Agatha gave a little shrug. “I don’t know,” she whispered, mostly because it would be impolite to say nothing.
“The King will arrive when the King wishes to arrive,” Danbury said. “He is the King.”
This proclamation was delivered in a voice so pompous one might think Danbury actually had some experience with kings.
He did not. Of this, Agatha was quite certain.
But her husband was right about one thing, Agatha supposed. A king got to do what a king wished to do, including arriving late to his own wedding.
Or inviting all of London’s dark-skinned elite to the ceremony.
Agatha hazarded another glance at the opposite side of the chapel. Not all of the nobility was glaring at her. A few looked merely curious.
Don’t look at me, she wanted to tell them. I am as clueless as you.
At least there was much to look at while she was waiting. The Chapel Royal was as exquisite as she would have imagined. It was not in the current rococo style, which surprised her. She’d have thought the palace would be more au courant.
But this simpler style was lovely, and quite honestly more to her taste. The ceiling in particular was a wonder. Intricately coffered and painted by Hans Holbein himself. Or so Agatha had once read. She’d always had an interest in architecture and design. The recessed panels made her think of honeycomb, and each was—
“Stop gawking,” Danbury hissed.
Agatha jerked her stare back down to eye level.
“You look like a peasant,” he said. “Try to behave as if you have been here before.”
Agatha rolled her eyes the moment he looked away. As if anyone thought either of them had ever set foot in the palace before this day.
But she knew what this meant to Herman. His had been a life of “almosts.” Almost fitting in. Almost being accepted. He’d gone to Eton, but had he been allowed to play on the teams? He’d attended Oxford, but had he been invited into any of the special, secret clubs?
No, of course not. He had money, he had education, he even had royal African lineage. But his skin was dark as chocolate, and so he would never be accepted by the ton.
And therein lay the great contradiction of her life. Agatha didn’t like her husband. She really didn’t. But she felt for him. For all the indignities that pecked away at his heart. Sometimes she wondered if he might have become a different man had he been allowed to rise to his true potential. If he had not been stepped on or pushed away every time he approached his goals.
If society had viewed him as the man he truly was, maybe he could have seen her as the woman she truly was.
Or maybe not. Society was full of men who saw women as nothing but accessories and breeding stock.
Still, Agatha wondered.
“Oh!” Mrs. Smythe-Smith yelped, and Agatha followed her gaze to the back of the chapel. Someone important was arriving.
“Is it the King?” Danbury asked.
Agatha shook her head. “I cannot see. I don’t think so.”
“It’s the Princess!” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said.
“Which one?” Agatha whispered. The bride? One of the King’s sisters?
“Princess Augusta.”
The King’s mother. Agatha held her breath. Princess Augusta was without question the most powerful woman in the country. A queen in everything but name, she had long been rumored to be the true power behind the throne.
The congregation rose as one, and Agatha craned her neck for a better view. To hell with looking like a peasant, she wanted a glimpse of the Princess. And besides, Danbury had his back to her and was likely gawking himself.
Princess Augusta moved like a queen, or at least how Agatha thought a queen would move—with grace and purpose, her fan an elegant extension of her right hand. Her back was straight as an arrow. If she felt burdened by the obvious weight of her gown—the fabric alone must have weighed almost a stone—she gave no indication.
What would it be like to have so many eyes on oneself? Agatha could not imagine it. To be at the center of such attention, presumably every day. It must be exhausting.
But the power. The ability to do what one wished, to see whom one wished, and more importantly, to not see those one wished to avoid.
Sadly, Agatha could not imagine that, either.
She got a better view of Princess Augusta as she moved down the center aisle. She seemed to look at no one and everyone at the same time, as if to say, I see all of you, but you are beneath my notice. Her eyes passed over the crowd, fixing on no one until—
They fixed on her.
Agatha stopped breathing. This could not be right.
Princess Augusta continued her regal march, moving ever closer, and Agatha could not even begin to think what she and her husband could have done to insult the Princess, because why else would she be fixing them with such a single-minded stare?
She could not be imagining this, could she? Maybe the Princess was actually looking at the Smythe-Smiths. Except that was equally difficult to believe.
Five feet away, two feet . . .
She stopped. Directly in front of the Danburys.
Agatha curtsied. Deeply. When she rose, Princess Augusta was speaking to Danbury.
“Your father was friendly with his late Majesty, my son’s grandfather, was he not?” the Princess inquired.
It was true. Danbury’s father had known King George II. Agatha was not certain that their connection could have been termed a friendship, but His Majesty had very much liked the diamonds that had come from the family’s mines in Kenema.
The Princess did not seem to be expecting an actual reply, because she did not pause before saying, “I am so pleased to have you here with us today on this family occasion, Lord Danbury.”
Agatha felt herself lean forward. Had she heard that correctly?
“Lord?” Danbury stammered. “I . . . I do not know what to—”
Princess Augusta cut him off cleanly. “You shall be receiving the official proclamation from the King after his wedding. You are honored to be Lord and Lady Danbury now.”
Lady Danbury? She, Agatha Danbury, was now Lady Danbury. And had been made so in front of dozens of witnesses, in the Chapel Royal in St. James’s Palace.
This was not . . . It could not be happening.
And yet it was. Princess Augusta stood right in front of her, and she said, “All the members of the ton must be titled.”
“The ton, Your Royal Highness?” Agatha echoed.
Princess Augusta acknowledged her with a tiny tip of her head. “It is time we were united as a society, is it not?”
Agatha’s lips parted, but even if she’d had the presence of mind to speak, it mattered not, for Princess Augusta had moved on to the next pew and was greeting Lord and Lady Smythe-Smith.
What the devil had just happened?
Beside her, her husband puffed with pride. “Lord Danbury,” he said in a reverential whisper. “Imagine.”
“I am imagining,” Agatha said softly. She watched as the new Lady Smythe-Smith sank into a deep curtsy, remaining there so long that Princess Augusta finally had to order her to rise.
“I am sorry, Your Royal Highness,” Lady Smythe-Smith said. “That is to say, thank you, Your Royal Highness, I—”
“One last thing,” Princess Augusta interrupted, except she returned her attention to the Danburys when she said it. “What is your name?” she asked Agatha.
“Me?” Agatha pointed to herself.