Brimsley shifted to the side. He could not turn his back on the King—that was, if not a hanging offense, at the very least enough to have him thrown out of the palace. Although to be honest, his aforementioned misplacement of the bride was probably the bigger concern at the moment.
Regardless, he’d feel a lot better if he could position himself in such a way that he couldn’t see that the King was staring at him.
“Brimsley,” Reynolds hissed. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Brimsley shot back. “Obviously.”
Reynolds let out a sound akin to a growl. “You are useless.”
“I don’t see you keeping track of an unhappy female.”
“It’s not my job to keep track of an unhappy female. My job is the King.”
He was right, damn him, but Brimsley would never admit it. Reynolds would lord it over him for days.
“Now is not the time to argue,” Brimsley whispered, trying desperately not to look at the King. But how did one not look at a king? That was like not looking at the sun.
What an apt metaphor. If he looked too long at the King, he would surely burn. And yet, nothing existed without him. Not this palace, not this country, not—
“Brimsley!” Reynolds snapped.
“I do not know what to do,” Brimsley said. It was the most painful admission of his life.
“Where did you last—”
But Reynolds’s question was silenced by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. The King had risen.
“Your Majesty,” Reynolds said, and it was only his hand on Brimsley’s arm that stopped Brimsley from prostrating himself at the King’s feet.
“I’m apparently not needed,” the King said. And he walked right out.
Brimsley stared. Reynolds stared. And then they looked at each other.
“What just happened?” Brimsley asked.
“I do not know,” Reynolds replied, “but it cannot be good.”
“Should we go after him?”
“You should not.” Reynolds ran through the doorway after the King, leaving Brimsley alone with the archbishop.
“Your excellency,” Brimsley said, smiling weakly.
“Are we ready, then?” the archbishop asked.
“Er, not quite.” Brimsley hustled backward to the door—since one did not turn one’s back on an archbishop, either—then he took off down the hallway in a fast-panicked walk.
They couldn’t have gone far. That door led straight outside, and the other one went into the chapel, which meant—
Brimsley stopped short when he turned the corner. Reynolds was watching the King, who was speaking with a man Brimsley had never seen before. He wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, but the King was listening intently, and then the King said something, and then the man said something, and then—
The man slapped the King across the face.
Brimsley nearly fainted.
Two guards rushed forward, presumably to clap him in irons, but the King stopped them, allowing the strange man to depart. And then he walked outside. On his wedding day. The King walked right out of the chapel.
Brimsley took a step forward, baffled by what he had just seen. And also wildly curious. Information was currency among the palace staff, and this was gold.
It was at that moment, however, that Reynolds saw him. “You should not be here,” he whispered harshly.
“What just happened?”
“Not a word. To anyone.”
“But—”
“Not. A. Word.”
Brimsley clamped his mouth into a straight line. He had questions. Oh, he had questions. But Reynolds was the King’s man, and he was not. In fact, he would be no one’s man if he didn’t locate Princess Charlotte.
“I have to go,” he said suddenly.
Reynolds looked down his supercilious nose. “See that you do.”
Brimsley retraced his steps through the corridor and back into the chapel. God, he hated Reynolds.
Sometimes.
Charlotte
St. James’s Palace
Outside the Chapel Royal
8 September 1761
Charlotte eyed the garden wall. She could do it. If she grabbed hold of the woody vine that crept up the brick, wedged her foot in that little nook behind the purple flowers, and hoisted herself up . . .
She’d be up and over in no time.
Not for nothing had she climbed all the trees at Schloss Mirow.
It would not be easy in her wedding dress. Princess Augusta’s choice was plain, but the fabric was heavy, and her panniers were wide. Still, it was probably easier to move in than the one Charlotte had brought from Paris.
Thank you, Augusta. For this, at least.
Charlotte gritted her teeth, jammed her foot in the nook, grabbed hold of the vine as high as she could reach, and pulled.
She didn’t make it.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered.
She could try again. She was getting out of this damned palace if it killed her. No one would tell her about the King. She’d asked his mother, she’d asked that fool Brimsley, she’d asked the seamstress who had acted like this repellent wedding dress was actually fashionable, but no, not a one of them would tell her anything of substance.
Was he handsome?
Was he kind? Athletic? Did he like to read?
Maybe he was ugly. Maybe that was why no one would tell her anything about him. She’d been shown his miniature, but everyone knew that miniaturists were paid to make men look more handsome than they actually were.
She could get past it if he was ugly. Beauty was on the inside, was it not?
Very well, it was not. Beauty was very much on the outside, but she was a good person. She would overcome.
And what had these people—Brimsley and the seamstress, who theoretically worked for her—had to say to her questions?
Nichts. Nothing. Brimsley had replied first by saying the King was the king, second by saying he was ruler of Great Britain and Ireland, and third by reporting he’d been the monarch since October.
King, ruler, monarch. Three synonyms revealing absolutely nothing.
And the seamstress! When Charlotte had asked her if the King was cruel, she had said, “You are going to have wonderful children together, Your Highness.”
What did that even mean?
She was leaving. She didn’t care that the ocean crossing from Cuxhaven had been so miserable she’d thrown up on Adolphus six times. She was returning to Mecklenburg-Strelitz if it killed her. And besides, Adolphus had deserved every drop of her vomit. It was his fault she’d been thrust into this situation in the first place.
She backed up a few steps. Maybe if she took a running start . . .
“Hello, my lady.”
Charlotte nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d had no idea she wasn’t alone in the garden. A young man—older than she was, but still young—had come through a door she hadn’t even noticed.
She gave him a quick examination and immediately dismissed the idea that he worked for the palace and had been sent to drag her back to the chapel. He was obviously one of the wedding guests; his silver-gray ensemble was far too well-tailored for him to be anything but. He did not wear a wig over his dark hair, a fashion choice of which Charlotte approved. His eyebrows were also quite dark and would have looked ridiculous with a fluffy white mop perched atop his head.
On some other day—any other day—Charlotte would have judged his face to be quite pleasing. But not today. She had no time for such frivolity.