Queen and Princess stared each other down.
“I shall be painted as I am,” Queen Charlotte said.
“You shall be painted as your subjects wish you to be,” Princess Augusta said.
“Perhaps we should be done for the day,” Brimsley cut in. He scooted between the two women.
“You are tired, are you not?” he said to the Queen.
Her eyes narrowed with rage. “I am—”
“Tired,” he cut in before she could say something he would regret.
She wouldn’t regret it, of that he was sure. But he would, because he would have to deal with the aftermath.
“You are with child,” he said. “You deserve solitude. And restful company.” He looked over at Mr. Ramsay with a pointed expression. “And we have lost the light, have we not?”
“Oh,” Mr. Ramsay said. “Oh yes. The clouds. They blew in so quickly.”
“We are inside,” Princess Augusta pointed out.
“Nevertheless,” Mr. Ramsay said.
“Another day, perhaps,” Brimsley said. He turned to the Queen. “Your Majesty? Perhaps you would like to lie down?”
“Yes,” she said.
But there was something about her tone that unnerved him.
“I need to write another letter.”
“Another one, Your Majesty?” Brimsley was surprised. She usually waited at least a day.
“I do correspond with people other than my husband,” she said, sweeping out of the room.
She did?
“You do?” he asked.
“Stop following me,” she said.
“You know I cannot.”
“Perhaps I just like to say it.”
“Then I shall continue to enjoy hearing it.”
She halted in place just long enough to let out a loud, frustrated groan.
Brimsley waited patiently. He was used to this. It was not the first time she had done this.
She marched on to her bedchamber, then stopped at the door. “I assume you will be waiting here until I emerge?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Good. I shall see you when I see you.”
She shut the door in his face.
He was used to that, too.
Kew Palace
The Entry Hall
Later that night
“You are back,” Reynolds said.
“I am, and it is not good.”
“What do you mean?”
Brimsley tried to ignore the acid burning up his throat. “I have another letter.”
“Already?”
“It is not for the King.”
“Then why have you brought it here?”
“She has written to Duke Adolphus.”
Reynolds’s surprise showed clearly on his face. “What, the Queen’s brother? In Germany? What for?”
“Because she cannot leave England without a country to give her safe haven.”
“What?” Reynolds turned away before twisting right back. “No. She would not leave.”
“She would. She is miserable, Reynolds. I have tried to tell you.”
“And you are sure that she is asking—”
“I am sure.” Brimsley was not proud of himself, but he had used ice to freeze the seal so that he could pop it open without breaking it. He’d read the Queen’s private correspondence before carefully resealing it.
“Oh,” Reynolds said.
“Oh. Oh? That is all you have to say? Reynolds, I have read the private correspondence of the Queen. I am fairly certain that is a hanging offense.”
“I shall not tell.”
“I know that,” Brimsley said, frustrated beyond measure. “I tell you merely to demonstrate the lengths to which I am willing to go to protect her. I am worried, Reynolds. I am scared.”
Reynolds shook his head, the blank, mindless motion of one who has no answers. “What do you want of me?”
“Help me,” Brimsley begged. “Do I post it?”
“You ask me?”
“Yes, I ask you. No one else has the ear of the King. This is . . . She wants to leave.”
Reynolds looked away, at some far-off nothingness on the horizon.
“I can fail to post it,” Brimsley said. “Shall I fail to post it?”
Reynolds swallowed uncomfortably. “That is up to your discretion.”
“No. It is our . . . We work together. You can tell His Majesty. He will take action. Come back to her. All will be solved.”
Brimsley waited. But still, Reynolds did not answer.
“Shall I fail to post it?” Brimsley asked yet again.
Reynolds closed his eyes. He looked to be in pain. “There is nothing that can be done. Post it.”
Brimsley swore. He swore at this untenable situation, and he swore at this man he thought he might love.
“Everything is in danger,” he warned. “And you keep secrets.”
“They are not my secrets to reveal,” Reynolds said.
He walked away.
Brimsley supposed he ought to be used to that, too.
Charlotte
Buckingham House
The Receiving Room
22 April 1762
Charlotte was sick of reading. She was sick of needlework, she was sick of directing the servants to prepare baskets for the poor. She was sick of everything. She was bored, and she was lonely, and the only fun she had was trying to devise new ways to avoid Princess Augusta, who she swore must be a witch, because by God, that woman was everywhere.
Unescapablemenaceperson. That was going to be her new word. George had told her it was her right as Queen to make up all the words she wanted.
Overmotherfuss. There was a certain elegance to that one.
Or maybe she ought to go back to the tried and true. Backpfeifengesicht. A face in need of a fist.
Well. This was the most fun she’d had in weeks.
Brimsley entered the room with a little click of his heels. She thought he might be trying to act a bit more German for her. It was rather sweet.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “Duke Adolphus Frederick IV of Mecklenburg-Strelitz has arrived.”
Her brother! Charlotte was overcome with a deep sense of relief. Finally, he was here. She could go home.
Adolphus entered the room and made a profoundly formal bow.
Charlotte shot Brimsley a look. “Where is . . . she?” They both knew she was talking about Augusta.
“I believe she is with her modiste.”
Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. “Wait outside, Brimsley.”
He didn’t look happy about it, but he went.
Adolphus bowed again. “Your Majesty.”
She rolled her eyes. “Get up. You look ridiculous.”
He smirked. “It is good to see you as well, Sister.”
“You could not make it any faster?” she demanded.
“Mein Gott, being Queen suits you.”
Charlotte pushed herself to her feet—she’d started to become a bit awkward in her own body—and went to his side. She smiled up at his beloved face, and then gave him a hug.
“I would have been here sooner, but it was a hard crossing,” Adolphus said. “I still cannot keep food down.”
“That we have in common.” She stepped back and adjusted her gown, revealing her increasing midsection.
“Your Majesty!” He beamed with delight. “I am to be an uncle. Such happy news.”
“Only I am not happy.” She clutched his hand in hers. “I want to go home, Adolphus.”
“Home? Nonsense. And besides”—he motioned to their luxurious surroundings—“this is your home now.”