“A guess? Nay, madame. I might affront your Majesty.”
“How so?”
“If I were deluded by appearances. If I named a subject who signally enjoys your royal favour.”
“You mean Lord Robert Dudley.” She paled a little, and her bosom’s heave was quickened. “Why should the guess affront me?”
“Because a queen—a wise queen, madame—does not mate with a subject—particularly with one who has a wife already.”
He had stung her. He had wounded at once the pride of the woman and the dignity of the queen, yet in a way that made it difficult for her to take direct offense. She bit her lip and mastered her surge of anger. Then she laughed, a thought sneeringly.
“Why, as to my Lord Robert’s wife, it seems you are less well-informed than usual, sir. Lady Robert Dudley is dead, or very nearly so.”
And as blank amazement overspread his face, she passed upon her way and left him.
But anon, considering, she grew vaguely uneasy, and that very night expressed her afflicting doubt to my lord, reporting to him de Quadra’s words. His lordship, who was mentally near-sighted, laughed.
“He’ll change his tone before long,” said he.