Except custard tasted good. And it did not throw vases.
But today was a day that ended with a two. So Brimsley and Reynolds were stationed in the dining room along with six Jameses and a host of maids, and they were all watching the King and Queen with lip-biting trepidation.
“Would you please not breathe so very loudly?” the Queen sniped.
Really? Brimsley winced. Even he thought she was being unreasonable. And he always took her side.
The King stabbed a piece of meat and glared at her. “Would you please not talk?”
“I will talk if I wish to talk.”
“Well, then, I will breathe if I wish to breathe.”
She let out a long-suffering sigh. “It is just that you do it in such an unpleasant manner.”
“Breathe?” he drawled, his eyes gogging with as much sarcasm as disbelief.
She did a little royal flick with her hand as if to say, I said what I said.
“That is the thing about life,” the King droned, much as if he were delivering a lecture. “Human life, to be more precise. One needs to breathe. One might even say you need to breathe, although right now I’m not entirely convinced you are human.”
“You would know.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugged and looked up at one of the Jameses. “Have we any herring?”
“No fish near the King,” Reynolds reminded the room.
“Yet another reason why I prefer to dine without him,” the Queen announced.
The King slammed his fists on the table. “What exactly is the problem? You have been behaving like a child since my first morning here and I have been—”
But the Queen had jumped to her feet. Brimsley took a step forward. Then he caught sight of her face and took a step back.
“You have been breathing my air!” she yelled.
Dear God. They had gone over the edge. The both of them.
Brimsley shot a look at Reynolds. Should they go?
Reynolds did one of those tiny head shakes one does when one wants only one other person to see it.
Not that the King and Queen would have noticed a volcano erupting beside them by that point. The King growled and strode around the table. When he finally stopped, he was mere inches from the Queen.
Brimsley gulped. This was not going to end well.
“Shall I leave?” the King said, his voice low and provoking.
“Yes.” The Queen’s chin jutted out in defiance. “Leave. Now.”
And then—
Oh dear God.
The Queen had grabbed the King by the back of the neck and they were kissing.
“It is an even day,” he practically spat.
“It is,” she definitely snarled.
Brimsley jumped back just in time to miss an entire plate of roast chicken flying through the air. The King had swept the table clean of the dishes and food and—
“Out!” Reynolds yelled, and together the two of them practically pushed the rest of the staff from the room.
Don’t look at the King’s bottom. Don’t look at the King’s bottom.
He looked at the King’s bottom.
But to be fair, it was a marv—
“Brimsley!” Reynolds barked.
“Go, go!” Brimsley shooed the Jameses down the hall, along with three maids who had been eavesdropping. He made it back to the dining room doors just as Reynolds got them both closed. They leaned against them, wincing at the sound of glass breaking.
Reynolds sighed. “The crystal.”
There was a loud thump. Then a moan. Then a tremendous noise, the provenance of which Brimsley could not even begin to imagine, and then the King began to grunt.
“Even. Day.”
Brimsley closed his eyes in mortification.
“Even. Day.”
He’d seen the King’s bottom. It was fairly easy to imagine what he looked like against the table, with the Queen—
He felt his face go very hot.
“Are you unwell?” Reynolds asked.
Brimsley adjusted his cravat, keeping his eyes forward. “The day has been . . . heated.”
The Queen shrieked.
Reynolds cleared his throat. “My thoughts exactly.”
Another sound came from the dining room, loud and lewd. They both flinched.
“I do not suppose you would allow me to . . . ah . . . cool down in your chambers later?” Reynolds asked.
Brimsley straightened. It had been some time since Reynolds had done the asking. It felt rather nice, to tell the truth. “I might allow it,” he said. “You can tell me about the doctor.”
“There is no doctor.”
Brimsley turned and faced him. He was sick of being lied to. “You—”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
He snapped back to attention. Forget Reynolds for now. He had a door to guard.
Buckingham House
The Orangery
2 November 1761
It turned out that it was difficult to maintain a five-pace distance when one had actual business to conduct, so Brimsley permitted himself to walk alongside the Queen while they reviewed her engagement diary.
“Now that the honeymoon has ended,” he said, “we have galleries, operas, and plays for you to see. Your Majesty can also do charity works of your choice.”
“Wonderful.” She beamed. Her mood was beyond cheerful these days, despite her constant arguing with the King. Brimsley suspected it had everything to do with their even day activities, but of course, it was not his place to speculate.
“I should like to do something for poor mothers in the hospital,” she decided.
“Very good, Your Majesty. I shall see to—”
The Queen reached up to pluck an orange from a low-hanging limb.
“Orange!” Brimsley barked.
Two attendants came rushing forward. The quicker of the two picked the orange and set it gently into the Queen’s hand.
“As I was saying,” Brimsley continued, “I shall see to those arrangements posthaste. Also, you will meet the rest of your ladies-in-waiting tomorrow.”
“This is absurd.” The Queen frowned at the orange in her hand, then frowned at him. “I will get my own oranges from now on.”
Brimsley pondered the delicacy of the situation. It was indeed absurd that she could not pick her own oranges. On the other hand, there likely wasn’t enough work in the orangery to justify the employment of two attendants. Right now, half of their job consisted of standing around and picking oranges for whichever royal personage happened by.
“Your Majesty—” Brimsley began.
“It is ridiculous to make someone else pick my orange. I shall pick my own oranges. There will be no discussion.”
“I—” But he decided not to argue. How could he? She was the Queen. Instead he gave his most gracious nod and said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And what about formal engagements?” Charlotte inquired, blissfully unaware that she had probably just cost a man his job. “Balls? Dinners? How often am I to host palace events?”
“The King does not allow social events at the palace. Of any kind.”
The Queen paused in her promenade. “How very odd. Well, we can go out to socialize, I suppose. I merely thought—”
“He does not socialize,” Brimsley said. He would have thought she knew this by now.
“Surely with the titled class . . .”
“He does not attend any gatherings of the ton, Your Majesty.”
She turned and regarded him with a piercing expression. “Why not?”
“I . . .” Brimsley blinked. “You know, I truly do not know, Your Majesty. It is simply his way.”