George really hoped this was a rhetorical question.
“They are gone!” Monro barked. “They exist only in legends, fairy tales. Through science and force of will, the Germans transformed their wolves into pathetic creatures like that Pomeranian I used to have. See, boy, animal nature is clay. With enough strength, you can mold it. I will do to you what the Germans did to their wolves. Mold you. Until you are as harmless and obedient as that bloody Pomeranian.”
“The Pomeranian escaped,” George whispered.
Monro whirled to face him. “I have seen the Queen’s new pet, Your Majesty.”
George fought to keep the defiance from his face. He was not supposed to defy the doctor. He did not want to.
“You disobeyed me,” Monro said. “You will pay.”
“I am King,” George said.
“You are no one!” Monro screamed. “You are who I tell you to be. Do you understand me?”
“I am King,” George said again.
Monro slapped him. “Say it again,” he dared.
“I am King.” But George’s voice was weaker this time.
Another slap. “Again.”
“I am . . . King.”
Another. “Again.”
“I am . . . I am . . .”
He was King. But was this worth it? Was there any reason to say so? It would just earn him another slap, and Doctor Monro was trying to help him, was he not?
“Who are you?” Monro asked. His voice was low. Commanding.
“I am no one,” George said. He didn’t quite believe it, but he was willing to say it. If it made this stop.
So he said it again. And again. But he was thinking something else altogether . . .
It was an even day.
And somehow, he smiled.
Brimsley
Buckingham House
Somewhere Belowstairs
22 September 1761
Coronation Day
Brimsley was nervous.
He would, of course, be the first person to admit that this was not an uncommon state for him.
Well, he’d admit that to anyone but Reynolds.
The thing was, usually when Brimsley felt nervous it was because he’d done something wrong. Or was about to do something wrong. Or possibly someone else had done something wrong and he was likely to be blamed for it.
Regardless, it had a lot to do with things going wrong.
Right now, however, everything was going right. In theory. The King and the Queen were living in the same household, and he no longer had to fear the fiery wrath of Princess Augusta because they were definitely having relations.
Very loud relations.
Brimsley spent a lot of time shooing other servants away from the corridor outside the royal bedchambers.
But still, he was uneasy. Reynolds was hiding something from him, which meant that the King was hiding something from the Queen, which meant that Brimsley was not doing his job of protecting her.
This was his sworn duty.
Furthermore, the King and Queen, for all their loud relations, seemed to detest one another. This did not bode well for the future. Anyone’s future.
And now it was Coronation Day. Which meant that King George and Queen Charlotte of Great Britain and Ireland had to give the appearance of tolerating each other’s company. Brimsley was confident the Queen would manage it. She knew what was required of her. It was the King who concerned him. His moods were much less evenhanded than hers, and more to the point—
Where the devil was he?
It was the royal wedding all over again, except now the King was the one who’d gone missing.
Brimsley put his hands to his face, using them to literally unclench his jaw. The King and Queen were going to be the death of him. He was going to grind his teeth to powder. And then he wouldn’t be able to eat. He’d slowly starve, and wouldn’t this make it all so much easier for the Italian grape pickers and their goat?
This had to end. For the sake of sanity and his teeth. He needed to find Reynolds. It was time he knew what was really going on.
Brimsley suspected Reynolds was down in the warren of rooms and hallways that made up the subterranean level of Buckingham House. He’d caught him on his way there before, slinking down one of the back staircases when he thought no one was looking. And he had definitely been slinking. Reynolds usually had the air of a man who expected the rest of the world to step out of his way, but when Brimsley had spied him, he’d been acting in an extremely furtive manner, looking this way and that, making sure that no one saw him leaving his post on the main floor.
There was no reason, none at all, why Reynolds—the King’s own man—would have business so far belowstairs. This was where the laundry was done, where food was stored and pots were washed. It was a world apart from the glittering palace above, and hardly anyone crossed the border.
Today—Coronation Day—the halls were teeming with servants, all dressed in their finest. There would be a parade later that afternoon, and most everyone had been given a half-day off to celebrate. But Reynolds was six feet tall, and his hair was such a lovely, shiny blond it was difficult for him not to stand out.
It took Brimsley all of two minutes to spot him. He sidled up. “I need to speak with you,” he said under his breath.
“Why are you down here?” Reynolds demanded. “You do not come belowstairs.”
“Why are you down here?” Brimsley countered.
“I need be. I am on an errand.”
“Then I need to be, too. I am here because you are. You hold the King. And she is looking for him.”
“I thought they were not speaking.”
“It is Coronation Day,” Brimsley whispered urgently. “It does not matter if they speak. They must be united. So where is he?”
Reynolds yanked him into an alcove where they were less likely to be overheard. “You shouldn’t come down here.”
“You gave me no choice.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your duty is to the Queen.”
“And the Queen needs the King.” Brimsley fought the urge to roll his eyes. Or punch Reynolds. They were talking in circles. All they ever did was talk in circles.
Reynolds looked down the hall before answering. “The King shall be with her soon enough. He is studying his sciences up in the library.”
Brimsley frowned. He’d been by the library just an hour or so earlier. There had been no sign of the King.
“Move along,” Reynolds said in that annoyingly superior way of his. “Attend to your Queen.”
But he seemed nervous. Almost shifty. And he kept glancing over his shoulder. As if . . . maybe . . .
Was he consorting with someone else? They had never said explicitly that they would not see other men . . .
“What’s going on?” Brimsley asked suspiciously.
“Nothing’s going on.” Reynolds gave him an exasperated look. “You have an overactive imagination.”
Brimsley lifted his chin. This could not be tolerated. “Listen to me well, Reynolds,” he said. “If you allow yourself another rider, do not think I care. But”—his mouth formed an angry pucker as he regarded their unimpressive surroundings—“mind he is of the right station.”
Reynolds drew back indignantly. “I am not . . . that is not what . . .”
Brimsley crossed his arms. Reynolds might be his superior in the household, but the bedroom was a different matter entirely.
“There are no other riders,” Reynolds finally sputtered. “I am simply belowstairs.”