They were ushered into a richly furnished hall. Although she wished herself far from there, Frances was glad of the warmth from the large fire that roared in the grate.
‘Lady Katherine!’
The countess was striding towards them, arms outstretched. ‘You are most welcome, my dear,’ she said, kissing her on both cheeks. Her smile vanished as she flicked a glance at her companion. ‘Lady Tyringham.’
She gestured for an attendant to offer them some wine. Frances discreetly sniffed the contents of her glass before taking a small sip.
‘I hope the night air has sharpened your appetite. Our feast is almost ready.’
Kate gave a tight smile.
‘And I for one am ravenous.’ Buckingham flashed Kate a wolfish grin as he sauntered into the room. He bent to kiss her hand, his lips lingering a little too long. A blush crept across her cheeks. The marquess saw it, and his smile widened. She does not blush from pleasure but shame, Frances wanted to tell him. But she merely curtsied.
‘So the little mouse has been coaxed from her nest,’ he remarked, taking a slow sip of wine. ‘Tell me, Mother, what bait did you use? A few morsels from your kitchens, perhaps?’ He strolled over to the countess and kissed her on the lips as she gazed adoringly at him. ‘Or was it the prospect of something more . . . satisfying?’
Frances swallowed her revulsion.
‘The feast is ready, ma’am.’
The countess waved away the groom impatiently and snaked her hand around her son’s arm so that he might lead her to the dining room. Frances took Kate’s hand and they followed at a distance.
The dining table stretched in front of them. The King’s cook must have been hard at work for days. The 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 towards one of the King’s grooms, who was standing, impassive, by the fireplace. ‘And there are plenty of witnesses to attest to your disgrace.’
‘No!’ Kate cried, wresting herself from his grasp. She ran towards the door but he was there before her. With a swift move, he had her arms pinioned behind her back and pressed himself against her groin.
‘The taking of her will not be such a chore as we imagined, Mother,’ he called, over his shoulder. ‘A prey tastes all the sweeter if it has tried to evade capture.’ Without warning, he thrust his hand up Kate’s skirts. She cried out in shock but he silenced her with his mouth. Frances felt as if she had slipped into a nightmare and, for a moment, she was unable to move. Then she launched herself forward, seizing a glass from the table. The countess shouted a warning to her son but Frances had already brought it smashing down on his skull.
Buckingham’s hand fell away from Kate’s thigh and he stood, panting, as the blood trickled down his neck. Then, slowly, he turned to face Frances. He ran his tongue along his lips, which were almost white. Slowly, he cocked his head and his eyes roamed over her as if he were examining some rare species that the King’s sailors had brought back from the New World. Suddenly he dealt her such a blow that she fell sprawling to the floor, her cheek slapping against the flagstones. Her vision clouded as a searing pain ran through her jaw and she tasted blood. The last thing she saw were Kate’s skirts as she was bundled into an adjoining room. As she slipped into insensibility, a piercing scream sounded in her ears, as if in a dream.