“That is grasping,” Augusta said. “Asking for rather a lot. You should be grateful for what we have given you.”
Agatha regarded the Princess with a cool stare. “You say you need to know what is going on over at Buckingham House. I assume the reason you need that is so that Lord Bute believes you have the situation in hand. Because if you do not, the House of Lords will be at your door. Is that not a fact?”
“Careful, Lady Danbury,” Princess Augusta warned.
“I am merely pointing out that we both have needs. You need to know what is going on over at Buckingham House. We need to be equal members of the ton.” She brought her tea to her lips. “We can be grateful to one another.”
“You are more than you let on,” Princess Augusta said after a long pause.
“As are you.”
The Princess gave her a shrewd look. “I believe we have an understanding.”
“Do we?”
“But of course an understanding is just that. An understanding. It is nothing without currency.”
“The currency of information,” Agatha said.
“Exactly.” Augusta’s head tilted very slightly to the side. “So I ask you, Lady Danbury, what do you know? What is happening at Buckingham House?”
“It is not so much what is happening,” Agatha said, “as what is not happening.”
Princess Augusta stared at her for a very long moment. “I see,” she finally said.
“I think perhaps you do.”
“You are certain of this?” Augusta asked.
“Absolutely.”
Princess Augusta had the sort of face that did not betray emotion, but Agatha had spent her entire life being dragged to events where she was supposed to be silent. She knew how to read people.
Augusta was angry.
And scared.
And frustrated, and calculating, and already plotting her next move.
“Go home, Lady Danbury,” she said. “I will be in touch.”
Agatha rose and curtsied. “I await your direction, Your Royal Highness.”
The following day, a letter arrived addressed to Lord Danbury. It bore the royal seal. Agatha stood with quiet rectitude while her husband opened it.
“We have been given land!” he exclaimed.
Agatha placed a hand on her heart. “No!”
“Right here in London. And the boys have been guaranteed spots at Eton.”
“Their futures are assured,” Agatha murmured.
“I never thought I would see this day,” Danbury said. His lip quivered. “After everything that I . . . After all I endured . . .” He turned to Agatha. “Do you know how this happened?”
She could have told him. She could have said she’d struck a deal with the King’s mother, that she’d betrayed her own Queen. She could have told him that it was her intelligence, and her cunning, but when she looked at his face, so awestruck, so delighted at finally having been granted the dignity and respect he’d been so long denied, she decided it wasn’t worth it.
He deserved this moment.
Agatha smiled and touched his hand. “I have no idea.”
“I will tell you,” Herman announced, raising his arm like some sort of victory cheer. “The King sees me. For who I am. My value. My worth. He understands that the old ways are over, and this is a new world. That men are men, regardless from whence they come.”
“And women are women,” Agatha said quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing, darling.” She patted him gently on the shoulder. “Tell me more about our new home.”
“It is a most fashionable address. We shall be the envy of all. Basset will never believe . . .”
But Agatha had stopped listening. This was her victory. She had done this. She would never get the credit, but she saw herself. For who she was. Her value. Her worth.
The old ways were over. It was a new world.
George
Kew Palace
The King’s Private Quarters
15 September 1761
“Is Your Majesty quite all right?”
George paused in his efforts to dress himself for the day. Reynolds was standing in the doorway, holding his breakfast tray.
“Of course,” George said, although in truth he was having a devil of a time with one of his buttons. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You are shivering, Your Majesty.”
“Am I?” George looked down at his arms. They were indeed shivering. “Is it cold?”
“It is not,” Reynolds said, “but a prodigious quantity of ice is delivered each day.”
“Yes. The baths are . . .”
Hideous.
The stuff of nightmares.
Very bad for one’s ballocks.
George cleared his throat. “Well, I am sure they are helping.”
At least he hoped they were. Much of his time in the bath consisted of Monro’s burly assistants plunging his head underwater. It was dreadful, but George was getting used to it. And he had to trust in Monro’s conviction that this would eventually put a stop to his fits.
What other choice did he have?
Reynolds’s mouth pursed into a displeased frown. “As for this food,” he said, setting the tray on the table, “I do not know that I would see it fed to our lowest stable hand. I would not even see it fed to the horses.”
“Are you questioning the doctor’s methods, Reynolds?”
Reynolds, ever circumspect, did not speak.
“I have my own doubts,” George admitted. “But I must try. It is the only chance I have of being with her.”
“With respect, Your Majesty is . . . His Majesty. His Majesty can do as he pleases. His Majesty could be with her right now.”
It was so tempting. It was all he thought about. But he knew he was not ready.
“I cannot take the risk,” George told him. “Especially with a woman so unpredictable. So capricious. Could you believe her the other night? Arriving at Kew unannounced?” He smiled at the memory. She was more than her beauty, more than her brains.
She was magnificent.
“Why, she’s almost as mad as I am,” George murmured.
“Your Majesty,” Reynolds reproached.
George gave him a nod of acknowledgment. He knew that Reynolds did not like it when he referred to himself as mad. They had been together since childhood, since before it became obvious that George would be King, and Reynolds would be, well, Reynolds. They had a bond of friendship and shared secrets.
“Very well,” George said. “I shall rephrase. A woman like that is too dangerous for a man like me.”
“Or maybe a perfect match.”
“Do you think?” This pleased George more than he could have said.
“I think we cannot know until His Majesty spends more time with her.”
George dipped his spoon into the gruel. It truly was abysmal. But it was all he had. “I cannot be with her,” he said with a sigh. “But perhaps you have heard word? That servant fellow of hers. The small one. Has he told you anything?”
“Brimsley,” Reynolds said. “We have spoken.”
“And?”
Reynolds took a moment to choose his words. “I believe she is lonely, Your Majesty.”
“Lonely. Imagine that. I have spent my whole life longing for time to myself.”
“It is what you have here at Kew,” Reynolds pointed. “By your own design.”
“I am hardly alone, Reynolds. The good doctor and his lackeys shadow me everywhere.”
“Again, sir, that is by your choice. One you could easily reverse.”
George shook his head. Everyone seemed to think it was easy being King, that the ability to order everyone about somehow made life a frolic. But directing the kitchen to make one’s favorite pudding—and getting it, every time—was a far cry from ceasing one’s medical treatment just because one found it unpleasant.