit back a reproof at Buckingham’s over-familiarity. He was leaning closer to the girl now, his hand resting idly on the back of her chair.
‘He is well, thank you, though he grieves for my poor brother – as do I.’ She stared down at her black satin skirts. Next to her, the marquess and his mother appeared as brightly painted peacocks.
‘Poor Kate.’ Buckingham clicked his tongue and gave a sad shake of his head. ‘If only there was something I might do to cheer you both. But, alas, your father seems intent upon condemning you to a life of spinstershood.’
‘My lord—’
Buckingham waved away Frances’s objection and moved so close to Kate that she could see the soft curls surrounding her face stir as he spoke.
‘It really is a vexatious business,’ he continued. ‘The court is filled with ripe peaches that I might pluck, yet this little one,’ he trailed his fingers down Kate’s neck, ‘remains just out of reach.’ A pause. ‘Or, at least, it has until now.’
Frances rose abruptly to her feet. ‘Forgive us, my lady. It is late and we must return to Whitehall before the tide turns.’
Kate made to rise but the marquess gripped her shoulder so tightly that she winced.
‘There is no need for such haste – for Lady Katherine, at least,’ the countess purred. ‘She will be my guest tonight.’
Her smile chilled Frances to the bone. ‘That is most kind, but we are expected back at court this evening so I regret that we must decline,’ she said firmly.
Lady Buckingham turned to her. ‘My invitation does not extend to you, Lady Tyringham.’ Her words were shards of ice. ‘You are free to return to Whitehall, or go wherever you please. It is of no concern to me.’
Kate looked as if she might cry. ‘But I have nothing with which to make shift, no nightclothes . . .’
‘You will have no need of those,’ Buckingham said, releasing his grip. Frances could see the imprints of his fingers on Kate’s shoulder. He stroked the base of her neck idly with his fingertips.
Frances could no longer tolerate their games. ‘Madam, you know that it is impossible for Lady Katherine to stay here alone. Her reputation would be ruined.’
‘Quite so.’ Lady Buckingham addressed her as a child who was slow to learn. ‘As soon as word gets out that Lord Rutland’s daughter has stayed here with my son unchaperoned no other suitor will touch her, no matter the riches she might bring. She will be soiled goods, soured milk . . . however you wish to term it. There will be nothing else for it but to marry her to my son.’
‘Even your mule of a father will see that, my dear Kate,’ Buckingham added. He glanced