She motioned to the door. “You may go.”
He took a step backward, and then another, Reynolds moving in tandem beside him. Together they backed up to the door, and then finally escaped into the corridor.
“What just happened?” Reynolds whispered.
To which Brimsley replied, “Can we be hanged for this?”
Reynolds stared at him. “Really? That’s what you’re wondering?”
“You’re not?”
“You are so selfish,” Reynolds said.
“And you are blind,” Brimsley shot back. “We don’t serve at the pleasure of the King and Queen, we exist at their pleasure. And by extension, of the King’s mother. If she is displeased . . .” He made a slicing gesture across his throat.
“You belong on the stage,” Reynolds said. He had a way about him, as if he were always talking down to Brimsley, and not only because he was nearly a foot taller.
“We just lied to Princess Augusta,” Brimsley hissed. “She’s going to realize something is wrong when there isn’t, in fact, the promise of a baby in the next fortnight.”
“Well, I don’t know what we can do about it.”
“There is no we,” Brimsley said. “There is only you. You have to convince the King to summon her.”
“I cannot.”
Something flickered through Reynolds’s eyes so quickly Brimsley almost missed it. Pain. Worry, maybe.
Brimsley’s mind flashed with the memory of that man in the hall outside the Chapel Royal. The one who had slapped the King across the face.
He chose his words very carefully. “Is there something I should know about the King?”
“Just that he is your King.”
“But the Queen . . .”
“The Queen has been elevated to the loftiest position in the country, if not the world. The Queen cannot possibly have a worry to her name.”
Brimsley nearly groaned. “Reynolds—”
“I must depart,” Reynolds said suddenly. “I do not like to leave the King unattended for long.”
“What could happen to him?” Brimsley scoffed.
Reynolds’s expression darkened. Then he strode away.
Buckingham House
The Dining Room
12 September 1761
Brimsley was still stewing over that conversation the following day as he watched the Queen take her evening meal. She was seated at the foot of the table, as she always was, resplendent in a round-necked gown of gold.
Table for twenty, place setting for one.
There wasn’t much for him to do while she was eating. Six footmen were in attendance to tend to her meal. The minute she finished her soup (chicken consommé this evening), Footman Number One appeared on her right with a small urn if she desired another serving. Footman Number Two appeared on her left to whisk away her bowl if she did not.
“James,” Brimsley whispered to Footman Number Three. They were all named James. It was easier that way.
He turned a quarter inch. Just enough to indicate that he’d heard.
“Does she seem quite right tonight?” Brimsley whispered.
“The Queen?”
Brimsley would have groaned if he were allowed to make a noise. Of course he meant the Queen. She was the only she in the room.
All he did was nod, though. It was dangerous to alienate a James. They tended to stick together. And they were all quite athletic.
The footman just shrugged. Useless. Brimsley leaned a little to the left, trying to get a better view of Queen Charlotte. She’d seemed unsettled on the way in, although he could not have explained why he thought so. Maybe it was just because he was unsettled.
He was still quite concerned about the conversation with Princess Augusta. If by “quite concerned” one actually meant terrified to the point that his digestive processes had not worked for a solid day.
Surely at some point the Princess would realize that the King and Queen were living in separate households. It was frankly a miracle that no one had informed her yet.
Or had they?
Acid crawled up his throat.
Maybe the Princess was just toying with them. Maybe she did know that the royal marriage was already stale. Maybe the only reason she had not had Brimsley sacked was that she was pondering something worse.
Did they still garotte people?
Or what if—God forbid—she had him demoted? She could send him out to the stables. Forget sitting at the head of the table. They wouldn’t even let him in the kitchen with the stench of the stables on him.
And the looks he would get. Not even pity. Just contempt.
Maybe the garotte would be better. He could—
“Brimsley.”
He jumped to attention. The Queen had set down her cutlery, but she was still on the soup course. She wasn’t nearly done with her meal.
He moved quickly to her side. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Ready the carriage.”
He blinked. This was most unusual. But if it was what she wanted . . .
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He headed for the door, then paused to inquire, “May I say our destination?”
“We are going to see my husband.”
Oh.
Oh.
Oh my.
Kew Palace
London
Later that evening
“Where is he?”
Brimsley ran to keep up with Queen Charlotte. He’d never seen her move so fast. He’d barely got the carriage door open before she had her feet on the ground and was stalking across the drive, her deep purple cloak billowing behind her.
A small flotilla of servants came rushing out the palace door, including Reynolds, who, it had to be said, did not look his usual unflappable self. Brimsley tried to get his attention and unfortunately succeeded.
“What have you done now?” Reynolds demanded.
“Oh, this is my fault?” Brimsley shot back.
“You!” the Queen said imperiously, pointing at Reynolds.
He made a hasty bow. “Your Majesty, we were not expecting you.”
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“The observatory, Your Majesty.”
The Queen stared Reynolds down. Brimsley loved it.
Reynolds pointed. “It is that way, Your Majesty.”
She marched in the correct direction, and Brimsley took his place five paces behind.
But then she held up a hand. “Wait here.”
For once, Brimsley allowed her to move out of his sight. “Will he be cross with her?” he asked Reynolds.
“Absolutely,” Reynolds answered, still staring in the direction of the Queen. “But she is standing up to him. Perhaps this is good.”
“Perhaps,” Brimsley echoed, not so sure. “Perhaps it is bad.”
Reynolds cleared his throat. “Would you like to step indoors while we wait to find out?”
“Whether it is good or bad?” Brimsley asked.
They were standing side by side, both looking ahead. Brimsley glanced at Reynolds, but only with his eyes. It would not do to appear too eager.
Reynolds made a small murmur of assent. “You should come in and warm up. It is a cool night.”
It wasn’t. The air was quite pleasant.
Brimsley felt a frisson of excitement. It would be more pleasant inside with Reynolds. “I thank you, sir,” he said, allowing a hint of flirtation to enter his voice. “That is very kind and generous of you to offer.”
Reynolds walked inside, clearly expecting Brimsley to follow, which he did. They had done this before—not as often as either would have liked, but often enough that Brimsley knew the way.