“Is there nothing in my engagement diary?” the Queen demanded. “Nothing at all?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
She took a step in his direction. He tried to take a step back, but she quelled him with a look. He was quite frozen in place.
“Brimsley,” she said. “I am the Queen. I have duties. Official duties, do I not?”
“You do, Your Majesty. Many duties.”
“Then how can there be nothing in the Queen’s engagement diary?”
It had not occurred to him that she did not realize why her days were so empty. “You are currently enjoying the privacy of the first days of marriage, Your Majesty.”
She stared at him. “This is my honeymoon,” she finally said.
And for the first time since he’d laid eyes on her, he truly felt sorry for her. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The following week was an exercise in repetition.
The Queen rose.
She was dressed.
Her hair was styled.
She ate breakfast.
She looked out a window.
She ate lunch.
She read a book.
And so on. All of it, alone.
Except for Brimsley, always five paces away.
She was miserable, and he had not a clue what to do about it.
He considered consulting Reynolds. The Queen’s misery was clearly caused by the King, and no one knew the King’s situation better than Reynolds.
But that required admitting to Reynolds that he was failing in his new position with the Queen, and nothing could be worse.
Then he received a letter from Princess Augusta.
St. James’s Palace
Princess Augusta’s Sitting Room
Later that day
“I assume you know why I have called you here this afternoon,” Princess Augusta said.
Brimsley did not, in fact, know why she had called him there. Especially since Reynolds was also in attendance, along with Earl Harcourt and Lord Bute, two of the King’s most long-standing advisors.
Reynolds, with his shiny blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and remarkably deep voice. Reynolds, six feet tall if he was an inch, with a mien and demeanor that would not have been misplaced on a duke. Brimsley would have hated the man if he ever bothered to think about him.
Which of course he did not do. Why would he think about him? Reynolds was with the King, and Brimsley was with the Queen, so the only reason he, Brimsley, would ever need to picture Reynolds’s ridiculously symmetrical face was when the King and Queen had business together.
Or when he and Reynolds had business together, which they sometimes did. Of a sort.
Brimsley would not say that they were friends, but they had certain interests in common. And so sometimes they did find themselves in each other’s company.
Sometimes.
Occasionally.
Really, only now and then.
They had certainly never been simultaneously summoned to a meeting by the King’s mother. It was frankly terrifying. It did, however, give Brimsley a small measure of satisfaction that Reynolds did not seem to know what to make of the situation, either.
“A report, if you will,” Princess Augusta demanded. “I wish to know of the King and Queen. How are they getting along?”
Oh.
Oh.
Oh dear.
Brimsley swallowed uncomfortably and then lied through his teeth. “They seem very content.”
This did not seem to appease the Princess. “I would hope for more news than the appearance of satisfaction and contentment,” she said.
“They are a wonder together,” Reynolds said with uncharacteristic drama. “He is smitten with her beauty.”
“Really?” Princess Augusta’s brows came together, and her lips, which were always somewhat pinchy, tightened into a line. “King George is smitten? So quickly?”
Brimsley very nearly rolled his eyes. He knew Reynolds had been overselling it. “I would not dare to define the emotions of the King,” he pronounced.
“Of course not,” Reynolds quickly added. “I only meant that he seems happy.”
“And what evidence do you have of this?” Princess Augusta demanded.
“A great deal of talking,” Brimsley said.
“Talking?”
Brimsley nodded. “And walking.”
The Queen walked. Brimsley assumed the King did, too.
“Laughter,” Reynolds added. “There is laughter. It warms the heart to witness.”
Princess Augusta somehow gave the appearance of leaning forward without actually moving a muscle. “And what of their relations?”
Brimsley just stared. Surely she did not mean . . .
“Their marital bonds,” she clarified.
“Bonds,” Reynolds echoed.
Brimsley stole a glance. Reynolds looked every bit as horrified as he, but he masked it quickly with a shrug and an expression that seemed to say, I don’t know what she’s talking about. Do you know what she’s talking about?
Brimsley responded by similarly expressing, I don’t know what she’s talking about, either. Perhaps it’s something about flowers. Or cake.
They turned back to the three dignitaries with equally blank faces.
Lord Bute slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair. “The Dowager Princess wishes to confirm that the marriage has been consummated.”
Brimsley wondered how much longer he could feign stupidity.
“Sexually,” Earl Harcourt practically barked. Then he adjusted his cravat. “She asks for the good of the country, of course.”
“Of course,” Brimsley said weakly.
“So?” Lord Bute demanded.
Brimsley looked at Reynolds. He was going to have to answer this one. It was the King’s fault, after all. All of Buckingham House had seen what had transpired on their wedding night. The Queen had been completely prepared to do her duty and lie with the King. He had been the one to take off for no apparent reason.
Reynolds squirmed. “Certainly,” he finally said, although he didn’t sound too certain to Brimsley’s ears. “I mean, from what I can tell, I would say yes.”
“From what you can tell?” Princess Augusta said.
“I did not accompany them into their bedchamber, Your Royal Highness.”
Brimsley choked on a laugh.
“Have you something to say?” Lord Bute asked.
“Yes, Brimsley,” Reynolds said in a peevish tone. “Have you something to say?”
“I also did not accompany them into their bedchamber,” Brimsley blurted out.
Reynolds groaned.
Princess Augusta gave them a look that said she was not accustomed to dealing with idiots, then asked, “So would you say it is a successful honeymoon?”
“Indeed,” Reynolds said. “Do you agree, Brimsley?”
Brimsley forced himself to nod. “Most successful.”
The Princess’s eyes narrowed, and Brimsley’s nightmare returned—the one with his corpse being stomped on by Italian grape pickers. Except this time, there was a goat.
But then Princess Augusta clapped her hands together and beamed. “This is good!” she exclaimed. She looked to her companions. “We feel it is good?”
“Very good,” Lord Bute said.
“Excellent,” Earl Harcourt chimed in. “Most excellent.”
“Perhaps we shall have an heir on the way before the next fortnight,” Princess Augusta said. “Wouldn’t that be splendid?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” Brimsley said before he realized she wasn’t speaking to him.