“That harlot got what she deserved,” Philpott said.

“Did she?” Botolph’s eyes glinted with deviltry. “Or did His Grace simply claim she did in order to rid himself of an encumbrance to his marriage with Jane Seymour?”

Ned stayed out of the debate. He doubted anyone would ever know the whole truth of the matter. Neither was he entirely comfortable discussing such things in a public place, even one like the Rose.

“Careless words are dangerous.” With that warning, as he steered his two friends toward a table in a back corner where, noisy as the tavern was, there was less risk of being overheard. Ned signaled for the waiter to refill their flagons.

Calais was a breeding ground for dissension. Because the border with France lay close at hand on one side of the Pale, and that of Flanders, one of the Low Countries, on the other, there were many living in Calais whose sentiments veered toward extremes in both politics and religion. Some were papists. Others wanted radical reform within the English church—much more far-reaching changes than had already been made.

“Lady Salisbury’s son was condemned for nothing more than writing letters,” Philpott mumbled into his ale. “An outrage!”

“But they were letters to a man who has sworn to overthrow the rightful king of England,” Ned reminded him.

“They were letters to his brother. And your rightful king has been excommunicated by the pope.”

“God will sort things out.” Botolph took a deep swallow of ale, then winked at Ned. “The real reason our friend here is so melancholy is that he has troubles closer to home. Note the long face, the sad eyes, the short temper.”

“My luck is out,” Philpott admitted.

“At cards, dice, or love?”

“All three. Mistress Philippa has refused my suit. I cannot understand it. I am a fine, upstanding gentleman.”

“What is so difficult to comprehend? Philippa Bassett thinks she can do better.” Botolph chuckled. “And Mary Bassett knows she can.”

“Do you mean to say that sickly Mistress Mary has a lover?” Philpott sounded amazed.

“I cannot say. I am bound by the sanctity of the confessional.”

Ned scowled at them both. “Have a care what you imply, lest you impugn a good woman’s reputation.”

“Oh ho! Listen to the chivalrous knight!”

Ned ignored Philpott’s mockery, but Botolph’s smirk bothered him. He wished Mary had chosen one of the older priests as her confessor. She was, at long last, free of her recurring bouts of fever, and the identity of her lover should be no one’s business but her own.

Ned liked Sir Gregory Botolph. Everyone did. He was a stirring speaker and an engaging companion. He had acquired the nickname “Gregory Sweet-lips” since coming to Calais because he could so easily persuade others to his way of thinking. But in private, Botolph had none of the virtues of a man of God. He gambled and swore and drank to excess and even kept a mistress in the town.

“Perhaps you’ll have better success with Lady Lisle’s newest waiting gentlewoman,” Botolph suggested to Philpott.

“She’s comely enough, but has she a decent dowry? She’s some kin to John Husee, is she not? He’s a nobody, the son of a vintner.”

“Mary Hussey is not related to John Husee at all,” Ned said. “She is one of the daughters of Lord Hussey of Sleaford.”

For a moment, Philpott brightened. Then, remembering, his face fell. “He was executed for rebellion against the Crown.” Some two years earlier, there had been an uprising in Lincolnshire. Yet another ill-thought-out scheme to overthrow King Henry. It had been put down quickly and brutally. “What was Lady Lisle thinking, to take a traitor’s get into her household?”

“Of the benefits of charity, no doubt.” Botolph leaned back against the wall, cradling his flagon between his hands. “All of Lord Hussey’s lands and goods and chattels were seized by the Crown, even clothing and jewelry.”

“With Lord Hussey dead and his title forfeit,” Philpott mused, “his daughters will have been left destitute. Why else would a baron’s daughter enter the service of a mere viscountess?”

“Still,” Botolph mused, “if the old order is ever restored to England, the man married to Mary Hussey would have a claim to her father’s title.”

Briefly, Ned wondered if Botolph imagined Cardinal Pole leading an army against King Henry. Then he decided that the priest was simply amusing himself by baiting their credulous friend. It would not be the first time Botolph had led Philpott into expressing seditious sentiments. Had one of Lord Cromwell’s spies been present to overhear, they’d both have been under arrest for heresy. It was neither wise nor safe to speculate about the return of the Catholic Church to England.

“I do feel sorry for the girl,” Philpott allowed. “Imagine being at Lady Lisle’s beck and call!”

“Sorry enough to marry her?” Botolph asked.

Philpott looked tempted. He scratched his beard, took another swig of ale, and studied the stained and cracked boards of the table. Then he sighed. “So long as any taint of treason clings to her, there is too much risk that it will attach itself to whatever man she marries.”

Botolph took a long swallow of ale and gave Philpott a considering look. Ned could tell he had some further deviltry in mind. “Ah, well,” he said as the sounds of a scuffle reached them from the far side of the tavern, “without a dowry to attract a husband, I doubt she expects to be honorably wed. I wonder if she would accept a suitable gentleman as her protector? She’d make an excellent mistress, would she not?”

Philpott brightened at this suggestion. With Botolph egging him on, he began proposing schemes, each more preposterous than the last, to get Mary Hussey into his bed.

As if, Ned thought, any girl in her right mind would settle for Clement Philpott as either lover or husband. Ned barely knew the girl, but he hoped, for her sake, that she had higher standards than that.

He was about to say so when what had merely been a noisy dispute over a reckoning suddenly erupted into a fistfight. When a stool sailed past Ned’s head, nearly clipping his ear, he came to his feet with a bellow. His two companions beside him, he waded into the fray. He had no idea which side anyone was on. It did not matter. He threw punches with indiscriminate abandon. To Ned’s mind, there was no better way to end a night at the Rose than a full-scale tavern brawl.

A FEW DAYS later, in the second week of June, Ned stood in front of the Mewtas house, staring at the overhanging upper stories. Sun glinted off dozens of clear windowpanes, proof of the owner’s wealth and position. Still, it was a small place compared to Sussex House, and Peter Mewtas and his wife had pedigrees no more exalted than Ned’s own. Why was Nan living with them? If John Husee had the right of it, her decision to stay on in Tower Street had caused a rift with the Countess of Sussex. What advantage had there been to Nan in alienating her greatest benefactor?

He’d never find out by standing in the street. Squaring his shoulders, Ned marched up to the door. He was admitted by a servant and shown into an upstairs room. He stopped short at the sight of Nan, seated in a Glastonbury chair, positioned so that the sun bathed her in light and picked out the golden highlights in her light brown hair.

“Mistress Nan,” he said, inclining his head. “You look … radiant.”

“Master Ned.” A faint smile lifted her lips and her eyes were so merry that he suspected she’d watched his arrival through the window and arranged herself in that sunbeam on purpose to disconcert him.

She seemed more self-assured than when he’d last seen her, although she’d never lacked for confidence in herself. Her clothing was expensive, but not ostentatious. Only one gemstone glinted on her fingers, but it was a very fine ruby. He wondered who had given it to her.

“I have letters for you from Calais.” He handed them over and watched her set them aside, along with her needlework.

“Have you already delivered messages to Cat?”

“Not yet. Shall I give her your regards?”

Nan’s eyes abruptly narrowed. “She is not for you, Ned Corbett. Leave her alone.”

“Jealous, Nan?” He took a step closer, trying to read her expression without success. “Cat has nothing to fear from me. You quite ruined me for lesser women, Nan. I tried. Believe me, I tried! But after being with you, I could not bring myself to court your sister.” Resentment crept into his tone. “She is an admirable woman, I am sure, but I could not stop comparing her to you. She lacks your spirit, your vitality, your allure.”

“What nonsense you talk!” But she looked pleased. She gestured toward a second chair. “Make yourself comfortable while I read these and decide if I must answer them today.”

She’d want him to write for her, he supposed. Instead of sitting, he circled the room, taking a closer look at his surroundings, seeing chairs where stools and benches were more usual. Turkey carpets had been placed on the tops of tables, but also on the floor, a great extravagance. And an exquisite piece of arras work depicting the fall of Troy hung on one wall.

Sounds from the street drifted in—the cries of hawkers, the squeak of cartwheels, and the clatter of hooves—but the house itself was silent. “Where are your chaperones?” he asked abruptly. Aside from the servant who’d admitted him, there seemed to be no one else in residence.

“I do not have any. That is one of the reasons I enjoy living here.”

“Not even the faithful Constance?”

Nan looked up from the letter she was reading. “Constance is somewhere about. I do not require someone in constant attendance upon me.”

Ned examined an ornate clock given pride of place on a sideboard. “Whatever Master Mewtas does for the king, it pays well,” he murmured.

Nan gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged and continued his perambulation, stopping to study a portrait hung atop a second, smaller tapestry. Master Holbein’s work, he thought. “You know already,” he said absently, admiring the realistic look of the sitter.

“If you mean that absurd story Mother told me, about Peter Mewtas being sent to assassinate Cardinal Pole—”

“Oh, it’s quite true.” Ned had heard the tale firsthand at the Rose.

“Even if it is, the plot failed. Cardinal Pole is still alive and very much a thorn in King Henry’s side. You must not paint my friend’s husband as a hired killer, Ned. He is a gentle, considerate man, and he is high in the king’s favor.”

“And that, as we both know, is all that matters.” A trace of bitterness crept into his voice.

Nan caught his arm as he passed her chair. “Dear Ned. I am sorrier than you know that we have no future together, but it is far too late for me to change my course.”

“Is it?” He was not entirely sure what she meant, but the reminder of what they’d once shared spurred him to action. He hauled her up out of the chair and into his arms and kissed her before she could protest.

At the first touch of his lips to hers, he realized he’d been deceiving himself to think he’d accepted her rejection and moved on. He should have known he still wanted Nan and no other. Why else would he have failed to pursue Nan’s sisters?

As for Nan, she responded with all the fervor Ned remembered. But the first rush of passion did not last. He felt her lips compress under his mouth, firming into a thin, hard line. She squirmed, attempting to break his hold, and pushed at his chest with both hands. When he did not release her at once, she stomped on his foot.

As abruptly as he’d embraced her, Ned let her go. Nan stumbled backward a few steps, her French hood askew and the fine linen partlet at her throat rucked up where his fingers had been at it. Her hands shook as she hastily put herself to rights.

“We must never do that again,” she whispered.

“Why not? You enjoyed it … until you remembered that I have neither wealth nor title.” He reached for her.

She shied away. “Ned, stop. Please.”

More than the words, the catch in her voice and the shimmer of incipient tears in her eyes kept him silent. He turned away from her, striding to the window to put some distance between them. His fist struck the casement hard enough to bruise his knuckles and he welcomed the pain. Anything to distract him from the fact that he’d just made a fool of himself.

Nothing had changed. She was still set on her path. His lips twisted into a wry smile. He’d probably not be so attracted to her if she’d been any different. He turned to find her watching him with wary eyes.

“There’s something you should know, Ned.”