He put down the plate at once.
“I have no doubt you are,” he smiled broadly, and came even closer. “What would you recommend?”
She sighed but recalled her manners. “Whatever your good self desires. The wafers are especially fine.”
To her dismay, he scooped up the plate, taking one of the delicacies and holding it up to his face. Yet he did not eat as she had expected, but inhaled.
“Ah, cinnamon, that sweetest of spices, and nutmeg, I believe. Almond too. A true wedding of flavours.”
And with that, he finally took a bite, showing exaggerated appreciation on his face.
Thomasin turned away to conceal her smile at the theatricality of his performance.
Once he had finished, he inched even closer. “I wonder what good English name was bestowed upon such a fair lady by her honourable parents?”
So far, nothing in Thomasin’s training for the queen’s household had quite prepared her for this, but after four months, she understood Catherine’s expectations.
“I am Lady Thomasin Marwood, my Lord.”
“Thomasin Marwood,” he repeated slowly, dwelling on the vowels like a caress. “Tho-ma-sin Maaar-wood. Such a melodious name.”
Protocol dictated her reply. “And you are?”
He stood up straight, thrust out his chest. “I am Signore Matteo Vitruvio of Venice.”
Thomasin bowed her head in acknowledgement, refusing to dissect his name as he had done to hers.
“Might I, dear lady Thomasin, ask a question of you?”
“Yes, you may, Signore.”
“Did you like the gifts we brought your mistress? The silks and orange preserves?”
Thomasin reminded herself of the formalities. They were playing hosts to the Venetians, and gifts were never just gifts; they came with expectations, and there were clear diplomatic answers which the situation required her to offer. She retreated into them now. “They are very splendid gifts; you honour us by bringing them.”
“Would you like to earn some of those yourself? An allowance of silks, or golden lace, or a small payment, now and again?”
“Earn?”
“Yes, earn a little, in the service of your mistress.”
Thomasin looked over to where Vernier had picked up a lute to strum a tune for Catherine. “How do you propose I do that?”
The Venetian looked about cautiously. “I am sure you write the most beautiful letters. Perhaps you might be willing to write them to me, once a month, when I have returned to Venice, to give me news of how you do.”
“News of how I do?”
“How you fare. I would like to have a lady to write to, to improve my English.”
“It seems to me that your English is quite good enough.”
He smiled, a wide, predatory gesture. “There is always room for improvement, is there not?”
“I suppose there is.”
“And, when you write to me, perhaps you might mention how your mistress fares, just by way of subject matter. Tell me about yourself, but also who she sees and how her case is unfolding? For a good price and many gifts, of course. Silks and oranges and wine.”
“And I suppose you would not wish me to tell the queen about this correspondence?”
