Princess Augusta gave a single sharp nod.
“Agatha Louisa Aminata Danbury.”
“That is a good name.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
The Princess regarded her with piercing eyes. “What does it mean, Aminata? I assume Louisa is in honor of our great princesses.”
“Of course, Your Royal Highness.” It was true. Agatha’s parents had wanted their daughter to have a royal name, one befitting both of her cultures, and so for her second given name they’d chosen Louisa, a name popular in the British royal family. For her third . . .
“Aminata is—” Agatha cleared her throat. She was not used to speaking to someone of Princess Augusta’s rank, and she was frankly terrified. But she remembered something her nanny had once told her.
Be terrifying.
Even if she wasn’t terrifying, even if she was terrified . . .
She could imagine that she was terrifying. She could imagine she had the strength and power to bring men and women to their knees. And maybe a hint of this dream would sift up to her skin.
She looked Princess Augusta in the eye. “Aminata is a family name. It means trustworthy, faithful, and honest.”
“Are you trustworthy, faithful, and honest?”
“I am, Your Royal Highness.”
Princess Augusta stared at her for several seconds longer than was comfortable. “Good,” she finally said. “You will serve the Queen as a member of her court.”
“I—” What? Agatha’s mouth moved for several seconds before she managed to form words. “Yes. Yes, Your Royal Highness. It will be my greatest honor.”
“Of course it will.” Princess Augusta turned to Danbury, who was gaping at both women, and gave him a brisk nod. Then she was gone.
“What just happened?” Agatha whispered.
“Why you?” Danbury demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s your name,” Lady Smythe-Smith said. “Animata.”
“Aminata,” Agatha corrected, “and it’s not my name.”
“You just said it was.”
Agatha shook her head. Dear God, this woman was a fool. “It’s not why she chose me.”
“Then why did she?”
“I don’t know. Why did she choose any of us? We are suddenly all nobles?”
“We are,” Danbury said petulantly. “You are something more. You are a member of court.”
“I am as astonished as you,” she assured him.
“It was my family that had a relationship to the late King.”
“I know.”
“So why do they want you?”
“I do not know. I do not know these people.”
“You will,” Lady Smythe-Smith said, reminding them that she was still eavesdropping.
“Dearest,” Agatha said, patting her husband on his arm, “I am sure it is only because of you and your reputation that they would choose me. After all, they cannot choose you for the Queen’s court. You are a man. They could not have you, so they asked me in your stead.”
“I suppose,” Danbury grumbled.
“I am nothing without you, my dearest,” she said. They were words she had uttered many times, and they had not lost their effectiveness. Danbury returned his attention to the front of the chapel, and Agatha continued her examination of the ceiling. She really liked the way the octagons and Swiss crosses formed a pattern, and the—
A movement caught her eye. Someone was up in the balcony. Agatha quickly glanced about. Had anyone else noticed?
No. No one else had been looking up.
It was a young woman. With skin the same color as Agatha’s, maybe a shade different; it was impossible to tell in this light. But she was definitely not white, and she was definitely in a restricted area.
Agatha glanced again at the people around her. They were all looking at each other, some beginning to fan themselves as the room grew warm from the crowd.
She looked up again. The girl was gone.
Curious.
But not as curious as everything else that had happened that day.
Lady Danbury. Attendant to the Queen.
Gah.
Brimsley
St. James’s Palace
Chapel Royal
8 September 1761
Bartholomew Brimsley was going to lose his job.
Or they would hang him.
Or both. Honestly, that seemed plausible. He would be dismissed from his position as royal attendant and then hanged, and then, because he happened to work for the Royal House of Hanover, and they owned half the world and could do anything they pleased, they’d probably hire a traveling troupe of Italian grape pickers to stomp on his corpse.
There would be nothing left of him but patches of hair and entrails, and it would be nothing less than he deserved.
“You had one task,” he muttered to himself. “One. Task.”
Unfortunately for Brimsley, that one task was shepherding Princess Sophia Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz to the Chapel Royal at St. James’s Palace, where she was meant to marry His Majesty King George III of Great Britain and Ireland.
Right bloody now.
And he’d lost her.
To think he’d considered this a promotion. Sophronia Pratt, head maid to Princess Augusta, had pulled him aside only last week and said, “You have been given the honor of serving our new queen.”
And while Brimsley was digesting that startling development, Pratt said, “She is known as Princess Charlotte, not Princess Sophia. That is the first thing you must know.”
“Shall her regnal name be Charlotte, then?”
“We do not know. One can only assume, and when it comes to royals it is best to never assume.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brimsley said. He wondered what sort of uniform he’d be given. Not the bright red of the footmen and drivers; surely he’d be issued something more distinctive, as befitting his higher station. The King’s man wore naval blue, but Brimsley liked scarlet.
“She is to arrive next week,” Pratt continued. “We do not yet know the exact day, but I have been informed that the wedding will take place immediately.”
“Immediately, ma’am?” Brimsley echoed.
“Within hours. The very same day, to be sure.”
“Is there a reason for the rush, ma’am?”
Pratt skewered him with a glare. “If there is, you shall not be privy to it.”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Brimsley said, but inside he was berating himself. Pratt could rescind his promotion just as easily as she’d extended it. So he bowed his head appropriately and said, “I shall be at the ready, ma’am.”
“Good. Now then, you will walk five paces behind her. Always. You will be with her always. You will answer her questions—”
“Always?” Brimsley said.
“Sometimes.” Pratt gave him a look that was equal parts stern and disdainful. “You will answer her questions sometimes.”
Brimsley wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.
“She will not know how we do things here,” Pratt explained, disdain now briskly outpacing sternness. “It shall be one of your primary duties to help her learn.”
“Would that not require that I answer her questions?”
Pratt’s eyes floated heavenward, and Brimsley, while not a skilled lip-reader, was fairly certain she mouthed the words Heaven help me.
Heaven help them both. Honestly. He was getting thrown to the wolves, and they both knew it.
“The German princess must learn to live as we do,” Pratt said.