“The Queen is at breakfast in the dining room. If you would like to join her . . .”
Reynolds’s voice trailed off. George looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Not much.
But just enough.
Just George. Just George.
Charlotte was in the dining room. She would not see him. If he fell, if he lost control . . .
His knees buckled, and he grabbed the arm of the nearest chair before he tumbled to the floor. Reynolds rushed to his side, easing him down onto the cushioned seat.
“Your Majesty,” Reynolds said. He took George’s wrist, felt for the pulse. “Your heart is racing.”
“I know.”
“Shall I send for the doctor?” Reynolds asked.
“No.” He could not face Monro. Not this morning. Not when he had been so happy. “I am fine. I do not need him.”
But he was shaking. His entire body was shaking now. And if Charlotte saw him . . .
“Yes. Yes. Get him here.” He needed to be better. He could not be like this. Not anymore.
He looked up at Reynolds with pleading eyes. “Charlotte . . .”
Reynolds gave him a single, sure nod. “She will never know of it.”
Buckingham House
The Cellar
Fifteen minutes later
It had been decided that Doctor Monro would relocate his laboratory to the lower levels of Buckingham. But only in part. He could not move the full menagerie, nor the grotesque iron chair. Some things were simply too strange to be put on display in a well-occupied house. Even in the farthest corner of the cellar.
Only a few people were aware of the makeshift laboratory, and among the Buckingham House staff, only Reynolds knew the doctor’s true identity and reason for taking up residence. It could not get out that the King was being treated for a nervous disorder.
Parliament would erupt in chaos. Britons would lose faith in the Crown.
And then there was Charlotte. George could not bear it if she witnessed one of his fits. He wanted just one thing in his life to be pure. Untainted by his position, by his duties.
By his madness.
If all went to plan, Doctor Monro would cure him. George would become whole again—the sort of person he wanted to be. The husband a woman like Charlotte deserved.
“I am eager to begin immediately,” George told Reynolds as they made their way down to the cellar.
“Eager, sir?” Reynolds was clearly dubious.
George allowed himself a wry smile. “Eager for the results,” he clarified. He was not eager for the treatment. But thus far, Monro was the only doctor who had achieved any measure of success. The day of the wedding he had managed to snap George back to reality. It had required a slap across the face, but George had calmed down. His racing thoughts had been tamed, and when he came across Charlotte in the chapel garden, he had felt enough like himself that he’d been able to converse with her. Flirt with her, even.
Their first conversation had been magical, and it would not have been possible without Doctor Monro.
So he was willing to give the doctor the benefit of all of his doubts.
An hour or so after George descended to the cellar, the doctor arrived, his two burly assistants in tow. George nearly flinched at the sight of them. Reynolds was openly hostile.
“I predicted this,” Monro said by way of greeting.
“I did not have a fit,” George stated.
Monro gave him a look that said clearly, Then why am I here?
“I felt one coming on,” George said. Then he amended: “I felt the possibility of one coming on.”
“Explain.”
George told him about his conversation with his mother, about how she kept pushing and pushing, and it felt like she was turning something beautiful into a chore.
“You do not deserve beauty,” Monro said.
George did not know what to say to that.
“You are just a man. You are not special.”
“I am not special,” George repeated.
“You must understand that you are no better than anyone else.”
“I understand.”
“I do not believe you,” Monro spat.
“Doctor!” Reynolds interjected. “You may not doubt his word. He is the King.”
“He is nothing!” Monro slammed his hands on the table. “He is only a man, no greater than you or I. In fact”—he began to pace, stalking the room like a predator—“he is less than you or I.”
Reynolds ground his teeth together.
“He is far less,” Monro continued, “and he must be brought down to nothing before he can be rebuilt.” He looked directly at George. “When you are in my laboratory, you will be referred to as boy. ”
Reynolds turned to George, aghast. “Your Majesty,” he implored. “You cannot—”
“Do not interrupt me!” Monro yelled, spittle flying from his mouth. “I have been granted full rein over him. Every moment you waste threatens his recovery.”
“We must allow him to try,” George said to Reynolds.
“Sir, I do not think—”
“He helped me once,” George said. “Before the wedding. I must believe he can help me again.”
Reynolds stood down, but he was clearly unhappy about it. Monro, on the other hand, smiled as he said, “I understand we are to operate in secrecy.”
George nodded his affirmation.
Monro motioned to his assistants. “Then they cannot run my errands. Not if they do not officially exist.”
He looked at Reynolds.
“No,” Reynolds said. But it was not so much a refusal as a statement of disbelief.
“Please,” George said. “I need to try.”
Reynolds acknowledged this with a shudder and a nod.
Monro looked at him with triumph, then flicked his head at George. “The boy requires an ice bath.”
Reynolds turned to George, who nodded. Only then did he depart.
Monro directed his assistants to wait behind him, then gave his full attention to his patient. “You are used to splendor,” he said, steepling his fingers as he paced the room. “Luxury. Comfort. You have never known the salubrious powers of Spartan habits.”
George considered this. “If opulence leads to a disordered mind, why are not all kings mad?”
“Who is to say they are not?”
“I am fairly certain my father was sane. My grandfather, as well. Cruel,” George added, almost as an afterthought, because his grandfather had never spared the rod, “but certainly sane.”
“I could not say. I never examined them.” Monro moved in, bringing his face uncomfortably close to George’s. “To most of the world, you give the impression of sanity. It is only a select few who know your true nature.”
“I would like to keep it that way.”
Monro nodded. “Simple ways are needed. First, we must return you to your diet of porridge and turnips.”
“I’m afraid that will be impossible,” George said. He motioned upward, toward the rest of the house. “How would I explain it?”
“I told you it was a bad idea to leave Kew. We will not be able to achieve optimum results here.”
“Then we must do our best.”
Monro’s mouth pursed into an angry bud. “My methods are meant to be all-encompassing. They will not work if you pick and choose.”
“Then I pick and choose everything that can be done at Buckingham House,” George said. “Surely that is better than nothing.”
Monro let out a huff of annoyance. “Gag him,” he said to one of his assistants.
George did not struggle. He had the first time. It had been pure instinct. Now he knew better.