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He explains how all plays must be approved by the Master of the Revels in order to receive a license to perform. To win this, he disparaged the church in Rome, as well as the French, England’s sworn enemy.

“And, God’s teeth,” he adds, “let us be honest: the maid Joan was more than a little off.” He gives a whistle and twirls his finger around his ear. “She claimed to hear voices; believed herself to be visited by spirits. By this light, I merely elaborated on Joan’s own confession about her devils.”

I glare at his dissemblance disapprovingly.

“Yea. I confess,” he adds, “I did it for variety. You can only report so many battles before the audience wants something lusty, lascivious, or romantic. I threw in her rumored wantonness for good measure. The Master of the Revels and the Privy Council adored it. Yes, it was pandering, but we artists do what we must, so that we can do, well, what we do.”

The fire grows inside me, and I know if I say nothing, I might begin to hate him.

“I do not approve of this, sir! You might have chosen a man to attack rather than one of the few accomplished women in our history books—the only woman to have ever led an army. What must a woman do to gain the respect of the English? Be the Queen?”

“Now, see here—”

“We can’t all be queens, sir.” My voice is rising. “And how you English treat we foreigners … simply because our skin is loved more by the sun than yours, we are held back, even enslaved.” I catch myself, seeing the eyes around the room staring at us. “Forgive me, perhaps I have overstepped.”

He is silent, and I expect he will simply get up and leave at any moment. Instead, he takes my hand, kisses it, and says, “Never censor yourself around me. Who knew your intelligence could make your beauty pale by comparison. You’re right, madam. About all of it. My defense was weak to say the least.”

Hearing him concede causes the fire in my belly to relocate to other regions of my body.

“Marry, sir,” I say, reaching for his thigh under the table. “I believe it’s time for talking to end. Will you come to my room?”

He sighs, and I see a hesitancy in his face. Something is wrong.

“Is it your wife?” I ask, removing my hand. “Is she in London at present?”

“No. She’s in Stratford-upon-Avon with my children.”

“I see,” I say, feigning sincerity to sweeten my bitterness. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt such a quaint domestic painting.”

“You wouldn’t be disrupting anything. It’s not that. We’ve an agreement, my wife and I. We are honest, if asked. But she is there, and I am here. She knows I have several … sporting partners—as you, yourself, might already know.”

“I do,” I say. “They count your lovers as somewhere between Mary Queen of the Scots and a very active rabbit.”

He laughs. “I cannot argue that. Though I hope you do not feel like my intentions are to treat you like one in a crowd. Our exchange under the stage of the Theatre made me curious to know you better. You are fearless and have this urge to explore without shame … it’s … it’s …”

“The poet has been wrung dry of words?” I ask.

“Sometimes even I don’t need them,” he says.

This time I reach even further under the table, past his thigh. He breathes heavily.

I whisper, “I’m staying at the White Horse Inn at the top of Hog Lane. Second floor. The room is quiet and easily accessed without being seen.”

Nearing to a swoon, he removes my hand from beneath his codpiece. “I can’t.”

“But why? If it’s not your wife then—”

“It’s cursed time. Blast it! I have a meeting with the other sharers half past the hour. Our company leaves on the morrow to tour the countryside, and there’s much to do.”

“You leave on the morrow?” I say, surprised. “I disapprove.”

“As do I,” he says. “We’ve no choice. With the playhouses closed in town, we’re running out of money. Perhaps, when the plague is over in the autumn, you and I shall have our chance to meet.”

“Perhaps,” I responded, my frustration at the missed opportunity evident.

“Here’s another mad thought,” he says. “You could join me for part of the tour. We’ll be stopping by a few of the seaside towns by the end of June. The beaches and cliffs of Dover are quite inspiring with many private nooks and crannies worth exploring.”

“Are you speaking of me or the cliffs, sir?”