“I must see this through,” George said. “This separation . . . I am doing it for her.”
Reynolds held his tongue, but only for a moment. “She is just married, Your Majesty. It is her honeymoon. She may miss her husband.”
George allowed himself a wistful smile. “I think I miss her, too.”
Reynolds looked as if he’d like to say more, but George quelled that with a shake of his head. Reynolds was repeating himself now; they’d had this conversation more than once. And besides, Doctor Monro had arrived.
He came through the door without knocking, as was his habit.
“Doctor,” George said.
Reynolds bowed, but it was very shallow.
Monro seemed preoccupied. “Is Your Majesty quite confident in his security?”
“My security, Doctor?”
“Your Majesty’s guards, footmen, retainers.” His hand moved angrily through the air, jabbing to all corners as if he could cast aspersions on every last man at Kew. “In these sad days there are so many enemies of the Crown, one would hate to think a spy had penetrated Your Majesty’s circle. To say nothing of rogues, charlatans, petty thieves—”
“Doctor,” George cut in, because honestly, he was impossible to follow. “What are you saying?”
“My dog is missing.”
Oh.
“How dreadful,” George said carefully. “Which one?”
“The Pomeranian. I only just purchased it two weeks ago. I have not even had a chance to perform any experiments on it.”
“Pity,” George murmured. He did not look at Reynolds, and he was quite sure Reynolds did not look at him.
“Indeed.” Monro let out a grunt of displeasure. “I arrived at my laboratory this morning to find the cage unlatched and the stupid beast nowhere to be found.”
George sighed and shook his ahead, almost giving the appearance of sympathy. “It may be that the beast was not so stupid. Lapdog or wolf, soon enough an animal tires of its cage. Do you agree, Doctor?”
Monro looked at him sharply. George immediately reschooled his features into boredom. Or blankness. Both seemed appropriate.
“Your Majesty has been spending too much time in the observatory,” Monro decided. “I do not like the pallor of Your Majesty’s skin, the color around your eyes. I worry another fit may be imminent.”
Reynolds cleared his throat. “His Majesty’s . . . ah . . . episodes, have never been presaged by a change in his complexion.”
Monro turned to face him.
“Sir,” Reynolds added.
“I do not take medical advice from a valet,” Monro bit off, and he turned back to George. “We have forgotten our objectives. Grown too lax in our routine. But no matter, we can right ourselves. I will have an ice bath prepared immediately, and then it is straight to the chair.”
George took a steadying breath. He hated the chair. Almost as much as the ice baths. But they were necessary. He was prepared to do whatever was necessary to be well.
But as Monro headed for the door, a footman arrived with a piece of paper on a platter, folded and sealed. Monro reached for it.
“It is for Reynolds, Doctor,” the footman said, moving the platter to the side.
“Can he even read?” Monro spat.
“Doctor,” George said sharply, “such insults are unnecessary.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
George acknowledged this with a flick of his hand, then turned his attention to Reynolds. It was not common that he received correspondence, or if he did, it was not common that he received it in front of the King.
“News from Buckingham House,” Reynolds said, looking up once he’d finished reading.
George brightened. “Really?”
“Yes. The Queen has received your, ah”—he eyed Monro—“your gesture.”
“Oh?” So they were speaking in code. George was highly entertained. “And what did she think of it?”
Reynolds hesitated.
“Go on,” George said.
“Er, she called it a deformed bunny.”
A deformed—
What?
And then George laughed. He laughed as he had not laughed in days. He pictured his wife. He pictured that ridiculous puff ball of a dog. And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
It was as if the light of the sun had finally reached his face.
“You know what?” he said, coming to his feet. “No ice bath. No chair today.”
“Your Majesty,” Monro said sternly. “That will not be permitted. We have much work to do, you and I.”
“Sorry, Doctor. Today I would rather work on my farm. Fresh air and exercise will be just the thing.”
“Boy,” Monro boomed. He moved in front of George, attempting to block his way. “I command you to stay.”
But for once, Monro’s voice did not compel George to obey. Instead, he gave the doctor a grin and moved across the room to fetch his coat. “The carriage, Reynolds!”
“With delight, Your Majesty.”
George strode down the corridor, moving with speed and purpose that had almost become unfamiliar.
“Shall you be in the fields all day, Your Majesty?” Reynolds inquired.
“As long as it does not rain.”
“Very good. And dinner?”
George took a few steps down the stairs and then paused. “That is a good question.”
“There are options.”
“Indeed.” George tapped his hand against his leg. He was filled with a nervous energy, but it was not . . . bad. He felt aware. Expectant.
Hopeful.
“Sir?”
He made up his mind. “I think I will dine with my wife.”
“Excellent, Your Majesty. I shall alert Buckingham House.”
“Right. Although perhaps don’t inform the Queen. Just in case I . . .” George didn’t want to say it.
“Change your mind?” Reynolds suggested.
George let out a little breath of relief. “Exactly.”
Reynolds smiled. “You won’t, Your Majesty.”
Buckingham House
The Dining Room
Later that evening
This was a mistake.
It should have been easy. He was a king, and this was his castle.
Metaphorically.
Buckingham House was just that—a house. But he had bought it for Charlotte. It was hers. He’d heard the household was already calling it the Queen’s House.
He was the interloper.
This was the first time George had even stepped foot in the new dining room here. Servants lined the wall, most of them new to royal service, and in the middle of it all was Charlotte’s empty chair.
She would arrive soon. Of that he was certain, if only because she did not know that he was there. The servants had been instructed to keep the news from her. He supposed they all thought it a romantic surprise on his part, when the truth was, he was scared she would take a tray in her room if she knew he was waiting for her.
This could go badly.
The Transit of Venus was coming soon.
Transit of Venus, Venus, Venus, Mars, Jupiter . . .
He gripped the edge of the table. That was not what he wanted to think about right now. It didn’t matter. Well, it did matter. Of course it mattered. It was vitally important, actually, but it didn’t matter right now, which was why he should not be thinking about it. He should be thinking about Charlotte. His wife. His bride. She was beautiful. Too beautiful. Too beautiful for him.